“Please,” she says, her voice hoarse.
I take a bottle of water from the tray and put it to her lips, tilting it gently, now wiping away the spill.
“Jake,” she says, her voice breaking for the first time. “Jake Teller. What —”
I press a finger into her taut biceps and she cries out in pain. I lift my finger away.
“We are alone again,” I say.
“Please,” she says, gasping, pain reducing her voice to a whisper. “Please.”
I press the cloth to her forehead and then lay it on the tray. Two metal instruments remain on the black felt cloth. From a lower shelf of the tray I take two silver rulers and a deep ceramic bowl. Mounted on a spike in the bottom of the bowl is a wide-mouthed candle. I light the candle, place the bowl beside the black felt cloth, and lay the rulers across the mouth of it, one on either side of the flame.
She looks up into the darkness, then at me.
“Anne,” she whispers, her eyes pleading for an answer.
Yes. She knows the fate of all the others. Of Nina Torring, Elise Verren, and now of Jake Teller.
“Anne Keltner,” I say. “The Roosevelt Hotel. You were there, weren’t you?”
She closes her eyes.
“Anne Keltner escaped to Spain,” I tell her, and watch as she bites her lip in pained relief. “She returns tomorrow night at ten-twelve, on United Airlines flight six-seventeen.”
“No,” she whispers, shaking her head.
I look back at the tray. One of the remaining instruments is a thin scalpel. The other was my last purchase in Cagaya, and to look upon it is to feel in your bones the full, merciless, medieval weight of the Middle Ages. It is a single heavy piece of metal, black as plague, built like a pair of tongs but ending in four curling, jagged points that curve in toward each other but do not quite meet. Its purpose was to tear apart the breasts of women condemned of libidinous acts. I lift it from the felt cloth and set it carefully atop the silver rulers, so that the tips of its curved claws lie directly over the strong blue flame.
The clink of metal on steel breaks her anguished reverie, and she turns her face toward the tray. She begins to shake.
“God,” she whispers, looking up into the darkness again, then shutting her eyes tightly. “God, please.” I lay my hand on her forehead. “Please,” she begs, her pained eyes opening and finding mine. “What have I done? Please tell me.”
I don’t answer.
“Please. Whatever —”
I lay a finger on the Heretic’s Fork, and she falls silent.
The smell of burning rust is in the air now, and she cannot keep from turning to look again at the black pincers. She stares in mesmerized terror at the blue flame that heats the tips of their claws, then turns her face away into the white canvas. Her forehead still burns with fever, but she shakes as though from frost; now her breathing quickens and quickens until she is gasping for air. I press on her forehead to calm her, but her eyes are wild, unseeing, and she turns her face from side to side. I take her chin and hold it still.
“The truth can still save you,” I say.
She fights, but I keep her still; now I meet her eyes. “It can save you,” I say, and watch my words sink in and light in the back of her eyes the faintest spark of hope. I take my hand from her, and she remains still. I step back and see in her face that she is summoning from inside the last of her will. My eyes drift to the scant lace that covers her. I close them. My mind steadies, my concentration returns. I open my eyes and look into hers.
“I’ll punish the slightest lie,” I say.
She looks at the jagged pincers, then quickly away from them and up into the dark ceiling. I place my hands gently on the canvas rack.
“Elise Verren’s pain,” I say. “Did it excite you?”
Perspiration streams down her cheeks. She is quiet for ten seconds. Fifteen.
“Yes,” she says.
She sees me close my eyes in disappointment.
“Please,” she says. “I didn’t know what would happen. What he would do.”
I turn and look away from her. I look out beyond the circle of light into the dark reaches of the crumbling winery.
“You went to the Century Motel,” I say.
She is quiet.
“Even your corrupter had limits. Even he turned back. You went to the Century. One week from marriage.”
“Please.” I hear the anguished catch in her breathing. I turn back to her. Her eyes look to the pincers, then back at me.
“On the bed at the Century, Mimi. When the second silk tie closed on your wrist and you were helpless. What did you feel?”
She closes her eyes and bites her trembling lip. I watch her temples pulse in concentration. This last year, as I listened, I learned to read her so well that I could tell her mood by the pitch of her breathing. And now looking down at her, I read her again, and though her eyes are shut tightly, I can see the lie forming behind them. She is searching for words, yes, but not for the truth. She searches only for the words that might free her.
Her eyes open. She’s chosen them. But before she can speak, she sees me look at the pincers. The tips of their four claws glow orange now. She looks at them, too, then back at me, and starts to shake. And now to cry quietly. I’ve broken her will to lie.
“What did you feel?” I ask her.
The soft night wind stirs the rafters, and the receiving wheels creak quietly against the burden of the taut leather coils.
“Free,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I kill the engine.
I step out of the Grand Am and look up the hill at the winery. It is an old stone building standing in a moonlit clearing. Also in the clearing is a black car; beside the car is a pickup truck. Even from here, in the moon’s light I can see, painted on the back gate of the pickup, a huge, grinning red skull. Pardo. I should have known. If he’d waited for me to get to his place, we might’ve missed out on half an hour of drinking.
I lean against the warm hood of the Grand Am. The gravel road in front of me leads up to the clearing but winds back and around the property. It would be a noisy drive. If I climb the hill in front of me, it’s no more than a hundred yards. And no one would hear me.
Listen to me. Who’s going to hear me? Pardo is up there drinking longnecks with a buddy. I shake my head and step back to the car door. I pause, my hand on the handle. The quiet out here is eerie, absolute. I listen for their voices, for the clink of a bottle. Nothing. I step away from the car to gain a better sight line, and look up to the clearing again. I can see the black car better now. On its hood, glinting in the moonlight, is the familiar silver orb. A Mercedes. I walk slowly back to the Grand Am. I squat on my heels in front of it, scooping up a handful of gravel and letting some fall through my fingers. The governor makes all his staffers buy American. Pardo told me that once. And I know Pardo’s taste in late-night drinking buddies, and I can’t picture any of them driving a Benz. I look up at the clearing again.
I toss the rocks to the ground, stand, and start up the hill. The night air is cold and bracing. There’s enough of a moon that I can see my way, but it’s slow going through high grass. Thick brush grabs at my legs as I climb. I jump at a sound in front of me, looking up to see the wide eyes of an owl in the branches of a tree. Christ. Give me the city and its terrors any night.
I keep climbing, using my hands for the last, steep ten yards, and then squeeze between two bushes and step out into the clearing. I wipe my hands on my slacks. I don’t see Pardo, or anyone else. Twenty yards in front of me is the stone winery. The ground is gravel again, so I walk carefully to Pardo’s pickup. There’s no sign of him. A six-pack of Coors lies untouched on the front seat.
I walk to the black Mercedes. A strange smell seems to come from inside it, or beneath it. Some strong chemical. I look through the window. The front seats are bare. I peer into the back. Nothing. A sprawled blanket. Wait. I look again. I walk to the other s
ide of the car, getting the moonlight behind me. I cup my hands against the glass. Jesus. I look quickly around me, then back into the window, my mouth as dry as the gravel beneath me.
The blanket in the back doesn’t quite reach all the way across the seat. Sticking out beneath it, just barely visible, are the ends of two pieces of cloth. Two white pieces of cloth.
Ties.
• • •
Her brassiere shines like white fire. I look hard at it now. Beneath it her breasts are the same tone as the rest of her — a soft cream, between milk and caramel. I see the edge of a rose nipple. I reach down and lay a finger on the strap of her brassiere. She gasps in pain, but I keep it there, then run it down the strap to the curved lace of the cup.
I listened for a full year, dreaming of a true communion between us. She has only ever had one form of communion to offer.
I slide my finger under the strap and ease it up a fraction of an inch, until I see her full red nipple.
“Please,” she says.
My eyes move down to her hips. Viewed from above, the triangle of lace covers her completely, but from the side I can see the shadow of her hidden beauty. I take my hand away from her brassiere and touch with the tips of my fingers the quarter inch of taut lace that guards the skin of her hip. It is damp and hot. I run my finger along it.
“The key to you is in here, is it?”
“Please.”
I turn to the tray, pass my hand over the pincers, and lift from the black felt cloth the thin, shining scalpel.
• • •
I can see light through the front door of the winery.
I couldn’t see it from across the clearing, but I am moving along the winery wall now and can see that the heavy front door is open. It is open a few feet, and from beyond it comes a strange, muted light. It might be moonlight, streaming through a gap in the roof. I’ll know in seconds. I reach the door and pause beside it, standing with my back against the stone wall, feeling its cold through my jacket and shirt. I let out a quiet breath and look inside.
It isn’t moonlight, and it’s coming from straight ahead of me. Jesus. Coming from inside a circle of wine barrels. High-powered lamps, pointed in and down. Standing in the light is a man. It isn’t Pardo. A man standing at some kind of table, like an operating table. Looking down at someone. Jesus Christ. A woman is on the table. Tied to the table. Stripped. Wheels and pulleys.
I drop to a knee. He’ll see me if he turns, but I can only kneel here, frozen in the doorway, and stare at the table under the lights. Stare at the man who has to be Andrew Brice. And the woman — Mimi. Move, Jake. I move, low to the ground, to the only cover in the room — the circle of stacked barrels in front of me. I crouch down behind one, pressing my cheek against the wood.
No sounds. I stand and look carefully over the double stack. Brice stands at the middle of the table. Mimi’s eyes are shut, her face turned away into the table. He is touching her. Jesus Christ, she is… spread, her hands and ankles held in some kind of cuffs. I duck behind the barrels again. Where the hell is Pardo?
My hands are slick with sweat. I check my pants pocket, quietly. Car keys, nothing else. And as I stare down at the dirt floor, it hits me. Brice would have heard Pardo coming.
Think, Jake.
Two barrels down from the one I hide behind is a gap in the circle. It’s the only way in. From the gap to the table might be twenty feet. I stand and look again over the stack. Brice is touching her again. Lower now.
“The key to you is in here, is it?” he says.
“Please,” says Mimi.
Brice reaches to a tray beside the table. He takes from it a shining blade.
• • •
I ease the scalpel between lace and hip, and I cut. I reach across her and cut again.
Her hips are bare now, and I am trembling. I stare down at the tiny triangle of lace that covers her. I lay my hand on her belly, an inch from the top of the lace. She gasps in pain, stretched so tightly that even this small pressure pierces her. I rub her skin gently. Never could I have imagined such softness. Such warmth. My fingers find the edge of the lace. I can feel her heat beneath it.
I close my eyes. So this is the dance that so entranced her. The slow, brutal seduction. The final unveiling. And then…
No.
I release the lace and take my hand away. I open my eyes.
I tremble still, but from anger now. Pure, saving anger. I stare at the white lace. All that is left of her purity lies beneath it, and in her final moments she would lure me into removing it. No.
I look at the tray. The pincers are ready now, their ends glowing red. Ancient, implacable. I reach for them.
“Wait,” she says, a pleading whisper.
The others begged, too. To the last.
She whispers again, so low that I cannot make it out. I step to the head of the rack and lean down to her. I will hear her final words.
“Touch me,” she says.
• • •
I rush low and hard.
Mimi saw me. I stood in the opening and she saw me, and she drew him to her. “Touch me,” she says, and Brice stares down at her. I need two more seconds. One.
He whirls.
I can’t stop in time. I get my arm up and feel the blade slash through my jacket, my shirt, my skin. I’m off balance, right in front of him, and he slashes again, a full, hard uppercut. I feel the breeze from the blade as it just misses my jugular, and I fall hard to a knee, one hand on the ground, the other clutched to my throat. I rasp as if cut and look down at the floor as if stunned.
My eyes watch his feet. Slowly, awkwardly, they square up to me. He’ll bring the blade straight down now, like an ice pick. With all of his weight committed.
I pivot, roll, and rise.
He misses and falls to his knees, crying out, somehow keeping hold of the scalpel. He’s welcome to it. I stand by the tray now, with a full second to lift from it one mother of a black iron claw, its sharp ends glowing with fire. I grip it tightly, and as Brice comes up with the scalpel in a clumsy, desperate swipe, I stop his elbow with one hand and drive the claw, with all I have behind it, up into his chest, feeling the crack of bone as the force of the blow lifts him to his feet.
He stands in front of me, gasping for air. He drops the scalpel and presses one of his hands, both of his hands, to the claw, holding it to him, pressing it into his broken chest as the blood seeps down around it. He staggers forward, past me, past the table.
“The wheel,” Mimi says. “Jake.”
I look at her, not comprehending, still stunned at the sight of Brice holding the claw in his chest as he moves. “Jake,” Mimi screams now, and I see where Brice is going, to the tall wooden wheel ten feet past the head of the table, and I see that the wheel connects to the whole device, that it binds her, that it pulls her apart.
I start toward him, but it’s too late.
Brice has reached the wheel now and leans against it, swaying, one hand on a spoke, the other holding the claw to his crushed, bleeding chest. He looks back at us, no, at Mimi, tries to speak, but blood spills from his mouth. I close in on him, but he lets go of the claw and grabs the wheel with both hands.
It won’t turn.
He’s too weak, and as I reach him, he slides down to the floor, clutching at the wood as he falls, landing facedown now at the base of the wheel with a strangled cry. I step back as he rolls over, his shattered chest heaving, heaving again, and then still, his hands seeming to cradle the claw into him, his wide eyes staring blindly into mine.
EPILOGUE
It’s just the two of us now.
We’ve left everyone else behind. Pardo in the hospital, overnight for observation. The police in the winery and in the fields behind it. Brice in the morgue.
We’ve driven almost fifty miles in silence. Since Cementon, when I pulled into a gas station to get her a bottle of water. She drinks it now, curled up in the passenger seat, her legs tucked beneath her, my blue jacket around her
shoulders.
The police tried to insist that she go to the hospital. They would call an ambulance for her. Mimi said no. They told us they would need to see us again tomorrow. I assured them we would stay local and gave them Pardo’s address. But when we got into the car, we both knew, without having to say anything, that we would drive home to the city.
We pass the sign for Newburgh. It is almost six in the morning. Mimi looks out the window at the trees along the Thruway. She holds the Evian bottle in her lap in one hand. Her other hand rests on her neck, rubbing it gently.
The sharp tones of a cell phone break the air. We both start, and now look at each other. The tones come from the black purse at her feet.
“My fiancé,” she says.
The phone rings three times, four. I watch the road ahead of me. Five, six, seven. The car is quiet again. Rain starts to fall as we pass the exit for Salisbury, the traffic gathering around us now as we near the city. Ahead of us on the right is a motel billboard.
“Pull off,” Mimi says softly.
I keep driving. Another ten miles, only the sound of the wipers and the wet road beneath us. Highland Mills. Harriman. Arden. We’re into Rockland County now. Almost home. Just ahead of us is another motel sign.
“Pull off, Jake.”
I stay in the center lane until we’re almost to the exit, then put on my signal, cross to the exit lane, and leave the Thruway. I pay the toll, bend around onto the short access road, and turn into the motel parking lot. I pull into a space in front of the motel office. I turn off the engine.
We sit together in the quiet car in the soft, spreading gray of dawn, both of us looking through the windshield at the motel. The rain has lessened but still it falls, streaking the windshield, and after a few minutes we can’t see anything outside. Still we sit, in the warmth and peace of the car, listening to the muted whoosh and rumble of the big rigs on the Thruway behind us.
Her cell phone rings again. Mimi reaches into her purse and takes it out. It rings a second time, and she opens her door and throws the phone onto the wet pavement. It bounces, the ringer cuts off, and the phone disappears under a parked car. She shuts the door, closing out the rain and wind.
Jake & Mimi Page 26