The man who let him in looked him up and down. “We don’t allow drinks in the meeting.” He reached for Snowden’s bag but Snowden yanked it back.
“It’s not booze!”
Dark eyes met Snowden’s. For a moment, neither spoke. Then the man said, “I’m Jack. I run the meeting. Behave, and don’t bullshit the members, and you’ll be welcome. Now I need a name. A first name will do.”
Snowden gulped. “H-Harry.”
“Follow the light, Harry. The meeting’s already underway, and I’ll join you in a minute.”
Snowden plodded down the the hallway. It had been many years since he last walked a hall like this, and the passageway seemed a fraction of the size that he remembered. In the gloom of the emergency lights he saw decorations taped to the walls. Flowers cut from green and yellow construction paper. Drawings of bulbous trees in full bloom. Happy stick-animals with too many toes celebrating spring.
At the door to the classroom, he wavered once more. A dozen men sat, squeezed into the tiny student chairs, and listened as a man at the front gave his testimony.
“My name’s Charlie,” he said. “And I’m an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in six years, but I’m still an alcoholic. I fight the urge every day, and every day that I win, somebody else doesn’t lose.”
Several men in the back of the room applauded.
Snowden felt a hand on his shoulder. Jack said, “Go on in. They don’t bite—usually.”
Snowden felt himself pushed into the classroom. He looked dubiously at the small student chairs and planted his large frame instead on a work table at the back of the room.
Jack said, “Our new member’s name is Harry. This is his first time at Tuesday Night AA, so let’s make him feel welcome.”
Scattered hellos greeted Snowden.
Jack said, “I know Charlie’s speaking right now. Who else is speaking tonight?”
Several hands went up.
Jack nodded and turned the floor back over to Charlie.
Snowden gripped his paper bag with both hands as he sat and listened to the man’s story. It was an old story, of squandering paychecks on booze and abusing his spouse and finally losing the mortgage on his home before he hit bottom and straightened himself out.
The next speaker told how he had wrecked his car several times and had once put a woman into the hospital for three weeks. He was lucky he hadn’t killed her.
Other speakers rose and spoke. Snowden heard but didn’t hear. He held his paper bag and dripped sweat from his temple into his shirt collar and wondered what he would say when it was his turn.
“Harry!”
Snowden jumped. Jack was staring him in the eyes and Snowden hadn’t even seen him approach.
“Are you back with us?”
Snowden nodded.
A man asked, “He’s not sittin’ there snookered, is he?”
Jack shook his head. “There’s no booze on his breath.”
Another asked, “What’s in the bag?”
Snowden gritted his teeth. Jack said, “Take it easy, Tom. Give him time. Now Harry, if you don’t want to say anything, that’s just fine. Nobody forces anyone to do anything here.”
Snowden said, “I’ve got to talk about it!”
Jack nodded. “It’s gutting your insides, isn’t it? So talk. We’ll listen.”
Snowden transferred the bag from his right hand to his left. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “I’m not sure this is the right place for me after all—I don’t think I’m an alcoholic—”
Someone in the room hooted. Another asked, “Then why are you here?”
“I thought of all people, you might understand—”
“Sure we understand,” a voice chimed in. “You got yourself pasty an’ did somethin’ terrible.”
Jack turned around and drew a finger across his throat. He turned back to Snowden and said, “Tell it your own way.”
“I—I live by myself,” Snowden said. “Holidays always depress me. Ever since the wife moved away, it’s been—well—not good.” Snowden squirmed on the hard table surface and drew in a breath. “Sunday morning, I was driving home—”
“From where?” someone asked.
“Halloran’s. I’m not sure about the time.”
“I am,” another voice cut in. “Try: ‘a little after two a.m.’ The bars close at two.”
Jack turned to the members once more. “Will you please shut up? Harry, go on with your story.”
Snowden said, “Well, maybe it was around two at that. Even the bar seemed lonely, so I didn’t stay until it closed. I didn’t even have much to drink—”
“Not a word out of you, Tom!” Jack snapped, pointing at one of the members.
“Just three beers,” Snowden went on, “over about three hours. I didn’t even feel a buzz.”
Jack said, “So what happened?”
“Just outside the city limits, I had an accident.”
This time, the room kept quiet.
“I was coming around this curve, not even doing the speed limit. I mean, what did I have to rush home for? But as I came around the corner, he just jumped out in front of me and I hit him. There’s no way I could have avoided it.”
“You ran over some drifter?” Jack’s voice was steady but cold.
“A-An animal. Big animal. Shook the pickup and I nearly lost control.”
For a time, no one spoke. Then Tom said, “He turned somebody’s Great Dane into a hood ornament an’ claims it wasn’t his fault. He wants us to justify his actions.”
Snowden said softly, “It didn’t belong to anyone.”
Jack said, “Even if there was no collar, did you check to see if anybody reported their dog missing? Even if it was an accident, the owner would still want to know what happened.”
Snowden shook his head. “It’s not like that ...”
Someone asked, “What did you do after you hit it?”
Snowden cleared his throat. “I—I dragged it into the woods and came back the next day and buried it. I came here tonight because—because I thought you of all people—you here in AA—where tragedy is something you deal with—every day—you could help me with the feeling that’s left over—the feeling that what’s done is done and that nothing can ever undo it.”
“You’re talking guilt,” Jack said. “It’s a feeling all of us share, and we just have to live with it. Call it punishment if you like, but there’s no getting around it.”
“Guilt?” Snowden gazed into the distance and thought for a long moment. “No,” he said softly. “Not guilt. Sorrow.” He looked at the assembly and at the walls of the classroom, cheerful with the pasted and hand-drawn symbols of the season. “It’s the sorrow that’s killing me. I see that now. The sorrow.”
Jack said, “Can you show us what’s in the bag?”
Tears welled in his eyes, and Snowden unrolled the top of his crinkled paper bag.
He reached in and pulled out a basket.
A gleaming, golden basket.
Filled with brightly-colored eggs.
Afterword
Okay, ‘fess up. Who’s never wanted to off the Easter Bunny? And No, you don’t want to know what I have planned for the Tooth Fairy.
Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing
Skovar watched as Casimir flipped a page in the sign-in register. “The Chicago delegation hasn’t yet arrived,” Casimir tsked. “If they’re late, The Progenitor will not be pleased.”
Skovar patted his gray-haired assistant on the shoulder. “They’ll be here,” he said, “even if they have to fly in themselves.”
Casimir turned and looked him in the eyes. “Old Olaf didn’t have a sense of humor. I much preferred it that way.” Skovar’s assistant harrumphed and walked off, aligning the napkins and flatware as he passed the long banquet tables, occasionally stopping to pick up a fork or a knife and polish the stainless with a kitchen towel.
Skovar pulled a watch from his vest. In less than an hour, all t
he delegations—and The Progenitor—would have arrived, and the annual meeting would proceed. He put the watch back as two of the several-dozen guests now milling about approached.
“You are the Event Director?” A woman, by looks in her thirties, with long black eyelashes and blond hair pulled tightly into a bun, made the question an accusation.
Skovar reached around his neck and brought forth a small, dime-sized medallion. The woman’s eyes fell upon the piece, and she nodded. But her companion, a tall man with muddy features and a navy blue tux, was not so easily satisfied. “Where’s Olaf?” he asked. “He usually runs the meetings.”
“Olaf couldn’t make it this year. He’ll be back next year.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He didn’t confide. He merely asked me to fill in. Are the accommodations not to your liking?”
Skovar had made certain the accommodations—a large hall decorated in Rococo patterns, with ornate tables and chairs—some even true eighteenth-century pieces—could not but satisfy his guests’ tastes for Old World excess. The heavy curtains and inch-thick carpet were but a bonus—icing on this excess.
The man extended his hand. “I’m Albert Breedsly; this is my wife. Yes, the accommodations are more than adequate.”
Skovar took Breedly’s hand and nodded to the woman. “Radivan Skovar, at your service.”
The man went on, “How did you find this place?”
“I used to run a travel agency, and I received a flyer about the manor.”
“Direct solicitation? That seems suspicious.”
“I’m not naive, Sir. I found that Columbia Manor, built some twenty years ago at the behest of an—er—eccentric with funds on his hands, fell into disuse when the owner moved to another state. To reduce the upkeep on the place, the meeting hall is periodically rented to various organizations. It’s been this way for years. The Kiwanis meets here, the Better Business Bureau, even the local chapter of the NAACP.”
Skovar added, “The flyer that I received was received by all the agencies and caterers in the city. I checked.”
Breedsly grumbled, but the woman spoke. “We found this on the floor, under one of the tables.” She handed Skovar an oblong pink pill.
Skovar blinked and raised his brows questioningly. Breedsly turned briefly to his wife and said, “He is naive.” To Skovar he said, “None of us need medication. You know what that means.”
Skovar’s eyes widened. “Surely you don’t think—here? Such a person would be worse than a fool!” He held the pill up to his eyes. “Perhaps it’s a recreational drug.”
Breedsly snatched the pill from Skovar’s fingers. “We’ll find out right now. Where’s Langley?” He looked about the chamber, lit with soft incandescents, and spotted the glow of a cigarette.
Breedsly waved, got the man’s attention and motioned him over. “Cyrus Langley, meet Radivan Skovar, Event Director.”
Langley, a large man with a broad, flat face, took the cigarette from his mouth. “Pleased, I’m sure. So what’s up, Breedsly? You look dour enough to gloom up a funeral.”
“You used to be a doctor. Do you know what this is?” Breedsly handed Langley the pill.
Langley laughed. “Sure. Verapamil. Treats high blood pressure. Which bloody near killed me, too, before I was recruited. So what?”
“So it was found on the floor, within this room.”
Langley shrugged. “Who knows how long it’s been there?”
Skovar said, “Perhaps—perhaps we can know.” He found Casimir and called him. The assistant approached the small group warily.
Very formally, Casimir said, “What is your pleasure, Director?”
“This room was vacuumed and cleaned thoroughly this morning, was it not?”
Casimir blinked uncertainly. “After the drapes were pinned shut, yes. I saw to it myself.”
Skovar took the pill from the doctor. “Any chance you could have missed this?”
“Where was it found?”
Madame Breedsly pointed to the floor near the center of the room.
“Doubtful,” Casimir said. “It seems hardly a topic for such serious discussion, however.”
Skovar said, “It’s medicine.”
Casimir’s eyes grew until the others saw white all around.
“My G—My word! There’s an impostor, then, an infiltrator! I must warn the guests—”
Skovar grabbed the assistant by the collar and said, “Get a grip on yourself. We suspect, but we’re not certain. Instead of panicking, think. What can we do?”
Breedsly said, “We could get a hand-mirror and see who reflects.”
“A mirror? A mirror?” Casimir’s voice rose an octave. “To bring a mirror to the annual meeting would be the highest of insults! And in the presence of The Progenitor, its holder would doubtlessly meet—finality!”
Breedsly said, “But the impostor, if there is one, could also be an assassin. Or someone seeking vengeance—”
Langley interrupted, “I say, you four worry too much. No impostor could hope to survive the meeting. Even if we can’t tell who he or she is, The Progenitor should be able to spot the bloke immediately.”
“And if he or she should survive the meeting,” Skovar added, “we could always use a mirror as the guests depart. I removed several mirrors from this room in preparation, so I know where to get one. I replaced them with portraits I found in the basement.”
Langley looked up at the walls. “Yes, I noticed the gallery as I walked in. The frames don’t match the rest of the decor. Who are these people?”
Skovar said, “I believe they’re ancestors and family members of the owner.”
“At least the blonde above the fireplace looks delicious,” Langley said. “I’d love to sink my teeth into something like that.”
Skovar frowned. “I think that was the owner’s daughter. The portrait’s at least twenty years old. Doubtless she’s aged, if she’s still around.”
“Yes,” Madame Breedsly said. “By now, she probably favors the Pilgrim, or the Sea Captain.” She pointed to two of the other paintings.
“Actually, Sko’ old boy,” Langley said, “I think the Sea Captain favors you just a bit.”
“And I can’t tell port from starboard,” Skovar said. “Ah—here is the Chicago contingent, perhaps?”
A bustle near the hall doors held their attention as several men and women gave up their coats to an attendant and scribbled their names in the register. One apologized for their late arrival. “It was Hell in a Jet-Fueled Fog before we got clearance to leave O’Hare.”
Another man spread his arms and flapped. “I just flew in from Chicago, and boy are my arms tired!” Then he laughed, but was the only one who did.
Casimir turned to Skovar. “I correct myself, Director. Your version of this old joke was at least—palatable.”
Breedsly said, “That’s Perriman—the comedian. If it weren’t for his seniority, he’d have been kicked out long ago. He comes to the meetings, tells jokes that might have been new a century ago, and bitches about how cold it is in Chicago in the wintertime.”
“So why doesn’t he move south?” Skovar asked.
Madame Breedsly said, “He says Chicago is one of the few places left where he can exercise the franchise.”
Skovar coughed. “How patriotic.”
Moments later, a hush fell over the gathering as another figure appeared at the door. Tall and bony, with long, hard lines on his cheeks and lips, he bore the traditional black cape and cane, and the carry of his frame and the confidence he projected let no newcomer in the audience doubt his identity.
No one knew The Progenitor’s real name. Some said he was a Hungarian count; others, a Roman soldier present at the Crucifixion. But all knew that he was the First of their Kind.
And as The Progenitor passed through the door, a great, grand coldness rippled through the chamber, and each shadow cast by the modest lights deepened and stretched until it seemed it would break. And there was a
n inrush of breath by the congress, and from their eyes a glow of appreciation—and obeisance.
The Progenitor’s presence was—indeed—so powerful that few first noticed the woman on his arm—a lanky, blue-eyed blonde in a sequined gown that revealed far more than it could hide.
“By Jove, I’ve seen that bird before!” Langley exclaimed. Then he spun about, a puzzled look on his face, and pointed. “It’s the woman above the fireplace! But how—”
His question foundered in the rolling hiss expelled by The Progenitor, who in one step sailed to the top of a table, alighting delicately between a pair of crystal tumblers and a porcelain fingerbowl. He inhaled deeply and said, “There is a mortal among you! Who has dared to insult the assembly in this fashion?” He looked around, focusing his gaze on the members, one by one, until he came to the Event Director.
At that point, Skovar reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a radio transmitter. He tabbed open a safety cover and pushed the top of two buttons, and the doors to the chamber slammed shut.
The Progenitor turned to look at the doors, then back to Skovar. “What is the meaning of this?”
By this time his escort had noted the wall painting, and now she too pointed to the portrait above the fireplace. “It’s a trap!”
Several men threw themselves at the door, but it refused to budge. They fell back, stunned and surprised. Others tore down the curtains, revealing bars that had shot up from windowsills now hinged away. Perriman, who had waved his arms at his arrival, now said, “‘Nor iron bars a cage!’” and jumped to the nearest window. But when he grabbed the bars, he let out a shriek and fell to the floor, the flesh on his hands peeling and steaming. “Silver!” he cried. “The bars are covered with silver!”
Skovar held his control unit with one hand. With the other, he removed his toupee, pulled off his bushy brows and popped out the inserts that had filled the hollowness of his cheeks.
The woman of the portrait gasped. “Father!”
“Yes, Elena. Not in my wildest dreams did I expect you to be here. I merely wished to cut the head off the serpent that had taken my daughter—a vengeance I’d been planning for twenty years. When I found old Olaf—and discovered who he was, I captured him and bled him dry—you’ll forgive the expression—for all the information I needed to pull off this charade.
The Dinosaur Chronicles Page 10