Rick lifted one of the slats on the blind but caught only a glimpse of orange and white below before having to shut his eyes and turn quickly from the bright sun. Squinting, he edged the slat up and saw an ambulance backed up to the entrance, its rear doors flung open like two welcoming hands and the attendants lifting a stretcher into the back. The familiar, predictable lumps of a body pressed up against the heavy sheet that lay over it, head to toe. Jesus, must be dead, Rick thought.
Then he saw them next to the BMW: Mary Beth and Chrissy, shepherded by some tall, thin guy in coat and tie. He was carrying the goddamn suitcases. He said something to Mary Beth. She shook her head and stared at the ground. Chrissy looked up, toward the window.
Rick jerked down on the cord, sending the blind flying up, flooding the room with light. He grabbed both handles of the window and pulled up. Stuck, of course. Again—this time with everything he had. Damn motel windows. By now the thin man was loading the suitcases into the trunk while Mary Beth and Chrissy stood by me car. What the hell were they doing?
Rick cupped his fingers and rapped his wedding ring against the glass as hard as he dared. But they just stood there, oblivious, casually glancing up at his face in the window, then down again. He shouted, “Mary Beth! Chrissy!” Nothing. They were watching the ambulance, waiting for something.
“They can’t hear you, Ricky.” The gravelly voice was a low, patient growl rubbing against his back. He knew what he was going to see even before he spun around—the stump of a body covered in the white gown of Mother Teresa, twisted shoulders that loathed pity. “They can’t hear you. Can’t see you either.” Ida’s mouth curled into a vile sneer, not for Chrissy this time, all for him now.
“What the hell . . .?”
“You know what they say, Ricky: ‘Careful what you wish for—you might just get it.’” The hillbilly accent was gone. These vowels were round and cruel. And ancient.
“You bitch! Are you crazy? Let me out of here.” He tried to move toward her but suddenly his chest was gripped by a hammering pain that spread like wildfire to his arms and throat, his whole body gnawed by an agony that lived and breathed. He opened his mouth to scream but could make only a small dry sound like a trapped animal begging to be released.
“How does it feel, Ricky? Does it hurt? Does it make you want to cry out to someone you love? Why don’t they come to you?”
The pain released him as quickly as it had begun, leaving him bent over, eyes closed. He breathed in slow, deep, measured relief. “A heart attack is a terrible thing,” she said in mock pity. “You were so young, so alone in your pain. You reached out but there was no one to take your hand.”
Rick straightened, carefully, slowly, considered the hag’s hungry face and smile. He turned away to the window and leaned heavily on the sill, weak from the pain but with something cruel holding him up, not allowing him to fall. He saw the attendants buttoning up the ambulance. Chrissy and Mary Beth were getting into the BMW.
“Please. Let me go.” He was whispering now, pleading. “They’re going to leave without me.”
“Out of my hands, Ricky. I’m just the care nurse at this facility.” Then irritation raised the growl a half octave. “What’s the complaint, anyhow? Isn’t this what you wished for? All alone, nobody to intrude on your little world?”
Now the mocking and sneering were back. “Don’t bother even looking out the window, Ricky baby. There’s nothing out there for you. You gave it up a long time ago.” She was in heaven and used the word “baby” like a knife. “This is the world you wanted what you and others like you have created, and it’s my job to see that you enjoy it.”
Still watching the two people that he loved now more than his life, two humans whom he wanted to hold and caress, to feel their soft hair against his face, the comfort of their arms, wanting all that at once and knowing it was lost forever, squandered ground into dust beneath a boot heel, he said quietly, like a shamed little boy, “My name’s not Ricky. Nobody calls me that.”
The growl from the tiny body was now everywhere in the room, more real than the dwindling life he watched distantly through the window. “It’s whatever I say it is—from now on.” And those last words became three hideous things, set free, scuttling around the room, flying against the ceiling, finally lurking in the corner like enemies. From now on.
What he felt then was far worse than the burning and searing of before. He never knew pain could be so deep, the loneliness like drifting in a cold faithless universe of night that swept across his heart as he watched his wife and precious daughter drive off into a wash of sunlight on Christmas Day.
He turned slowly from the window and knew that he would always turn in just this way, again and again, a motion as ancient as the planets and stars he had carelessly prayed to. And standing against the door, dressed in white, crooked shoulders and crooked smile, the face of eternity stared back at him.
Thomas Millstead
REFRACTIONS
WHEN an editor acquires a story that he can’t talk about up front without ruining it, he must talk about the writer instead. With a lifelong friend, that’s a joy. (It’s happened a lot, editing Masques III.)
Millstead’s the man who crafted the ingenious mystery novel Behind You (Dell) only a few years after Dial published his kids’ novel that grownups loved—Cave of the Moving Shadows. Yet Tom’s first novel, years back, was a Western called Commanche Stallion—and he’s also versatile enough to have written the chapter on character-naming (“Oh, Just Call Me Cuthbcrt!”) for How to Write Tales of Horror, Fantasy and Science Fiction!
Enjoy “Refractions”—and call Thomas Millstead a true original.
REFRACTIONS
Thomas Millstead
THEILA DABBED A FEW TEARS FROM the corner of her eye. The new contact lenses bothered her, but she thought they’d be comfortable enough to leave in for the rest of the evening.
She felt a trifle self-conscious. None of the members of the Aura of Light had ever seen her without glasses before. At first she’d felt conspicuous, almost naked. Then she’d noticed herself in Millicent’s mirror and liked what she saw.
Of course, she knew it was all psychological. She was neither more nor less attractive because of the absence of those heavy framed bifocals. No sleeker. No younger. But the contacts had definitely given her an emotional lift.
“My dear, I never realized what lovely eyes you have!” Millicent—exuberant as ever—hugged her and introduced her to tonight’s speaker, a Dr. Negruni.
“Lovely eyes, indeed.” He stared intently at her, then bowed to kiss her hand.
She felt suddenly on the verge of giddiness. How long since she’d received a compliment? Of any kind? From anyone?
How long since Russell had last praised anything about her?
So very long. He’d seen her wearing the new lenses for the first time this afternoon, before he left for his overnight sales meeting. He’d puckered his thin, derisive lips and whistled mockingly.
“Whoa! Look at this hot number, would you!”
“Well, I’m not trying to look like a . . . a . . .”
“Hot number? I know. Believe me, I know.”
Hurt, she’d turned away. “No. Not like one of those . . .”
“One of those what?”
“At your sales meetings. Those . . . women in the hotels that you pay to . . .”
“That I pay to what? Say it! It’s a simple Anglo-Saxon word!”
“To . . . consort with.”
“Consort with?” He laughed harshly, puffy jowls quivering. He slammed shut the lid of the suitcase. “God, is it any wonder you and I have not . . . ‘consorted’ for lo, these many years?”
Abruptly, his voice faded to a gruff whisper, more baffled than bitter.
“My God, the wonder is why I’ve put up with this . . . this farce. For so damn long! Why?”
And why have I? she asked herself as Millicent led the members of the circle into the evening’s meditation period. Sheil
a concentrated on the question. All those hostile years. His infidelities. The occasional beatings. Why?
No answer emerged. It was time for their speaker.
Dr. Negruni had traveled widely and studied Eastern I mysticism in India, Nepal, even Tibet. His voice was accented and soothing, rising and falling in gentle tones like the mesmerizing murmur of a mountain stream. He spoke eloquently of karma, of kundalini, of chakras.
What magnetism he exerts, Sheila thought. She could not imagine how old he was. But his age must be great, for many of his journeys dated to the early decades of the century. Yet he was vibrant, his face hardly lined. A small sparrow of a man, his skin was velvety olive and his eyes lustrous and penetrating.
Afterward, she clasped his hand and thanked him warmly. But she did not stay for the punch and croissants. Her lenses were increasingly irritating her and she did not want Dr. Negruni to see her squinting and grimacing.
On the sidewalk, as she sought a cab, she felt her forearm softly squeezed.
“Always it is such a pleasure to meet those who aspire to learn the secrets of the ancients,” Dr. Negruni purred. “In all modesty, I have mastered more than a few. You know, it is the fusion of the Siva and the Shakti—the male and female principles—that generates prana. Which is the very energy of life. You are quite beautiful, if you permit me. In Western culture, mature beauty is not justly prized. Ah, here is a taxi!”
Idiocy! So stupid! At your age! Shameful!
Accusations raced relentlessly through her mind. But she smiled lazily in the darkness, her body glowing with a fulfillment she’d not known in—how long?
Never before, really, she admitted. Never, certainly, with Russell.
The sleep of satisfied exhaustion crept over her. But she fought to remain awake, to cherish every moment. To marvel again at the exquisite pleasures Dr. Negruni had awakened in her.
Drowsily, she reached out to slide her fingers once more over the silky, diminutive body beside her.
His arm was cold. She touched his chest. Icy, frigid. There was no heartbeat.
Panicked, Sheila bolted upright. She shook him, pounding his breastbone, desperately blowing breath into his sagging mouth.
It was too late.
She was stunned but she knew she must get out. This was ghastly, but there was no helping Dr. Negruni. She must not be found here!
She struggled to her feet, groping in the dark, unfamiliar room. Where were her glasses?
Then she remembered: contacts. She’d taken them out before she and Dr. Negruni . . .
Sheila scooped up her clothes, scuffled to the bathroom. She flipped on the light and saw the lenses, hazily, on a tissue on the counter over the sink.
Now she was sniffling, sobbing. Be calm, she commanded. She dressed hastily, then wetted the contacts and, with trembling hands, inserted them.
She glanced in the mirror, briskly brushing her hair into place. It would not do to look disheveled when she slipped out of the hotel this time of night. She must not be remembered. Nor could she report this.
How would she explain it? Alone with a naked dead man in his hotel room? Her reputation! Her daughter Cindy in college! And Russell?
Would he merely smirk? Or come at her again with his hamlike fists?
One last tug at her blouse. But her arm froze in midair.
Behind her—she saw it distinctly in the mirror—stood a man. Only a few feet away.
It couldn’t be! her mind shrieked.
At first, the irrational thought: Dr. Negruni!
But no. This man was tall, heavy, pasty-faced. Wearing a long, caped, Victorian greatcoat buttoned to the throat and carrying a small satchel. A black slouch hat was pulled low over his forehead, shielding his eyes.
He smiled at her.
She thought she couldn’t move, yet instinct spun her around, to confront him.
She was alone.
Sheila fled.
She sank onto the chair in front of her own vanity. Her face was sickly pale as she studied it. “Shock, of course,” she remarked aloud. Some hallucination. But predictably, after the trauma of tonight.
Once more her contacts were bothersome—gritty and grating. With her index finger, she stretched the skin of one eyelid, attempting to pop out the lens just as she’d learned. It remained nestled against her cornea.
Again she tried, with no success. Finally she was digging, gouging, and still the lens wouldn’t budge.
She scowled, bent forward to the mirror. Strange: Her eyes looked brown. Yet—when she wasn’t wearing glasses—the bright lights over her vanity had always brought out the vividness of her sky-blue irises.
She blinked. Brown? Yes. Deep, deep brown.
It came to her like an electric jolt.
These lenses must have been laid out beside hers at the hotel. Brown-tinted lenses. Dr. Negruni’s.
Frantic, she pried, poked, squeezed. And could not eject them. In her agitation she did not—for a few moments—perceive the large man reflected in her mirror.
He was still in his greatcoat, still clutching the satchel. A commanding presence; solid. He placed one hand on the back of her chair.
From under the wide brim of his hat, his eyes were barely visible. They locked on hers. They were a phlegmilke yellow, glittering, feral as a leopard’s.
As in a trance, she half-turned her head to look behind her.
No one was there.
“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly.
And buried her face in her hands, hearing high, keening whimpers she knew were her own.
Millicent, Sheila thought in the morning. She must see Millicent.
Millicent would be consoling. Millicent with her serenity and compassion. Not that Sheila would relate last night’s circumstances. Not that she would compromise herself . . . or Negruni’s good name.
But Millicent was uncanny about arcane matters. So wise and experienced. It had meant so much to Sheila—in the torment of her marriage to Russell—to be part of Millicent’s circle.
She found it difficult to separate what had happened from what she must have imagined. Certainly she hadn’t fantasized the death of that dear little man. Still, she wore his lenses, unable to remove them—and, it being Sunday, she could not seek help from her optometrist. But the other horror: that creature in the mirror . . .
Sheila nodded to the doorman at Millicent’s apartment building, as she always did. He tipped his cap, as he always did. “How are you today, ma’am?” He was beefy, with the broiled-lobster flush of a heavy drinker.
A young woman in tight jeans sauntered past them, out of the building. The doorman winked at Sheila. “Just moved in,” he said. He licked his lips. “Some hot number—ain’t she?”
Rage exploded within her, a scorching flash fire of fury.
A “hot number?” Russell’s stupid words! Exactly the kind of filthy remark Russell would make! She had never before been engulfed by such a frenzy of anger. This damned degenerate! Sheila fumbled wildly in her purse; what could she use?
The manicure scissors—yes!
In Sheila’s mind’s eyes, she already saw the slice in this cretin’s throat. Haw jolly that was—how very jolly!
She opened and closed the scissors convulsively, biting her lip to stifle her eagerness.
Wait! Someone—behind the doorman. Odd; she hadn’t seen him before, the bearded man in coarse seaman’s garb.
Never mind! Do them both!
Sheila’s hand faltered. Suddenly she was shivering, drenched with fright. She flung herself through the door, into the lobby.
Merciful God, she prayed, what was I thinking of?
The elevator was ornate, paneled on three sides with mirrors bordered in gold leaf. Sheila held tightly to the burnished brass beside her, sucked in her breath.
The caped man was there with her. All around. He loomed above her in each of her three reflected images. He was so close that she might have smelled his breath.
She reached out her arms
and swung them to and fro, touching nothing. Confirming—something.
“Who are you?” she asked softly, staring at one of the images.
His lips moved. Sensual lips, drolly amused.
She felt sound vibrations somewhere behind the back of her skull—as if from his voice. She tensed, listening. No; not his voice. Nor a whisper. More the shadow of a whisper.
Should’ve gone for the windpipe. Never a squawk out of ‘im. Then into the carotid—and rip! Remember those bloody trollops? Oh, jolly!
With his left hand the figure in the mirror brandished the satchel, laughing.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands against her ears.
“Do have some tea, dear.” Millicent smiled sweetly. “You seem distraught.”
“Well, Dr. Negruni . . .”
“Yes, a terrible shock. I got the call this morning. Such a gifted man. So animated—just last night. But the transition was peaceful, I’m told.”
“You’d known him long?”
“Eons, casually. He was away for years at a time. He’d made a fortune from his technological innovations, he was a genius in the field of optics. He could . . . well afford to pursue his passion for the occult.” She tapped Sheila’s knee. “Of course, you are upset. We all are. Yet it’s merely a passage from one dimension to another.”
Sheila sipped her tea, desperately searching for the right words. She must be discreet, but she had to have an answer. Somehow, Millicent would understand. She must!
“It’s just that . . .” she began, but let her voice trail off. She nodded toward the corner of the room. She could not confide in the presence of a stranger. It was so unlike Millicent not to observe the social proprieties. Weakly, Sheila smiled at the woman, who gazed back at her.
“I don’t believe we have met . . .”
“Who’s that, my dear?”
“Your friend. In the beautiful sari.”
Darker Masques Page 6