The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “No. He could be a material witness, though. That’s why we’re questioning him.”

  “For your sake, officer, I hope Elton Holloway gave you permission to enter his room.”

  “He let us in. We identified ourselves, and he let us in.”

  Wertheimer stepped forward, forcing Hastings to give ground as he strode into the sitting room. The lawyer stood motionless for a moment, looking down at Elton Holloway, who remained seated, staring up at Wertheimer with his blank eyes. Without troubling to look at the two detectives, Wertheimer announced, “You’ll have to leave now, gentlemen. I’ll need an hour, at least, with my client. Then we can talk, if you want. The four of us.”

  16

  PARKED IN FRONT OF A fireplug on Powell Street, Hastings and Friedman sat in Friedman’s elderly Datsun station wagon. At eleven o’clock on a warm September night, Union Square was populated with a seasonal mix of sightseers, theatergoers, and other citizens of the night. In the next block ahead, a line of taxicabs inched toward the St. Francis entrance, where a uniformed doorman presided. Crowded with festive tourists, one cable car was trundling down the Powell Street hill. Another cable car was approaching from the opposite direction.

  Inside the Datsun, Friedman slapped the dashboard with the flat of his hand. “What we’ve got here,” he said, “is a genuine, twenty-four-carat loony. And I say that, first thing in the morning, we get warrants. We get his room fingerprinted, and we take a look for that rope. We can get Dancer, too, and see if he recognizes any of Elton’s clothes. We impound the clothes, and test them for fiber matches from the Bayside.”

  “The theory’s great,” Hastings said. “If we can get the warrants.”

  Moodily, Friedman made no response.

  “We almost had him,” Hastings said bitterly. “Another ten minutes, and he’d’ve been telling us how he does it—saves their souls by purifying them, something like that. We had one like him a couple of years ago, remember? That Jesus freak, who liberated old ladies from their earthly problems—after he raped them?”

  “Actually,” Friedman said drily, “he liberated them from their earthly cares and then raped them.” Remembering, Friedman incredulously shook his head, then said, “There’s no way we’re going to talk to Elton without a lawyer present. Not with Wertheimer in the game. We’ve got as much of his story as we’re ever going to get, at least until we get him locked up.”

  “If we get him locked up.” With a clenched fist, frustrated, Hastings tapped his knee.

  “We need those warrants,” Friedman said. “And we also need a plan. They’re going to stall, sure as hell, maybe move him around, or get him out of the city. And, downtown, the brass’ll be just as happy to see Sunday come, see them leave town.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes,” Friedman answered heavily. “I think so. Dwyer’s a publicity hound, admittedly. But he’s always got his finger out there, in the wind. And I don’t think he wants to arrest Austin Holloway’s son. Not now. Not ever.”

  “They might move Elton around, but they also might want him here for the Sunday performance. It’s a tradition, you know, the whole family on stage.”

  “I wonder whether Austin Holloway knows what’s happening,” Friedman mused. “I think Gloria knows. And Lloyd Mitchell, too, probably. But I wonder whether Holloway himself knows that his kid kills prostitutes?”

  “We’ll probably never know,” Hastings answered.

  “We’ve got to stir Elton up,” Friedman said, “maybe catch him in the act. He admits that he was out on Monday. And we know he was out last night. If we give him room, he might go out tomorrow night. Or maybe even tonight, who knows?”

  “If he knows we’re following him, though, he’s going to be careful.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe it’ll work just the opposite, in fact. This guy’s listening to voices. He’s a nut. I’ll bet he thinks he’s God’s chosen messenger. And characters like that—nuts—the harder you push, the harder they push back sometimes. For all we know, right this minute, he could be putting his rope in his pocket, getting ready to go out and save another sinner, never mind that he knows we’re watching.”

  “So you’re saying that we shouldn’t try for an arrest warrant?”

  “I’m thinking,” Friedman said, “that maybe we should put Elton under surveillance. Tight surveillance, so he’ll know he’s being followed. If I’m right that Elton thinks he’s God’s messenger, above earthly law, then he’s going to go right ahead with his plans, whether or not he thinks he’s being followed. Remember, he’s crazy. Why else would he have told us so much, just now?”

  “It’s a gamble.”

  Cheerfully, Friedman shrugged. “So’s life a gamble.”

  Hastings looked at the entrance of the St. Francis, a half block away. “God, wouldn’t that be something if we could catch him in the act?”

  “For that pleasure,” Friedman said, “I’d gladly give whatever chance I have of entry into the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “You’re an atheist.”

  “Which is exactly why I’d love to stick out my foot, and trip Austin Holloway, and watch him fall flat on his sanctimonious ass.”

  Conscious of a changed note in the other man’s voice, Hastings turned to look at Friedman. Staring straight ahead, Friedman’s eyes had slipped into thoughtful soft focus. His voice, too, was thoughtfully soft as he said, “You know, everyone worries about who’s going to drop the bomb—where, and when. But I’m here to tell you that, whoever pushes the button, whenever it happens, wherever, there’s going to be someone like Holloway right at the button-pusher’s elbow. Because the politicians and the generals always have God with them, you know. It doesn’t matter which side you’re on, you’ve always got God. That’s because there’re always people like Holloway on both sides, screaming for the blood of the sinners. Which means, of course, that thousands of brave young men die. Men, and boys—” Slowly, with infinite regret, he shook his head, softly repeating: “Boys. They’re killing twelve-year-old boys in the Middle East. The goddamn holy men give them guns, and tell them God commands them to—” Abruptly, he broke off, still staring sightlessly straight ahead. Then, speaking very softly, he said, “I’ve never been much for walking in peace marches. I don’t have the figure for it, for one thing. And I’m not very good about sending checks to the right causes, either. But I’ll tell you this—” He drew a long, deep breath. “If I can tie a can to Austin Holloway, I’ll consider that I’ll have paid my dues.”

  17

  HER LEGS WERE HEAVY, her head was falling forward, bobbing up, falling forward again. Her eyelids, too, were heavy. The lines of the room were shifting, blurring, shaped and reshaped, sliding away, returning, fading again.

  So she had to get up.

  Because suddenly the room was her prison.

  The room, the hotel, The Hour …

  And all the hours before, and all the hours to come, all bearing down upon her like beasts of prey, white fangs dripping red, baleful yellow eyes glowing in a midnight circle surrounding her. Soon, she knew, the shape and substance of the beasts would come clear: huge, black, snarling dogs, raging, slavering, dripping red-frothed foam from blood-flecked fangs.

  When the bottle was empty, the circle of terror materialized, turned into formless monsters, then wolves, then dogs—and finally into the one dog from out of her childhood. Mr. Weldon’s dog, a black monster, leaping on her, forepaws on her shoulders, teeth sunk into the flesh of her upper arm. Her father had come running, brandishing a hoe like an Indian with a spear, his shouts of outrage mingling with her terrified screams. The blade of the hoe had torn flaps of bloody flesh from the dog, black and blood-red flaps, one flap from his flank, one flap from his head, leaving the ear hanging. Her screams—her father’s shouts—the dog’s howls of pain—banshee sounds from the crimson maw of hell, all echoing and reechoing down through all the years, the sights and the sounds of constant nightmares.

  She’d been eight years old
when Mr. Weldon’s dog had snapped his chain and come for her.

  She’d been sixteen when she’d first met Austin.

  They’d been standing in front of their tabernacle, her daddy and Austin. She’d been across the dusty dirt street, coming home from high school. Only the night before, parked in Buddy Heron’s lowered Chevy pickup, she’d let Buddy slip her bra up over her breasts, let him unbotton her blouse, then let him do anything he wanted, so long as he didn’t go up under her skirt. It had been the first time she’d ever felt a man’s flesh touch hers, the first time she’d ever felt herself go wet between the legs—the first time she’d ever held a man close, felt his whole body tremble, heard him gasp and pant, like animals do. And all because of her, because of her woman’s body—her own special woman’s body, hers alone.

  All that day, the memory of the night before had warmed her, made her aware of herself, aware of the warmth of balm and power, of the languorous sense of infinite possibilities, aware of the time just ahead, exploring, sharing, sensing.

  So, when she’d first seen Austin, she’d been thinking as a woman thinks about a man—a grown woman, inviting a grown man to look her over, see what he thought. A tilt of the hip, a lilt of the eye, and, yes, she could see that he’d noticed her—as a man notices a woman.

  And her daddy had noticed, too.

  From the first, her daddy had seen it, seen the two of them, how they looked at each other, the questions they asked with their eyes.

  The questions—and the answers. And later the promises. Her daddy had seen them all. And her daddy could be mean. Dangerous, even, if he ever stepped over the line he’d drawn for himself, had always drawn for himself, struggling so long and so hard with himself, to keep his natural impulses so tightly in hand.

  The next afternoon, after school—and after she’d made sure that her daddy was meeting with the ladies aid society—she’d put on her white eyelet dress, and tied a ribbon in her hair, and put on her white shoes. The walk into town was a little less than a mile, and the weather had been warm. She’d walked slowly, so as not to sweat. And she’d remembered to take some toilet paper, to wipe off the white shoes after walking down the dirt road.

  She’d known he would be staying at the Manor House. There was only the Hotel Grand besides the Manor House, and she’d known that he wouldn’t stay at the Grand, not with his beautiful clothes, and his manners, and his full, rich voice.

  She’d walked past the hotel, just strolling along, and there he was, on the verandah that ran the full length of the Manor House. He’d been sitting in a rocker, fanning himself with a palmetto fan, like everyone else. It hadn’t even been necessary to catch his eye. Because, right away, he’d recognized her. He’d put aside his fan, and come down off the verandah, and greeted her with a little bow, taking off his Panama hat to her, doing it with a wide, rakish flourish.

  From that moment, that very moment, standing with the sun in her eyes, shading her eyes with her hand, dressed in her white eyelet dress, smiling up full into his face, she’d felt herself change. From that moment on, she’d known that her life would be different.

  “Love at first sight,” that’s how she’d thought of it. For years, that’s how she’d thought of it. For years, she’d believed that she’d lived an enchanted life, a princess in a castle, dressed in her gowns, awaiting the return of her master. Even the memory of her father’s death, the terrible suspicion, hadn’t troubled those constant daydreams, those nights of fantasy. Because she had Austin Holloway. And Austin Holloway was a man like no other, a man with a vision, a man who dwelt among the gods, listening to other voices, seeing other visions.

  But when he came to her in the night, and pressed himself upon her, and demanded entrance to her body with the same frenzy of passion with which he could turn on the crowds that came to hear him preach, he was nothing more than a man—a man like other men, a man with the blind, urgent need to thrust his flesh into her flesh.

  Her man.

  From that night on, that first night, at the Manor Hotel, her man.

  When he’d finally fallen back away from her, exhausted, making small sounds in his throat, with the warm rush of him inside her, still a part of her flesh, she’d felt closer to God than ever before.

  And closer to the Devil, too.

  Because Austin knew the Devil as well as he knew God.

  Sometimes she thought that God and the Devil worked together. God enticed, the Devil enslaved.

  Because, surely, the Devil had enslaved her.

  At first, she’d thought the secret she knew would keep her free, liberate her from the Devil, the tyrant with Austin’s face, sometimes the saint, more often the sinner.

  It was the sinner that came in the night, to savage her flesh. The saint materialized in the light of day, sometimes smiling, sometimes ranting, but always sitting in judgment: accusing, absolving, raving, sometimes mewling.

  Only the babies had saved her.

  The live babies, Gloria and Elton.

  Not the dead baby, the lump of flesh she’d never seen.

  Only when her babies were born had she ever been free from him. Yet, even then, she’d realized that she’d never be really free, didn’t want to be free, not really.

  When she began to show, the times between his nighttime visits began to lengthen out, then cease altogether. Once, timidly, she said that sometimes she waited for him, listened for the sound of his hand on her doorknob. He’d looked at her the way he looked down on the sinners, then turned away.

  Now, I wear my apron high …

  You see my door and pass it by …

  It was a song from the hills, the same hills her daddy had come from. And it was true. From the time she began to show with Gloria, Austin had changed toward her. Sometimes it saddened her—until Gloria was born. Then she rejoiced.

  Because, yes, they’d set her free—first Gloria, then Elton, five years apart.

  Gloria had been a love child. Elton had been nobody’s child, the child she’d had to have, after the one born dead.

  Poor Elton.

  Poor, pale, timid Elton.

  Angry Elton.

  With her feet on the floor beside the chaise, with her hands on either side, braced, she pushed herself carefully to her feet. She must see Elton. During his whole life, he’d been troubled. But now, today, tonight, with the strangers in the hallways, Elton would be especially anxious, timid within himself, yet angrily peering out at them as his monster began to stir.

  For a long time now, the strangers had been calling: silent men with hostile eyes, asking their angry questions. Only Austin had saved him: she knew that, admitted that. Austin had them all fooled: the police, the probation officers, the judges, everyone. Effortlessly, Austin turned black into white, lies into truth—evil into good.

  She walked to the bar, looked at herself in the mirror. Timidly, she smiled at her reflection: the heart-shaped face that he’d always loved so dearly, the small mouth with cherub lips, the wide, innocent eyes. Marvella Holloway. Beloved by millions—so long as she never spoke.

  She turned away, walked to the door, went out into the hallway. A late-night stillness had settled on the hallway. The two guards, nodding politely, were heavy-eyed, waiting for their relief. She counted the doors: three doors, between her room and Elton’s. At the fourth door, 1106, she softly knocked. No answer, as she expected. She knocked again, then turned the knob. Yes, he’d left the door unlocked for her.

  As he always did, Elton had insisted on a small single room, not a suite. Softly, she opened the door, stepped inside. Light came only from a single bedside lamp. Elton stood beside the bureau. One of the bureau’s drawers was open. Facing her, Elton held a length of thick cord in his hands. Watching her with his expressionless eyes, he raised his hands with the cord dangling between them, as if he were making her an offering. Then he turned, moved his hands over the open drawer, released the cord, let it fall into the drawer. Slowly, ceremoniously, he slid the drawer closed, then turned
again to face her.

  “It’s late,” he said. “Too late for you to be here. Or for me to be here, either. You should be in bed, Mother. And I should be out.”

  “Elton—” Hesitantly, she stepped closer. “I’m afraid. These men, these strangers. They frighten me.” She shook her head, then sank into an armchair. “This city frightens me, too. They don’t believe in us, these people. I can feel it, that they don’t believe in us.”

  “Not us, Mother. Him. They don’t believe in him. It’s not us they care about. We’re just faces on a TV screen, voices on the soundtrack. It’s him. Always.”

  “Elton, you should leave. And Gloria, she should leave, too. When her husband went she should’ve gone, too. Gary wanted her to go. He begged her to go. I told her, too, told her she should go. And she knew I was right. I could see that she knew.”

  “Gloria stays because of the money, Mother. You know that. Father hired Gary to do PR, and paid him four times what he was worth, just so he could keep Gloria and the kids. Gary got out. But Gloria decided to take the cars, and the house, and the stocks and bonds. She decided to stay.”

  “Then you leave, Elton. Gloria doesn’t have to leave. But you do. You have to leave. Now. Right now. Tonight. I can feel it, that you have to leave. Right now.”

  “What would I do if I left? Have you ever asked yourself? You can see the problems, Mother. But you can’t see the cures.”

  Slowly she shook her head. “Cures? Are there any cures?”

  “There would’ve been a cure for Gloria. Gary loved her. He still loves he, wants her. But she turned her back on him. So now she’s lost.” He let a moment of silence pass. Then: “She’s lost, because she stayed. But I’d be lost if I left.”

  “Maybe—” Timidly, tremulously, she hesitated. “Maybe I could leave with you, Elton. Could we do that? Leave together, the two of us?”