by Marc Olden
Marisa coughed and said nothing.
Alison slapped her hard across the face. “I said do you understand? Answer me.”
Marisa nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
Alison stood up. “Good.”
Cornell Castle, who’d made a quick tour of the apartment, stood in the bathroom doorway. “She’s alone. The lady was getting ready to take a bath, looks like.”
Alison Sales sat on a couch, crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt down. “Who were you expecting?” she said to Marisa.
Marisa attempted to sit up.
Alison said softly, “Cornell.”
Cornell Castle walked calmly over to Marisa, painfully yanked her hair and threw her back to the floor, where she landed face down. Leaning over he punched her in the kidney, a whiplike blow that made her groan.
She willed herself not to cry out.
Alison said, “I didn’t tell you to sit up. I merely asked a question. Who were you expecting?”
Marisa’s back felt as though it were in a vise. She lay face down on the carpet, a hand tearing at the fabric, the other hand in a tight fist at her side. The words and her breathing both came slowly.
“Joseph Bess. He’s … he’s a cop.”
“We know,” said Alison. “Detective sergeant, and he’s your new-found great and good friend. Were you going to turn the book over to him?”
“Y-yes.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid to keep it.”
“Meaning the book’s still here. You may sit up now. It’s hard to hear you with your mouth full of rug. No, don’t sit. Kneel. Kneel facing me.”
Marisa did as she was ordered. Why were they doing this to her? What was the Book of Shadows to them? Were they connected in some way to the Druids?
As for Alison Sales, she was the most frightening woman Marisa had ever met in her life. Sadistic, psychotic, and glacial. Totally frozen and without an ounce of feeling. If Marisa survived today it would be because she was very, very lucky.
Power. That was Alison’s game.
Marisa’s heart was pounding when she spoke. “May I ask a question?”
Alison smiled with half her mouth. “You learn fast. I like that. I really like that. Yes, you may ask one question.”
“Are … are you two connected with the Druids in any way?”
Alison nodded. “Yes and no. We’re independent, but yes, we do have an affiliation with the Druids.”
Cornell Castle snorted. “That’s the problem. And the sooner we eliminate said problem, the better.”
“Then …”
Marisa stopped herself. Alison’s face had quickly hardened.
Marisa, intelligent enough to have caught her mistake before it became fatal, hung her head and said, “I’m sorry.”
Alison relaxed.
Cornell Castle, his arms folded, watched the two women with keen interest. Alison was an expert at creative sadism, at inventing games combining sex and pain. He’d brought her along this morning because she loathed Marisa Heggen. There was, of course, the matter of Alison’s sharing Robert with Marisa, but Cornell knew that Alison’s hatred of the actress went deeper than mere jealousy.
Marisa had fame, talent, money; things Alison had always wanted but never managed to achieve. There was a certain power and mystery in belonging to the coven, in being in witchcraft, but it was to be enjoyed in secret. Alison wanted to be acknowledged as the superior person she saw herself as being. Marisa had the public acclaim Alison wanted and that’s why Alison had disliked her on sight and had readily agreed to accompany Cornell to her apartment. She had pleaded with Cornell to let her humiliate the actress before they killed her.
Marisa fought for self control. If she wanted to stay alive, she would have to be very cunning. She had a role to perform, for the play as defined by Alison was master and slave. Marisa’s role was that of slave. She could only hope that Joseph Bess got here before Alison and Cornell killed her.
Marisa’s voice quivered as she said, “May I please ask another question?”
Alison’s eyes were bright. She licked her lips. “Yes.”
“Why do you two want the book?”
Alison said, “We’re here to get it for a very important man who doesn’t like the fact that his name is listed in it.”
Cornell said, “Let’s quit fucking around. Let’s just get the book, take care of Sarah Bernhardt, and split. She’s got a cop friend, remember? The last thing we need is for him to catch us here.”
Alison held up one hand. “We’ve got a little time. Sarah Bernhardt’s doing just fine. She’s following the rules. Besides, didn’t you say she has the next three days off? Actresses who work as hard as she does usually like to spend time alone. That’s what Robert tells me. Other than her cop friend, who else is going to come marching in here this time of day?”
“Alison,” said Cornell, “you’ve had your jollies. Now it’s time to take care of business. If we don’t get that book, the big man is going to hemorrhage. Frankly, I don’t want anybody with his kind of clout coming down hard on me. He’s got the Comforts to deal with and that’s not going to be easy, so let’s just get this show on the road, okay?”
Alison leaned forward. “One more question. I’m curious to see what she says.”
“Alison, for Christ’s sake.” Cornell was losing his temper.
Alison said, “Cornell, I’ve got an idea and I think you’re going to love it. We have to take care of her, right? And didn’t you mention something about Sarah Bernhardt being about to take a bath?”
“Alison, cut the shit.”
“Cornell, just listen. She has an accident in the bathtub.”
“What kind of accident?”
“The television set.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Alison stroked her long auburn hair. “It falls into the bath water and Sarah Bernhardt gets electrocuted. Accidentally, of course.”
Cornell Castle smiled. “Hey, I like it. I really like it.”
Marisa began to tremble.
Alison said, “Stand up.”
Marisa stood, blinking tears from her eyes.
Cornell touched her, his hand going from her shoulders down to her buttocks. “A waste,” he said. “A goddam waste.”
“Since when did you go in for girls?” said Alison.
“You should try everything once,” he said.
They both smiled.
“Before you bring us the book,” said Alison, “why don’t you take off your clothes?”
Marisa shook her head.
Alison left the couch and slapped her twice. “I told you about the ground rules and they haven’t changed. No one takes a bath with their clothes on, now do they? I said take them off.”
Cornell grinned, “Alison, you’re a stone bitch. Always on that S-M trip, aren’t you?”
“I want her naked,” said Alison. “I want her to bring me the book and I want her at my feet and on her knees when she does it.”
Cornell shook his head. “Can’t take you anywhere, can I? Always acting up. The Nazis used to do that, you know. Strip a man or a woman naked and somehow the fight oozes out of ‘em. They’re easy to control. Of course it works different with witches, you understand. For us, to be naked is to be more powerful. There’s no clothing to obstruct the life force.”
He smiled at Marisa. “Just pretend you’re a witch like the rest of us. I’m waiting.”
Marisa began to strip, the shame burning into her with each second. When she was naked she looked down at the floor, covering herself with her arms as best she could.
Alison said, “The book. And remember: You don’t get a chance to run a game on me. If you don’t find the book the first time, you are going to be one very unhappy girl. After you’ve done what I told you, then you can climb into a nice, hot tub.”
“And watch a soap opera,” said a giggling Cornell, his eyes traveling up and down Marisa’s body.
Mar
isa said, “You said I could ask another question.” Cornell looked at his watch and shook his head.
Alison said, “Cornell, I did give you that idea about the television set.”
He threw up his hands. “One question and I mean that’s it, man. Jesus!”
Marisa swallowed. “Why do you have to kill me? Why can’t you just take the book and go?”
“That’s two questions,” said Alison, “but I’ll overlook it, since you won’t be asking any more. The answer is we don’t want you talking to the Comforts and telling them who had the book. And believe me, lady, sooner or later the Comforts would have caught up to you the way they caught up to your friends. They would have made you tell them everything. I mean everything. Those people have their little ways, believe me. We’ve seen them in action and they play rough. The man who wants the book is a changeling. After your trip to England, you ought to know what that is. He doesn’t want to take orders from the Comforts nor does he wish to see his name in the papers because of being a changeling, nor does he want to end up as an accessory to the murders committed by the Comforts. He has big plans for his political future, plans that require he remain his own man. You know you should really do something with your hair.”
“I … I was out in the rain.”
“I have the same problem. Just use a good conditioner.”
“The book,” said Cornell. “Please?”
Marisa walked toward the kitchen with Cornell and Alison following her. She was going to die and the idea of it was so damn stupid she almost laughed out loud. Very off the wall, all of it. She was walking naked across her living room, followed by two witches who had some sort of connection with Druids. One witch was sleeping with Marisa’s lover, the other was a fag. If that wasn’t enough to make you laugh out loud, what was? Except that it really wasn’t funny and Marisa really was going to die. Her panic grew.
At the kitchen, she saw it. The boiling pot of water with her eggs.
Her kitchen was narrow, something she had complained about in the past but which she now realized could save her life. You had to enter the kitchen single file and Marisa was first in line.
She lunged for the pot, felt the warm metal handle in her hands and in one motion, spun and hurled the hot water and eggs in Cornell’s face.
He screamed, “My eyes! Shit, my eyes!” and fell backward into Alison.
Dropping the pot, Marisa grabbed a long-bladed knife off the magnetic board and slashed out wildly. Cornell Castle, his hands over his eyes, was cut across the backs of both hands.
He squealed and tried to run, getting just outside the small kitchen before falling to the floor.
Marisa, enflamed with a blood lust she had never felt before, chased a fleeing Alison, catching her at the front door. As a frightened Alison fumbled with the locks Marisa slashed her twice across the back and Alison screamed.
“Don’t scream!” shouted Marisa. “If you scream—”
Alison turned, grappled with Marisa and pushed her to the floor, then turned back to the front door. Marisa struggled to her knees and slashed Alison across the backs of both calves.
Again Alison cried out and as Marisa pushed against the floor in order to get to her feet, Cornell Castle, almost blinded by the boiling water and bleeding from both hands, lurched into Marisa from behind, knocking her back to the floor.
And then the front door was opened and Alison and Cornell were through it and out into the hall.
Marisa, on her feet, stood breathing deeply, a red streak of Cornell Castle’s blood across her bare breasts. She stared at the open doorway for a few seconds then staggered forward, slammed it shut, and leaned against it, her eyes on the ceiling.
After a while she dropped the knife and fell to her knees, sobbing into her hands.
And then she remembered. Alison had forced her to her knees.
A weeping Marisa stood up and walked to the bathroom, where she vomited into the toilet bowl, heaving again and again until her stomach ached. She flushed the toilet and was about to climb into the bathtub when she remembered that this was the water they had planned to kill her in.
She emptied the tub, turned on the water again and climbed in. She made the water as hot as she could stand, filling the bathroom with steam. But the heat wasn’t enough to stop her from trembling.
TWENTY-ONE
RUPERT COMFORT DIALED CORNELL Castle’s number and waited.
There were several rings, then an answering machine produced the sound of a flamenco guitar and castanets. Seconds later Cornell Castle’s breezy and recorded voice advised all señors and señoritas to leave a brief message, a telephone number where they could be reached and their call would be returned muy pronto. With a cheerful olé and an adiós Cornell’s voice faded, to be followed by more music.
Disgusting, thought the white-haired man; he hung up without leaving a message and reached for his cup of tea. This was the third time this afternoon he had called Cornell and gotten only this ridiculous machine. Americans loved machines, gadgets, and gizmos; every citizen owned a goodly amount of each. With just three days until his grandson and daughter were to be burned alive, Rupert Comfort was annoyed that he was forced to deal with this mechanical nonsense rather than with Cornell Castle.
Rupert Comfort looked across the room at his wife, who slept soundly, her bandaged forearm on the pillow beside her head. He’d had to clean the wound again, first hypnotizing her against the pain, then using his knife to lance the infection caused by the first poultice. A second poultice, made of roots and leaves taken from potted flowers purchased at a florist’s, seemed to have worked; his wife’s wound was neither infected nor swollen, nor was it painful enough to prevent her from sleeping.
She needed the rest; for that matter, so did he. In the two weeks they’d spent in New York both he and she had been too busy to rest properly. In England, in their hidden village, they lived as one with nature, and as a result had grown old gracefully, each retaining much of their mental and physical health. But neither of the Comforts was young anymore; both were susceptible to prolonged strain.
The gods had been kind to them, allowing husband and wife to hold on to their strength longer than most people did. But every beginning had its ending and Rupert Comfort knew that he and his wife were in the winter of their lives. There was now a limit to how hard they could drive themselves.
Rupert was no longer the young man who had once been the strongest in his village and champion at all games, the young man many thought could easily have taken his place with the greatest warrior chieftains in Celt history. He thanked the gods who had allowed his mind to remain acute and functioning. His intelligence had matched his physical prowess, and with all his heart he prayed that he would never share the fate of his father, who had ended his days as a senile, dribbling shell of a man.
Rowena had been the strongest and most athletic girl in the village and it was this which had thrown them together. They had fallen in love as teenagers and it pleased Rupert Comfort that he could say, as Churchill said of himself and his wife, “we married and lived happily ever after.”
“Ever after” ended with the theft of the Book of Shadows.
Rowena Comfort stirred, turned over in bed, and continued sleeping. Until Rupert made contact with Cornell Castle or Alison Sales, there was no need to wake Rowena. Like Cornell, Alison was a member of Herod’s coven. Her job with Robert Seldes’ publisher gave her the perfect position from which to spy on the author.
By allowing herself to be seduced by Mr. Seldes, Alison had easily learned the location of the book; in addition to other information she had passed on about the five Americans, it was Alison who had told the Comforts when Seldes would be returning from Los Angeles. Unfortunately, Alison had no way of knowing that the actress would also be at the airport. The actress. Perhaps Rowena was correct in wanting to kill her as soon as possible.
Rowena had always considered the actress dangerous. Rowena sensed danger with a kind of instinct, rarely
mistaken. The actress was from a culture which underestimated and misused its women, something which didn’t happen among the Celts. Celt women could rise to the same tribal positions as men, including tribal leader and warrior chieftains. They were religious and cultural leaders and, when necessary, they could be as brutal as any man. In the first century the Celtic queen Boadicea, in retaliation for the rape of her two daughters and the whipping of herself by Roman soldiers, gathered her warriors and attacked the Roman forces in Britain. At the end of one victorious battle Boadicea ordered the slaughter of fifty thousand captured Roman soldiers.
The Celts knew what women were capable of, and somehow Rowena saw this in the actress. Hadn’t the actress helped to capture Gregory? If not for her, Robert Seldes would now be dead and the Comforts would have the Book of Shadows. Wasn’t the actress the only one to heed Jack Lyle’s warning?
It was also Rowena who didn’t trust Anthony Paul Bofil. “He hears his own music,” Rowena had said. “He marches to his own tune.” Rupert had nodded in agreement, having had a similar feeling about this particular changeling. Bofil, a successful and wealthy lawyer, had gone into politics and done well; he was currently in his third term as a representative from a posh district on Manhattan’s East Side. All would agree that he could rise even higher in the American political firmament, should he so choose.
Bofil’s identity as a changeling was unknown to his wife and three children, who lived in an expensive Virginia suburb. In American politics a family was as much of an asset as a pleasant smile, to be paraded in front of photographers at just the right moment. Rupert Comfort’s village had sent other changelings to America, but none lived as golden an existence as Anthony Paul Bofil.
Rupert Comfort finished his tea and put the cup down. Other changelings. There had been no reason to contact them, since Herod’s coven and Bofil had given the Comforts whatever help they had asked for. The fewer people Rupert Comfort had to deal with, the better. Relationships, even casual ones, meant committing time and energy, two things the Comforts could not spare.