Incubi

by Edward Lee

  “Would you cheer up!” Craig yelled, coming back up. “Every day above ground is a good day. It’s true, I read it on the bathroom wall.”

  Jack knew he was putting off the question. Through his pants pocket he could feel the print of his HPCs. “I also read your phone number on the bathroom wall, didn’t I?”

  “You must’ve put it there after the last time you fucked me.”

  “I’m a cop, I fuck people every day. It’s my job,” Jack said. But it probably won’t be for long, he reminded himself. “Actually I need your advice. I need some more of that barkeeper’s wisdom.”

  Craig flipped a Marlboro Light into the air and caught the filter end in his mouth. “Shoot.”

  “When does an ethical person know when it’s time to do something unethical?”

  “Since when are you ethical?”

  “Funny.”

  “Are we talking legal or illegal?”

  “Let’s just say that my intentions do not fully conform to the parameters of the law.”

  “I don’t know if I should hear this, Jack. Isn’t there a little something in the books about accessory foreknowledge? Failure to report the knowledge of a second party’s criminal intent?”

  “Are you a bartender or a fucking lawyer? Call it creepery with intent to mope.”

  “Is that anything like balling with intent to hold hands?”

  Jack laughed. “Now you’ve got it.”

  “Here’s the best advice I can give you.” Craig struck a book match one-handed and lit up. “Ready? This is deep.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “A man’s got to do what he’s got to do.”

  The statement’s bald unoriginality felt like a mental impact. To hell with ethics, Jack decided. What have I got to lose except a career that’s probably lost already? “Thanks for the advice,” he said. “See ya around.”

  He hopped off his stool and went out of the bar.

  * * *

  What would he get if he got caught? A fine? Probation before judgement? They wouldn’t put a cop in jail, for God’s sake. Not for a first offense illegal entry.

  Nevertheless, illegal entry it was, just as shit by any other name was still shit. Jack had never been very good at this. Once he’d picked an apartment utility room to get at the phone box. There’d been this cowboy dealing crack through the Jamakes, so Jack had bugged his ringer and listened in long enough to tag the next pickup time and place. Later the deal went down and the county narcs had been waiting, presto. Breaking the law to bust lawbreakers was only fair. Unethical? Definitely. But so were crack dealers and killers.

  He’d given Veronica’s keys back the night they broke up. He remembered the dying lilacs on the bar, and how cold she’d looked as she sat there on the stool waiting for him, how shivery. He remembered how gray her voice had sounded, and how desperate he’d felt to plead with her, to beg her to give the relationship one more chance as he watched it all fall to pieces in front of his face.

  Jack remembered everything.

  She had a little condo off Forest Drive, quiet neighbors, no skell buzzing around. Look normal, he reminded himself. He approached the door as though it were his own. The dead bolt was tricky; he had to maintain a perfectly even pressure on the tension wrench as he stroked the 18mm keyway with his double-hook. It took several restrokes before the pins gave. The lock opened as swiftly as if he’d had the key.

  He thought of a vault opening as he opened the door. Veronica’s only windows faced the woods in back; turning on the lights wouldn’t give him away. The place seemed smaller, less airy, and the silence seemed amplified. At once Jack felt like exactly what he was: a trespasser, a burglar. He could see himself being cuffed and hauled away by city cops.

  First he checked the pad she kept beside the kitchen phone. Eggs, it read. Milk, tomato paste, and Call Stewie about Abrams contract. “Shit,” he mumbled. He went into the bedroom.

  More memories here. More ghosts. Just leave, he told himself, but he couldn’t now. Here was the bed in which he slept with her, and had made love to her. Here was the shower they’d bathed in together, and the mirror in which he’d dressed himself so quietly in the mornings so he wouldn’t wake her. He would see her sleeping in the reflection as he knotted his tie. How many times had he stood in this selfsame spot? How many times had he told her he loved her in this selfsame room?

  His trespassing rubbed his face in loss. It was part of his past that he stood in now, another dead providence. What am I doing? he logically wondered for the first time. This was crazy, pointless, masochistic. He’d come here simply for a clue to Veronica’s whereabouts, and now he felt inundated in the blood of a love relationship that was dead. It’s dead, he thought, staring. Dead, dead, dead. She doesn’t love you anymore. Her love for you is dead.

  “Dead,” he muttered.

  The memories soon converged to crush him. She had loved him once, he was sure of that. Why had she stopped? What had happened that her feelings had so suddenly changed? It wasn’t fair, because his feelings hadn’t changed, had they? Why can’t you just let go? he didn’t ask as much as plead with himself. Veronica doesn’t love you anymore, so why can’t you forget about it?

  The past was indeed a ghost, and so was his love — a cruel specter feeding on him, sucking his blood out.

  He forced himself to commence with his search. The bedroom, the kitchen, the spare room in back — none contained anything that might hint as to where she was.

  He sat down at the kitchen table, hoping that the images would drain away. He was too confused now to concentrate on anything. Ghosts, he thought. Ghosts in every room. Even here. How many times had he eaten with her at this table? He’d even made love to her on it once, himself standing as Veronica lay back. “The bedroom’s too far away,” she’d said, and dragged him over. “I want you right here, right now.” “On the kitchen table?” he’d exclaimed. “That’s right. The kitchen table.”

  Every image scavenged him now; he felt helpless. Get off it! If he didn’t settle himself down, he felt like he might fall apart.

  Think.

  You came here to—

  But, he’d found nothing that might reveal her location. He’d checked everywhere for anything, a note, a phone number, directions. She’d said that Khoronos had invited her to the retreat thing. She must’ve written down something with regard to it.

  He thought of Poe’s famous purloined letter. Sometimes the things we search the hardest for are in plain sight.

  A stack of letters lay on the kitchen table. An electric bill, a renewal notice for ARTnews, and some junk mail. But right atop the stack was exactly what he’d come in search of.

  It looked like a wedding invitation, a fancy white card with a gilt border:

  Dear Ms. Polk:

  It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. In the few moments we spoke, I came away feeling edified; we share many commonalties. I’d like to invite you to my estate for what I think of as an esoteric retreat. Several other area artists will attend. It’s something I’ve been doing for a long time — call it an indulgence. It’s a creative get-together where we can look into ourselves and our work. If you’d care to join us, please contact my service number below for directions.

  Sincerely,

  Erim Khoronos

  Jack wrote the phone number down. Service number? he wondered. No return address on the envelope, but the postmark was local. There were no directions. She must’ve written the directions down when she’d confirmed by phone.

  Jack went to the phone and dialed. Have something ready, he warned himself. I’ll just tell her Stewie needs to talk to her. If she asks how I got the number, I’ll lie. Easy.

  “Message center?”

  “What?” Jack brilliantly answered.

  “Church Circle Message Center,” a woman told him.

  A message center? “Oh, I’m sorry.” Message centers transfer calls to specific customer accounts. “Would you please switch me over to Mr. Khorono
s’ account?”

  “Hold, please.”

  Why would Khoronos hire a message center to relay his calls? Maybe he’s a doctor or something. Maybe he travels a lot.

  The operator came back on line. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Khoronos’ account was canceled last week.”

  “Is the transfer number still in your file?”

  “Well, yes, but I’m not allowed to give that out.”

  Think! “My name is Peter Hertz,” Jack said. “I’m Mr. Khoronos’ investment broker. His stocks jumped today, and I really need to get ahold of him. It’s very important.”

  “You’re his broker but you don’t have his number?”

  Shit! Stupid! Think! “I only have his office number, I’m afraid, and he’s left for the night. This really is very important.”

  The operator paused. Then: “991-0199.”

  “Thank you very much.” Jack hung up and dialed again. There was a strange, distant ticking. Then: “The Bell Atlantic portable cellular phone you have dialed is not in service at this time. Please call again later.”

  Jack slowly hung up. This is some bizarre shit. Why would Khoronos relay calls through a message center to a portable phone? There would always be an alternate number for when the phone was turned off. Now Jack was in the same trick bag as the bank. He could contact Bell Atlantic and ask for the customer service address but they’d never give it to him without a warrant or subpoena.

  All this hassle for squat, he thought. He’d run out of alternatives.

  Or had he?

  He checked to make sure everything he’d touched was in its proper place and turned off all the lights. Then he left.

  And as he turned onto Forest Drive and drove away, he considered his final alternative.

  You’ve already illegally entered one apartment tonight. So why not make it an even two?

  Chapter 27

  “Sacred Father, Father of the Earth.”

  “Enrich us.”

  “Your will is our blessing, your spirit our flesh.”

  “Mortal as we are, sanctify us.”

  “Our love is to serve you. Accept our love and give us grace.”

  “Unto you, we pray. Deliver us.”

  “Receive our prayer, O Father of the Earth. Carry us away from the hands of our enemies, and protect us. Give us strength to do your will, and smile upon us.” The aorist held up the jarra. “Accept our sacrifices as a sign of our love.” The aorist held up the dolch. “Accept our gifts as a sign of our faith.” The aorist set the objects back on the altar and raised his hands.

  The surrogoti also raised their hands.

  “To you we give our faith forever, Father.”

  “Pater terrae—”

  “—per me terram ambula.”

  “Baalzephon, hail!”

  “Aorista!”

  The Prelate’s black raiments billowed into the nave. Hooded, his face wavered in candlelight. He felt risen, radiant in love.

  “Go!” he whispered.

  The surrogi, nude and drenched in sweat, stepped off the points of the holy Trine, their heads bowed in reverence. The fresh cuts on their chests — their own blood offerings — glimmered red as slivers of rubies. They turned and hurried out of the nave.

  The Prelate dropped to his knees at the Trine’s high star. He lowered and kissed the star, his lips coming away whitened by the powder of crushed bones of priests murdered eons ago.

  “Soon, Father,” he whispered. The floor felt hot. The candlelight danced like gossamer veils, or lit faces in the air—

  “Soon,” the Prelate whispered. “Again.”

  — and back into the earthworks his god took him, the sleek beautiful black bird sailing down and down into the impossible inverted heights rimmed by ramparts of obelisks and ancient dolmens and thrones of kings, ever downward floating in deafening silence and the lovely music of screams over chasms of blood and roasted flesh and heap upon heap of squirming corpses as ushers peeled away living faces and pried open heads and split bellies to reveal the soft, hot treasure of their eternal feast.

  Ever downward, yes, of the sweet, sweet black of chaos.

  Chapter 28

  “Has Jack been in?” Faye asked, briefcase in tow. “He’s not at his office, and he’s not home.”

  Craig was crafting a perfect shamrock shape into the head of a pint of Guinness. “He was in earlier, but he left. Didn’t say where he was going.”

  It was still early, not much of a crowd. Faye sat down at the end of the bar and sighed.

  “Jack’s not on the case anymore,” Craig said.

  “What?”

  “They suspended him today.”

  Faye felt incredulous, shocked. “Sus—why?”

  Craig pointed to the TV. “Just watch. Here it comes again.”

  It was the six o’clock news. “The Triangle case,” the newscaster kept saying. “Three ritual murders in a week.” The case had blown, and it had blown bad. The news made it look like it was the police department’s fault the murders had been committed, and now some man named Gentzel was passing the buck to Jack. “Captain Cordesman has been suspended from active duty,” the man said as they flashed a picture of Jack, “pending successful completion of the county alcohol program. Unfortunately he was assigned the case before his superiors knew he had a problem.”

  “Pretty low-rent, huh?” Craig suggested.

  “It’s awful. He was doing the best he could.”

  “Those guys don’t care. They needed a fall guy for when the news found out, and Jack was right there.”

  Faye could imagine how bad Jack felt. He’s probably getting plastered right now. But what could she do? She didn’t even know where he was. “Was he drinking when you saw him?”

  “Nope. Said he was going to quit. His whole career’s on the line now. This time I think he’ll do it.”

  Faye hoped so. And where did this leave her? Was she still on the case? Who was she to give her research to?

  “Have a drink.”

  “No, really, I—” She thought about it, “Sure,” she decided. “One of those big bottles I had last time.” After this, in addition to all the horrible stuff she’d read today, she figured she was entitled to a good drunk.

  Next, a couple strolled in. Before Craig could take their order, they were sitting at a corner table, kissing. “You kids drinking tonight, or just here to eat face?” Craig inquired. The couple laughed, snuggling. Faye tried to remember the last time she’d been kissed. A year, she thought: A year.

  “Tell me about this girl Jack used to see,” she asked when Craig returned from the floor. “Veronica.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of male confidentiality?”

  “No. Just tell me about the girl.”

  “Ask him.”

  “He won’t talk about it.”

  “It’s not my place to talk about his business.”

  Faye laughed snidely. “Bartenders talk about everybody’s business, and don’t give me that male confidentiality crap.”

  “Since you put it that way… He knew her for a while before they got involved. The relationship lasted about six months.”

  “What broke them up?”

  “Usually people break up because they find out they’re not compatible, or don’t have the same ideas about things. But that’s not how it was with them. I think it was confusion.”

  “Confusion?”

  “Sure, Veronica’s an artist, and artists are a little screwy sometimes. She’d never been in a real relationship before, and I guess she wasn’t sure how to deal with it. What she needed was time to adjust, but she thought it was something else, like maybe she wasn’t meant to be in a normal relationship at all. She was confused. She didn’t understand the situation, so she ended it. Then she went off on some kind of artists’ retreat. It’s a shame because I think things would’ve worked out for them.”

  Faye sipped her Maibock. Confusion. Who isn’t confused?

  “I knew her,” Craig went o
n, drawing six mugs of Oxford Class. “I was working the night they broke up. She had a lot of nutty ideas about ‘experience.’ She thought she wasn’t experiencing enough in life, and that’s why she felt out of place around other people. She thinks experience is what’ll cure her confusion, but if she’s not careful, she’s going to end up more confused.”

  Faye felt equally confused. She hadn’t wanted experience; she’d wanted love but what she’d gotten instead was a facsimile. It wasn’t experience that had crushed her, it was finding out the hard way that a lot of awful things were easily disguised as truth.

  The Maibock had her buzzing already. Damn it. Jack, she thought fuzzily. Where the hell are you?

  * * *

  Where the hell he was, exactly, and in no realm of legality whatsoever, was in the third-story apartment of one Virginia Thiel, also known as Ginny. The Dubbins nine-pin security lock had taken him ten minutes to tease open; he thought sure he’d be seen. But the hall had remained empty, by chance or by fate.

  Wouldn’t that be great if she hadn’t gone, after all? he thought in the living room. He could picture the look on her face walking out of the kitchen — or better yet, the shower — only to discover a ragtag, unshaven Jack Cordesman standing stupidly with a set of lockpicks in his hand. It was a spacious, expensive pad, lots of good furniture, quality carpets and drapes, and one of those giant TVs where you could watch several shows at once. Must be nice, he humphed. Rich bitch. Veronica told him that Ginny made several hundred grand a year writing those things she wrote. Speculative feminism, the critics called her books. Tripe, Jack called them. He and Ginny had never really liked each other. Sometimes the three of them would go to the ’Croft, and Ginny and Jack would wind up arguing, which always amused Veronica. “You’re an unkempt, monarchical pig,” Ginny had once told him. “Monarchical? Does that word even exist?” he’d countered. “It’s probably like the stuff you write about. Pure horseshit.” “I’d kick you in the head if I wasn’t afraid of breaking my foot,” she’d come back. “Pound sand up your ass with a mallet, baby. How’s that?” “Immature, uncouth, and hostile, which is about all I’d ever expect from a cop.”