“You…you have thought about this?”
“Of course. How could I not?”
“Long and carefully?”
“Too long, and with overly intense care. I beg initiation as soon as the Purgatorio can make all ready.”
“You…you saw our symbol on the body?”
“It served as the ultimate deciding factor for me. Not only may Forest Green be approaching a state of public panic, not only does a murderer remain at large among us, but Dante’s Delight Purgatorio itself could be targeted, endangered.”
She thought as rapidly as she could. He must have considered this from every angle, probably had his statement polished, his arguments ready and waiting. And he had noticed the symbol—and hadn’t said anything about it to Dave. Yes, he was shaken—who wouldn’t be?—but she felt he would have signed and joined by now anyway, if Angela hadn’t protested. And he was right about the public crisis. Whatever happened eventually, she herself could hardly go emeritus until things were balanced again.
“We’re having a special meeting this afternoon,” she told him. “No penitential activity, just emergency planning. I can bring you the form on my way.”
“I will sign and return it without delay. How quickly can you expedite my initiation?”
“How long ago have you eaten, what, and how much?”
“Last night, a sandwich—I misremember what kind, I paid it too little attention even while slapping it together. Also, I have a hazy recollection of swallowing a pear, or a banana, or some piece of fruit. This morning, before leaving the police station, two cups of coffee with cream and sugar, and a doughnut. And strict instructions from the admirable Detective Sergeant Lestrade—which I have yet to implement—to eat a good meal and then get a long sleep.”
“All right. Make that meal broth and clear gelled salad, maybe one small glass of milk, if you need it to help you sleep this afternoon. Then, nothing but three hundred milliliters of plain water—hot or cold, your choice, but I’d advise spacing it out. Up until midnight, clear hard candy is permissible if you feel any great need for an energy boost. After midnight, nothing more, not even water.”
“In the manner of the old style Communion fast. To which I was accustomed as a young boy.”
“Do you still have that instruction sheet I gave you?”
“I fear not. I do, however, possess an excellent memory.”
“I’ll bring you another copy. Are you on any prescription medications?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t take any over-the-counter stuff, not even asprik. I should be there in an hour, max.”
* * * *
This time when Lestrade called Chicago, she learned that Chris Grunewald was already on the way, having taken official leave of absence and started down as soon as the first report came in.
They got James Soderstrum in for the formal identification of his daughter’s body, and Lestrade paid for such job satisfaction as she’d had earlier this morning, by going through the process all over again with no relief at all except the ironic reassurance that there was a better than even chance those apparent torture marks had been inflicted after a relatively quick death. The young woman was still dead, and her father was still devastated. Like the rest of the family. In this kind of case, next-of-kin’s permission wasn’t really necessary for autopsy work, but Soderstrum numbly volunteered it anyway. He was on his way out as Chris was coming in.
Doc Grumeister didn’t mind the second opinion. Living people got them all the time, so why should just being dead cancel the privilege? But all Chris could say, even with a body this fresh, was almost the same as for Harry Jackson. Better arrange to ship this one up to the Chicago labs right away. And by now Lestrade herself was starting to wonder how much difference pre- or post-mortem was going to make in any event, other than throwing the survivors some piddling little grain of half-comfort: “At least they didn’t suffer anything else but plain, healthy death.”
* * * *
Even after one stop along the way at her preferred drugstore, Julie reached the Marquette House in fifty minutes. She found Corwin drinking a cup of orange gelatin mix, hot. His haggardness shocked her, and she felt a twinge of guilt when she handed him the consenting adult form. “It doesn’t need to be signed right this minute,” she assured him. “You can always wait till tomorrow, just in case you have second thoughts, after all.”
“Second thoughts are a dim memory,” he replied. “I think I am well into seventy-second thoughts by now.” He spread the form on his desk, got out a fountain pen, signed his full name—Davison and all—with an extravagant flourish, and presented it to her once more.
She folded it, put it back in her satchel, and got out the replacement copies of Dante’s Delight mission statement and instructions, along with the three small bottles she had purchased at the drugstore. Putting the statement and instruction sheet on the table, she opened the first bottle and shook out one tiny blue pill. “Sedative,” she explained, rolling it onto the table. “It won’t make you sleep, but it should relax you enough that maybe you can get a more or less natural nap this afternoon. I’d like you to swallow this one now. Do you have your water measured?”
He held up a glass. “Behold the first hundred and fifty milliliters. The second I guard in reserve to serve me in lieu of supper.”
“Good.” She watched him fumble the blue pill up into his fingers, lift it to his mouth, and swallow it. Next she shook out one tablet apiece from each of her other two bottles. “This one really does make people sleep,” she pointed out, “and this pink one is a good laxative. Take them both at bedtime, which tonight, even for you, should be no later than 2200 hours.”
He produced a smile. “One of those chocolate-candy laxatives might have seemed a rare treat by twenty-two hundred.”
“This kind is better. It’ll cooperate with the sleeping pill. And you understand, these and your measured water and maybe a clear hard candy or two are all you should put in your stomach from now until midnight. Nothing at all tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up here about twelve hundred hours. It’s extremely important that you swallow nothing else. Tape your medicine cabinet shut if you think you might forget. Your fridge and pantry, too. Swallow anything else—anything—and we may have to postpone your initiation.”
“May I swallow my saliva?”
She laughed, hoping he had intended that as a joke. “Oh, yes, we’ll allow that, if you still have any left to swallow by tomorrow midday. I’ll also let you have fifteen more minutes—time yourself—to finish that cup of hot gelatin.”
“Thank you. Any small favor appreciated.”
“Appreciate it while it’s still hot. Now, do you have any further questions?”
“I remember, from my earlier perusal of your informative sheets, that you long ago abandoned loincloths as being too awkward and unreliable for persons not born to them, and substituted swimwear?” Turning to the couch, he located something in a paper bag, and handed it to her. “Herein is contained the least generously cut of all my swim trunks. I fear it may still prove unsuitable: the waistband hides the navel.”
“It will at least give us your size.” She took it with a reassuring smile. “Anything else?”
“Yes…” A longish hesitation. “Understanding you to practice seven levels of initiation, I seem to recollect some mention of the possibility of accomplishing more than one in a single session?”
“The record is Constance Washington thirty-nine years ago. She took five in her first session: levels one, two, three, five, and six. Level four—angel duty—has to be taken when the candidate is at full strength, for obvious reasons. And seventh level, the cross, always comes last and must have a session to itself. So Constance’s record could be tied, but not broken.”
“At what level the tattoo? It is described and pictured, but without mention of when applied.”
He gazed back guilelessly and said, “Very much an improvement, but certainly applied, unlike the earlier scarification pattern, all at once. At which level?”
“The fourth, we plan. That’s the level candidates have always dreaded the most. If they didn’t, the Purgatorio wouldn’t want them. But if they can make it through their first angel duty, they’ve earned full membership status even if they never take the higher levels.”
“You ought to covet me greatly, then. Like most candidates, I also dread level four above all. Nor would I aspire to tie the record of Constance Washington. But…might I request the first three levels in tomorrow’s session?”
“I don’t see why not. And now, Corwin, on a different subject, I have a question for you.”
He regarded her in expectant silence.
“I’d like to do something for our Forest Green police—something to show our community support for the hard work and long hours they’re putting in on this…horrible case. I thought maybe a couple catered trays from Delimart or the Wabash House—assorted sandwiches and finger salads—veggie sticks and the like—a few bowls of fresh fruit and about, say, three big cakes? Four?”
She hadn’t seen his eyes light up quite like this since the time she had first described the Purgatorio and its goals to him. No—once, even brighter—yesterday, Sunday at Sam’s, when Dave had first brought them the news about Angela being safe in Florida, the news that had turned out to be right, after all. Now Corwin said, “Allow me a share in the offering: engaging the caterers as your task, writing the check as mine.”
“Oh, no, Corwin, I didn’t mean…I was only asking for your advice, your opinion.”
“As I solicit the favor of participating in so far as I can. Besides, I should like to take full advantage of my recent practice in signing my name.”
Further protests would be rude. She simply agreed with a “Thank you.” He returned briefly to his desk and came back with a signed check…the amount still to be filled in.
“This is very generous of you,” said Julie, secretly resolving to let him cover only half the amount.
“If there is any other assistance I could offer—carrying the trays, for example… No, you spoke of having them catered —”
“The best thing you can do right now,” she told him firmly, “is spend the rest of today resting up. Get as much sleep as you can. You need it desperately. You’d need it even if you weren’t…”
“Facing tomorrow?”
“Facing tomorrow.” She checked her wristwatch. “That gives you about twenty-three hours. You’ll need them. And so…” She spoke lightly, but at the same time pressed his hand in a warm handshake, “thank you, Corwin, and try to lay in a store of pleasant dreams.”
* * * *
caterina is prowling for spiders her human is sitting at his thing he calls a desk and rubbing his little stick over pieces of paper the stick leaves swirly black tracks when he has filled up a paper with swirly black tracks he folds it and puts it inside another folded paper and rubs the tip of his big human tongue over one edge of the new paper and folds it down and makes it stick and rubs his stick on it to make more black marks and puts it on one side and picks up another paper and does the same caterina watches evermore and dreams but she is not to eat evermore her human puts out many nice things for her to eat he likes listening to evermore caterina does not mind
CHAPTER 18
Still Monday, October 2
The first Wabash House delivery van surprised the station with three trays of assorted sandwiches and veggies, gifts of M.’s Whitcomb and Poe. “That’s my Julie,” Dave said happily, helping himself to a roast beef and cheddar on whole wheat.
“Hmm,” said Lestrade. This morning’s work had left stones in her stomach, but she knew she had to eat, so she made herself swallow half a ham on rye. Chris took time for lunch before heading back up to Chicago, commenting about this Wabash House stuff holding its own any time with big-city catering.
That little break in the day over with, Lestrade told her partner, “Your car, Detective. I want another chat with Dupont and O’Toole.”
They reached Vadnais Estates and started watching the name plaques. Lang…Van Geldman…at Imani, she said, “Stop here… No, between here and the next old manse…and bury your face in a road map.”
He gave her a curious glance and obeyed. While they sat there in Dave’s red Rambler, pollies and car both plainclothes, and he unfolded the road map, she skewed around on her seat and studied what she could make out of the Imani mansion through its surrounding trees.
Big, Victorian, and gingerbread. He even had it painted a pretty shade of gingerbread brown, with trim like icing in pastel blue, green, peach, and creamy white. Lots of spaces in there. It even had a round tower. No doubt a lot of old basement as well.
And maybe a lot of panels of very modern interior sound-soak?
Dave spoke up from behind his map. “I was just in there…sheboy! Was it only yesterday? Seems a lot longer ago than that.”
“Everything seems longer ago today, Dave.”
“Sam Imani’s. Nice floater. I liked him. Good gang of roleplayers he gathers there, Sundays.”
“Hmm. Detective Clayton. I’ve just been dealt an ace in the hole, but I think it’s the wrong suit.”
The road map made a paper-rattly noise. “You aren’t asking me how you should play it,” her partner stated.
“No. I’m playing it so close to the vest I’m not even letting the rest of our team in on it. Not yet, maybe never.”
“Risky, Sarge. Career-wise, if nothing worse.”
“If I lose my job over it, I lose my job. Frankly, after a morning like today’s, I don’t give a damn. Let ’em have fun finding someone to replace me.”
He sat with his face in the map, waiting.
“The question I’ve got for you, Dave,” she went on, “as my partner, is this. Do you want to see my new hole card and maybe risk your own career? Because I’m not showing it even to you until you swear yourself to secrecy. If you’d rather stay safe in the dark and hang onto your own job security, fine. No, don’t answer me yet. Take a few minutes to think about it. ‘Yes’ commits you. ‘No’ can maybe be rethought later.”
After a few minutes, he said, “If they fire you, I could find myself next in line for senior detective. And I don’t think I want to be there, not just yet. So lay it on me, Old Woman, lay it on me.”
“Hmm.” She had long been aware he called her “Old Woman,” in a proud-sonny kind of way, behind her back. She felt a twinge flattered that he had finally used it to her face. “Thanks, son,” she said—for her, that was raw sentimentality. “All right. M. Davison recognized the stamped tattoo. Seems it’s the membership badge of a group that calls itself the Dante’s Delight Purgatorio.”
“Sounds like smasters. How did he know about it?”
“Invitation to join.”
A low whistle came out through Dave’s lips. “Huh? Corwin? That high-minded, word-spouting young floater? Well, I guess you never know.”
“No, Dave, you don’t. Not about psychomystiques and rarely about anything else. Yes, they could be smasters, plain and simple. Or they could be… Lady knows what.”
“Whatever, I hope you told him not to take them up on that invitation.”
“In no uncertain terms. As forcefully as a polly can give orders to any civilian not actually under arrest.”
“That’s good, anyway,” Dave said in a relieved voice. “No floater in their right mind is going to disregard that k
ind of order from Detective Sergeant Lestrade. Did he tell you who they were, these smasters who invited him in?”
She jerked her thumb back to the gingerbread Victorian. “Sam Imani, Paul Osaka, Curly Friedman.”
He whistled again, louder. “Sheboygan! I met Paul and Curly—Osaka and Friedman—there yesterday, too. They seemed okay. I guess you never do know. Sarge, I don’t see why you want to keep so quiet about this, withhold it from the Department.”
“Use your Goddess-given brains, Detective. We’ve got two corpses that look like they could have been tortured pre-mortem. And we’ve got a nest of smasters…or whatever, but they’ll be ‘smasters’ as far as everyone else sees—you’re a case in point yourself. And we’ve got a stamped tattoo on both victims that looks like the same design our smasters use on themselves. Now. Let the whole Department in on this, and how much effort do you think any of them are going to put into investigating any other leads we might have? As far as the Department would care, we’d have our ‘prime suspects’ and any others would automatically be innocent, not worth a second look. How many juries do you think the best defense lawyer in heartland America would be able to line up who might—might, on the farthest outside chance—give this case a fair and impartial hearing on the merits of any other evidence besides the obvious?”
“With all respect, Sarge, sometimes the obvious evidence is the correct evidence.”
She waved her hand in annoyance. “Okay, okay, so maybe I’m riding my pet hobbyhorse again. Maybe I’ve hatched my own suspicions prematurely and just don’t like to see them upset by facts. But you asked to come in this far, Dave, now humor the Old Woman. Keep quiet about Imani and his gang at least until we can get enough grounds together for a thorough search of the tattoo artists’ premises.”
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