‘What are you saying?’ asked Walter.
‘Simply this: that the demon offered me three lives in exchange for its own freedom. If I help to raise it up off the ocean floor, and then make sure that it isn’t handed over to Mr Evelith, or anybody at the Peabody Museum, I get Jane restored to me; and our unborn son; and Constance, too.’
‘Constance? Are you serious?’
‘Do you think I’d joke about it? Come on, Walter, you know me better than that. The demon is offering me Jane, and the baby, and Constance; back to life just as they were before any of this ever happened. No blindness, no injuries, nothing. Perfect and whole.’
‘I just can’t believe it,’ said Walter.
‘Well , what the hell can you believe? You’ve seen Jane, flying through the air like a cartwheel. You’ve seen your own wife frozen blind right on my front path. You believed before, when I first told you about Jane. Why can’t you believe now?’
Walter put down his piece of bread, and chewed his mouthful unhappily. ‘Because it’s too good to be true,’ he said. ‘Miracles like that, they just don’t happen. Well, not to me, anyway.’
‘Think about it,’ I insisted. ‘You don’t have to come to any decisions tonight. There may be some risk in letting the demon go, judging from how it behaved in the 17th century; but on the other hand, people aren’t so superstitious these days, the way they were then, and it’s unlikely that the demon is going to be able to exert the same powerful influence that it did then, in 1690. According to Mr Evelith, it actually made the sky turn dark, so that for days on end it was permanently night. I can’t see that happening today.’
Walter slowly finished his soup. Then he said, ‘It actually offered to give Constance back to me? Not blinded? Not hurt in any way?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘To have her back …’he said, slowly shaking his head. ‘It would seem like none of this nightmare ever happened.’
'That’s right.’
‘But how can it do that? How can the demon actually do that?’
I shrugged. ‘As far as I can tell , Mictantecutli is the final arbiter of all human death, in the Americas at least. On other continents he probably appears in different forms.’
‘So what’s been happening to the dead while he’s been lying beneath the sea?’
‘How should I know? I presume they’ve been going to their ultimate destinations without having to worry about Mictantecutli using them to recruit more blood, more hearts, more restless spirits. According to old man Evelith, Mictantecutli is shunned by every other supernatural creature, good or evil. It is a complete outcast; diseased and utterly malevolent, disregarding any of the protocol of Heaven or of Hel . But its power is such that it can afford to; or at least it was, before it was sealed in that copper vessel and sunk to the bottom of Salem Harbour.’
‘And it can really bring Constance back? And Jane?’
‘So it says. From what it’s done so far, I don’t have any reason to doubt it. Can you imagine how much psychic power it must have taken just to bring Constance’s image into your house? There’s nothing on earth that can do anything like that, nothing human, anyway.’
Walter sat there for a long time, thinking. Then he said, ‘What do your friends from the Peabody have to say about it? I don’t suppose they’re particularly happy.’
‘They don’t know. I haven’t told them.’
‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘Not particularly. But we’re not discussing wisdom here, Walter. We’re discussing whether you and I want our dead wives back or not. I’m not saying there isn’t a price. It’s conceivable that other people may be put at risk, although I doubt if there’ll be any less risk if the demon is kept in captivity than if we set it free. Both of us have to face up to what we have here: an ancient and incomprehensible influence that controls the very process of death itself. The lord of the region of the dead, that’s what they call it. And one way or another, it’s going to re-establish its reign, whether we like it or not. If we leave it under the ocean, the copper vessel will eventually corrode to the point where Mictantecutli will be able to escape of its own accord; if we bring it up and keep it at the Peabody, or send it off to old man Evelith, who knows how long they’ll be able to keep it under control? Even David Dark couldn’t, and he was the man who first brought it here.
So, from every angle, it looks like a no-win situation - in which case I’m suggesting that at least we rescue Jane and Constance.’
I was glad I wasn’t somebody else, listening to myself presenting this argument. It was flawed in logic, flawed in fact, and most of all it was flawed in fundamental morality. I didn’t know anything about old man Evelith’s ability to control Mictantecutli: according to Anne, he already had some kind of plan worked out, a plan involving Quamus and Enid and the rest of the Salem witch-coven. Neither did I know for sure if Mictantecutli’s copper vessel was corroding or not. Worst of all, I didn’t know what hideous influence Mictantecutli would be able to exert over both the living and the dead once Walter and I had set it free.
I thought of David Dark, literally exploding as he walked towards his house. I thought of Charlie Manzi, and the crushing, grinding noise of those tombstones. I thought of Mrs Edgar Simons, screaming for help. I thought, too, of Jane: smiling and seductive, a solid form without any reality, a dead wife who walked. Al of these images tumbled over in my mind in a confusion of fear, disbelief, depression, nightmare, and unrealized terror.
But there was one hope to which I was clinging with fierce and illogical tenacity; one hope which enabled me to disregard the naked fear of Mictantecutli’s walking dead, the pariah’s children; and the extreme danger of releasing an ancient demon into a modern world. That hope was the hope of seeing Jane alive again, of being able to hold her again, against all the dictates of fate and human destiny, against all accepted logic. It was the one hope which Mictantecutli knew that I could never deny, no matter what the threatened consequences might be; and that was what made Mictantecutli a demon.
Walter said, ‘I’m not at all sure how I could present this as an investment portfolio.’
‘It won’t be all that difficult,’ I told him. ‘Show your clients pictures of the Wasa, and the Mary Rose. Tell them how much prestige is going to be involved. And then explain how the salvaged ship is going to be displayed to the public, possibly as the central attraction in a recreational theme park. Come on, Walter, five or six million dollars isn’t asking for the earth. A cheap movie costs five or six million dollars.’
‘My clients don’t invest in cheap movies,’ said Walter.
‘Listen,’ I said, earnestly, ‘do you want Constance back again or don’t you?’
The waitress brought him his steak-and-oyster pie. He prodded it with his fork like a man who has suddenly lost his appetite. ‘You can go back to the salad bar if you want to,’ the waitress told him. ‘There’s no extra charge.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and then looked across the table with a haunted, tired expression.
‘Supposing nothing comes of this?’ he asked me. ‘Supposing it’s all a dream, all an illusion? I’ll have lost my career, as well as Constance.’
‘Supposing you never try?’ I retorted. ‘What will you think then, for the rest of your life? “I could have had Constance back, but I was too frightened to make the effort.” ‘
Walter cut into his pie-crust, and a curl of fragrant steam rose out of it. He ate slowly, and without much obvious relish; but all the same he was still hungry enough to finish most of the pie, and his bread as well . He drained the last of his Guinness, and then drummed his fingers sharply on the deal tabletop.
‘Five or six million, is that it?’
‘That’s the estimate.’
‘Can you get me an accurate costing?’
‘Of course.’
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘I don’t know what I’m letting myself in for,’ he said.
‘But the least I ca
n do is run it up the flag-pole and see if anybody salutes it.’
‘Think of Constance,’ I reminded him.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘That’s what worries me.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dr Rosen was just parking his Mercedes 350 SL outside of the Derby Clinic when I drew up beside him in my rattling Toronado and gave him a wave of greeting. He stopped on the sidewalk, a neat, immaculately-dressed man with a goatee beard and large California-style spectacles with his initials engraved on the lower left-hand corner of the left lens. I often used to think that he would have been happier in Hollywood than he was in Salem: he had a naturally exhibitionistic nature and a love of medical jargon that ranged from ‘sibling shock’ to ‘acceptory neurosis’ and back again.
He was very professional, however: thorough and knowledgeable and careful in the finest tradition of New England’s country physicians, and his love affair with medical ritz couldn’t really be held against him.
‘Good morning, John,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Come on in and have some coffee.’
‘I just came to see Anne,’ I told him. We walked together up the sun-flecked pathway to the clinic’s glass-fronted reception area. Inside, it was calm and air-conditioned, with smooth background music and expensive potted plants, and a discreet waterfall which tinkled into a free-form goldfish pool. Seated at a desk at the far side of the reception area was a stunningly pretty blonde nurse with a white uniform and a white cap and spotless white medical shoes. She probably didn’t know the difference between a cyst and a cistern, but who cared. She was all part of Dr Rosen’s ‘convivial clinic’ theme.
‘Any calls, Margot?’ Dr Rosen asked her, as he passed her by.
‘Mr Willys, that’s all,’ said Margot, flashing sooty black eyelashes at me. ‘Oh, and Dr Kaufman from Beth Israel.’
‘Call Kaufman back for me in ten minutes, will you?’ asked Dr Rosen. ‘Leave Willys until he calls back himself. Was it his fibrositis?’
‘I guess.’
‘Come in, John,’ Dr Rosen beckoned me. ‘And, thanks, Margot.’
‘You’re welcome,’ purred Margot.
‘She’s new,’ I commented to Dr Rosen, walking into his large cream-painted office, and looking around. He still had the large Andrew Stevovich oil painting on the wall, a moon-faced woman and two moon-faced men, a picture which I knew in every detail, every shade, every angle, because I had sat opposite it for hours on end, talking to Dr Rosen about my depression and my bereavement.
Dr Rosen sat down at his wide teak desk and sorted briefly through his mail. The desk was bare except for the morning’s post and a small bronze abstract sculpture in a twisted triangle, which Dr Rosen had once told me was meant to represent the self-curative strength inherent in every human. It always looked more like a serious case of indigestion to me, but I had never said so.
‘Anne,’ he said, as if he were continuing a sentence which he had left half-finished,
‘Anne is suffering from a broken wrist, severe bruising, muscular strain, swollen tendons, and shock. Well, I imagine the shock has probably subsided by now, but the physical damage will take a few days to right itself.’
He paused, frowned at a letter from Peter Bent Brigham, and then looked up at me with an expression that wasn’t very far away from surprise. ‘I don’t suppose you want to tell me how Anne got that way?’ he asked me.
‘Hasn’t Anne told you?’
‘Anne said she was jogging, and she fell, but I really find that very hard to believe.
Particularly since she must have fallen with her legs stretched wide apart, as if she were a ballerina doing the splits; and particularly since the external scratches and lesions on her skin all indicate that she was naked at the time.’
I shrugged, and made a face which was supposed to be interpreted as non-committal.
Dr Rosen watched me for a while, tugging his beard between finger and thumb. At last, he said, ‘I’m not suggesting for a moment that Anne’s injuries are anything to do with you, John. But I’m a physician, remember, and I have to wonder. I mean, wonder, that’s part of my profession. I don’t only have to deal with the effect, I have to do my best to find out what the cause was, in case the effect happens again. I mean, I’m more than a simple mechanic.’
‘I know that, Dr Rosen,’ I nodded. ‘But, believe me, there’s nothing going on here that’s - what would you call it? - untoward, or anything like that.’
Dr Rosen pursed his lips, obviously dissatisfied.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I haven’t been beating her up. I hardly know her.’
‘She was with you the night she got hurt, and at some time during that night she was naked.’
‘It happens, doctor. People do get naked at night. But, believe me, her nakedness was nothing to do with me. Neither were her injuries. Al I did was drive her down here so that you could take care of her.’
Dr Rosen stood up, and walked around his desk with his hands thrust into his pants pockets. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have no way of proving you wrong.’
‘Do you want to prove me wrong?’
‘I just want to find out what happened, that’s all. Listen, John, that girl wasn’t injured in any athletics accident. You know it, I know it. I’m not trying to pry. I’m not trying to act like a one-man watch committee. But it would help me medically to know how she got herself bruised and sprained and roughed up so badly. I mean, her injuries aren’t consistent with anything but … well, if you want to have it straight, s-and-m.’
I stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? S-and-m? You really think that Anne Putnam and I were - ‘
Dr Rosen raised his hand, and blushed. ‘John, please, you don’t have to explain yourself.’
‘I obviously do have to explain myself if you think that I was tying Anne Putnam to the bedpost and beating her up.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ said Dr Rosen. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest for a moment that - ‘ He paused, leaving his sentence unfinished. ‘Well, I’m sorry. It was just that I couldn’t think how else she could have come by injuries of this particular nature. Please. It was very tactless of me.’
‘It would have been even more tactless if I actually had been beating her up,’ I remarked.
‘I’ve said I’m sorry. Now, do you want to see her? She should have finished her medication programme by now.’
Dr Rosen led me out of his office and along the corridor, his soft-soled shoes squeaking on the highly-waxed floor tiles. He was still embarrassed; I could tell that by the colour of his ears. But what else could I do, except deny that Anne and I had been playing torture chambers? He wasn’t going to believe that Jane’s ghost had turned Anne upside down and brutalized her by psychokinesis.
Anne was sitting in a white bamboo chair in a corner of her room, watching the $20,000
Pyramid. She looked pale and tired, her arm was strapped up, and both her eyes were bruised. She clutched her robe around her as if she were cold.
‘Anne, you’ve got a visitor,’ said Dr Rosen.
‘Hi,’ I told her. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better, thank you,’ she said, and switched off the television by remote. ‘I had a few nightmares last night, but they gave me something to help me sleep.’
Dr Rosen left us and I sat down on the end of the bed. ‘I feel really guilty about what happened to you,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have let you come up to the cottage.’
‘It was my fault for tampering,’ said Anne. ‘I should have realized that Mictantecutli was far too strong for me.’
‘You’re safe, that’s all that matters.’
Anne looked up at me. Her left eye was badly bloodshot. ‘At what price, though? That’s the frightening thing.’
‘No price at all. I was considering that option already.’
‘You were really considering letting Mictantecutli go free?’
‘Of course I was. It was offering me my wife and my child back. What would you have done?’
Anne look
ed away. On the lawn outside, in the sunshine, a meadowlark tentatively hopped, and then flew off. ‘I suppose I would have done exactly the same thing,’ she said. ‘But now I feel that you had to make that decision because of me. It’s as if my life is being exchanged for all those others.’
‘All what others?’
‘All those others who will die when Mictantecutli gets loose.’
‘Who says anybody’s going to die, just because a 300-hundred-year-old demon is set free?’
‘Mictantecutli is far more than 300 years old,’ Anne corrected me. ‘It was already centuries old when David Dark brought it to Salem. It had been known in Aztec culture since the beginning of recorded time. And always, it has demanded its sacrifices.
Human hearts to feed its stomach, unfinished lives to feed its spirit, human affection to keep it warm. It is a parasite without any purpose except to exist; and it was only because the Aztecs used it to threaten any of their people who refused to pay homage to Tonacatecutli the sun-god, and because David Dark tried to use it to frighten the people of Salem into coming to chapel more regularly that it had any useful function at all. I promise you, John, when Mictantecutli is set free, it will immediately seek more souls.’
‘Anne,’ I protested gently, ‘these are modern times. People don’t believe in this stuff anymore. How can Mictantecutli possibly have any influence if people don’t believe in it?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether they believe in it or not. You didn’t believe that Jane could return from the grave until you saw her; but that didn’t diminish the power of her manifestation, did it?’
I was silent for a while. Then I looked at her and shrugged. ‘It’s too late now, anyway.
I’ve made Mictantecutli a promise. I’ll just have to stick to it and see what happens. I still don’t believe that it’s going to be that much of a danger.’
The Pariah Page 31