Coven

by David Barnett

  Her SL beam frozen down, Lydia stared quietly. Jesus. The bloodstain lay wall to wall. Footprints led out of it like stick on dance steps. It was obvious. The victim had been butchered.

  The blood was here, all over the place. So where was the body?

  ««—»»

  “How could you miss bloodstains on the fucking floor?” White was bellowing at Peerce when Lydia came back in.

  “It’s dark in there, Chief. Without no lights, it’s hard to—”

  “Shit, Peerce! She’s makin’ us look like fools!”

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “Shut up! What else that stuck up priss find that you missed?”

  “Plenty,” Lydia said at the door. Stuck up priss? “The weapon was probably an ax with an unusually long, flat blade. I got several impactations that look the same. The back fence was cut with it, and so was the entrance door and the phone lines. One thing I’m sure of, though. Someone died in there.”

  “How do you know someone died?” White protested.

  “I followed the bloodfall. No one could lose as much blood as I found at the exit and live. Only problem is there’s no body.”

  White conjectured this and scoffed. “I don’t believe someone was murdered.”

  “You just don’t want to believe that someone was murdered in your juris.”

  White glared. “You got a lot of nerve, girl.”

  “Just being honest, Chief. Question. Was Sladder packing?”

  “No,” White said. “Only supervisors carry guns. Why?”

  “I also found six spent casings. Remington .25s.”

  “Shit!” White’s fist slammed the desk. “What the fuck’s my campus turned into?”

  A slaughterhouse, Lydia thought, almost with a smile. But the smile drained when she remembered the blood. She wished for her daily Marlboro. “I can stand here and speculate all day, Chief. But it’d just be a waste of time.”

  White’s voice lost its edge. An unsolved murder could make the papers, smear the school, get him fired. “I can’t stall this, Prentiss. This shit’s gotta be solved, and I mean by us, not some outside agency. We’ll be closed out once the state gets here.”

  “State? The agro site’s part of the campus. It’s ours.”

  “No, it ain’t, not really. All them animals are licensed through the state department of agriculture. Health inspectors will be wantin’ to know if some disease killed the animals. We’ll be up to our butts in state by late afternoon.”

  Late afternoon? “That’s no time for me to do a workup,” Lydia complained. “I’ll have to get started right now. I need you to get the power back on, I need lights to sweep for prints. And I’ll need cold storage, I’ll need lab space, I’ll need—”

  “I’ll get you everything you need,” White interrupted. “You say you can do this kind of shit, then get to it. I’m puttin’ my trust in you, Prentiss, but hear this. If you fuck up and make me look like a damn fool, I’ll make sure you’re checkin’ parking meters for the next twenty years. You got that?”

  “I’m touched by your confidence,” Lydia said.

  —

  CHAPTER 7

  Jervis knew he’d fooled no one last night at the inn. Pretending to have put Sarah behind him was an act he’d never pull off, like a corpse pretending not to be dead. Wade had seen right through him; Tom too, probably.

  The bar was called Andre’s, a redneck hole in the wall ten miles off campus. A Deep South chant played softly from the juke, swamp guitar and a tale of broken promises and broken hearts. A mob of bikers stood around a pool table throwing back shots and making frequent use of scatological verbs.

  Jervis waited in a darkened booth. The equal darkness of his mind sedated him. Like a corpse pretending not to be dead, he thought again. But what would summon such an image? He ordered three Heinekens from a chubby, lank haired blonde whose frayed cutoffs showed the bottoms of her cheeks. “You drinkin’ these all by yourself, cutie?” she asked.

  “Just two of them. I’m expecting someone.”

  Her belly button peeked from a fleshy gap. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied. He tipped her a fin.

  “Gee, thanks, cutie.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Just leave me alone.

  Eventually his guest arrived, a sleazy shadow sliding into the booth. Slim fingers gripped a clean manila envelope.

  “Good evening, Mr. Czanek,” Jervis said.

  “Good evening, Mr. Smith. Or is it Jones?”

  Jervis slid him a beer. “It’s Tull. Jethro Tull.”

  “Of course. My apologies.” Czanek grinned through a con man’s visage, a constant easy smile and long hair pushed greasily off his brow. It was the smile, Jervis realized, that told the genuineness of the man. Czanek was a happy go lucky denizen. He lived with the sleaze and despair that hid behind the world, yet smiled, somehow, in honest happiness.

  “Got a lot of poop on your man,” he said. “It’s amazing what you can learn from a tag number.”

  Jervis cringed to damp a sudden excitement. This was either fast work or sloppy. “At a hundred fifty a day I figured you’d milk me for a week at least. That’s what private dicks do, isn’t it?”

  “Only on divorce jobs where the woman’s a looker,” Czanek said. “I don’t take clients for a ride. It’s bad for business.”

  Some business. Jervis lit a Carlton. “Speaking of business…”

  Czanek’s voice was soft yet rough, perhaps by design. “Your man’s full name is Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich. His father’s a developer from West Germany, very, very rich. The Germans are investing tons of cash in the south coast, like the Japanese in California.”

  “Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich,” Jervis muttered.

  “The kid’s twenty six years old. Got a degree from University of Bamberg, business. He’s an instant in for his pop.”

  “You got a picture?”

  Czanek lay out a stockholder’s brochure. Dozens of neat faces smiled up from a glossy sheet of corporate members. One face was circled in red marker, and read “Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich,” like letters on a gravestone. This man is my epitaph, Jervis thought.

  He’d glimpsed Wilhelm only once, at a distance, getting out of his white custom van. Now, though, Wilhelm’s face smiled up in beyond belief handsomeness. Jervis felt very sick all of a sudden. The face looked like something on a GQ cover: square jaw, bright blue eyes, short blond, very Aryan hair, perfect teeth.

  “Pretty boy, huh, Mr. Tull?”

  “Don’t rub it in, Mr. Czanek.”

  “Sorry. Here’s a Polaroid I snapped this morning when he left for the gym.”

  This was worse. Lover boy in the parking lot. Blazing white shorts and sleeveless T shirt with the words “Deutschland über Alles.” His legs looked like shellacked oak pillars. Muscles gleamed in too perfect symmetry. Lots of muscles.

  “He’s six-two, according to his license, a hundred eighty five pounds, and I don’t see any fat. In real life, he looks bigger.”

  Jervis groaned.

  “He’s renting a place just out of town, to be close to the girl.” Jervis appreciated Czanek’s courtesy. He never referred to Sarah by name. It was always “the girl.” Jervis supposed it was a trait of Czanek’s profession to depersonify a lost love. It made it less embarrassing.

  “The address is here. It’s about fifteen minutes off campus, a fourth floor apartment, nice place. Lease expires September first.”

  Jervis cleared his throat. “You got a schedule on the guy?”

  “He works out regular at Brawley’s Gym, ten until three every day. I got a look at the sign in sheet.”

  “What else? I need more.”

  Czanek had more, plenty more. “He picks the girl up at six every night. They eat out, go shopping, like that. Then he brings her back to his place, or they go to hers.”

  Jervis lit another Carlton, finished the first beer, and started the second. Czanek’s three day surveillance was exemplary—it dr
ove Jervis’ despair to new heights. He’d asked for it, though. He’d asked for all of it.

  “He’s been in the States two years, got his citizenship right away. Two vehicles in his name, a Porsche 911 and the white van. He buys a lot of stuff for the girl. There’re some Xeroxes of his credit card invoices. He’s a big spender, and…”

  “What, Mr. Czanek?”

  “There’s one more thing I don’t think you want to know.”

  “What?” Jervis repeated. “I’m not paying you to be my shrink.”

  Czanek removed some papers from his sports jacket. “These are some additional credit card invoices. Lots of jewelry purchases and restaurant tabs from the same places on the invoices there.”

  Jervis looked at the invoices in the folder. They all had recent dates. “What’s the difference between these and the invoices in your hand?”

  Czanek hesitated. “The invoices in my hand go back six months.”

  Jervis stared.

  “Six months, Mr. Tull. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.”

  Jervis wanted to die. She’d been dating Wilhelm six months before she even broke up with Jervis. Behind his back for six months. Jervis felt minuscule in his seat, blackened by a shadow more vast than all the broken hearts in the world. He must seem pitiful.

  He took out his wallet. “A hundred fifty per day, right?”

  “That’s right, plus ex—”

  Jervis gave him six hundred. “And keep the retainer for expenses.”

  The money disappeared into Czanek’s jacket like magic. He left the folder and invoices on the table. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tull. You have my number in case there’s anything else I can do.”

  Anything else. Jervis was staring. “What else do you do?”

  Czanek leaned forward. “Let’s just say that my services are not exclusively limited to the parameters of the law.”

  Jervis didn’t quite know what to say. What am I thinking?

  “I don’t kill people,” Czanek said.

  Had that been what Jervis was thinking?

  “And I don’t break legs. I’m a P.I., not a thug. Besides, I’d have to be out of my mind to try anything against that meat-rack. However, there are some things I can do that you might be—”

  “I want something…close,” Jervis said. “I want—”

  Was Czanek smiling? “You want a bug in her place.”

  A bug? Jervis wondered. “Keep talking, Mr. Czanek.”

  “I got a great little wireless crystal, eight hundred foot range. Only problem is it runs on a battery and the battery only lasts ten days. The crystal costs a hundred bucks, I charge five hundred to put it in and three hundred for each battery change. I’ll only change batteries twice, then I’m out. Too risky.”

  Ten days? That was plenty of time. That was his whole life.

  “You can find guys who’ll do it cheaper, but not better.”

  Jervis nodded. He wasn’t about to go hunting in the PennySaver. “I don’t have a key to her dorm anymore, but I got a funny feeling that you’re not particularly troubled by the inconvenience of locks.”

  “Don’t worry about locks. Does she have a burglar alarm?”

  “No,” Jervis said.

  “Then anything she’s got on her door I go through in two seconds.”

  “When’s the soonest you can have it in?”

  “Tomorrow night, max.”

  Jervis passed him six more hundred dollar bills. “Do it,” he said.

  ««—»»

  Jervis drove half drunk back to campus. His arrangement with Czanek would only lead him to further despair, he realized, yet he looked forward to it, as a masochist looks forward to the whip. It didn’t make sense. Why was he pursuing this?

  His driving began to falter. The yellow line looked like a smear to oblivion. His thoughts spoke to him like an alter ego, a secret sharer of despair.

  I’m crazy, he thought.

  Of course you are, his thoughts answered. You’re an English major; English majors are crazy to begin with. It’s all that existential shit they made you read, all that Sartre and Hegel—what a pile of crap. You took it seriously, Jervis, you thought it would save you. Jesus Christ, you’ve become obsessed with this girl. Private investigators? Bugs? It’s crazy. Your love has made you crazy.

  “I know,” Jervis whispered to his id. “I’m crazy, and I still love her. What am I going to do?”

  The black thoughts seemed to snicker. Kill them, they said.

  “Kill them?”

  Kill them. Then kill yourself.

  ««—»»

  Wade’s first day as toilet cleaner proved as expected: shitty. His clothes reeked of mop water; it permeated him. Back in his dorm room, he turned on all the lights and the TV, let the room surround him in familiarity. He sat on the bed with a bottle of Samuel Adams lager, pushing the day and its myriad toilets from his mind. He needed mirth, he needed cheer. The TV picture formed, a cable flick called The Louisiana Swamp Murders. Raving toothless hillbillies chased topless blondes through the bayou with hatchets.

  So much for mirth.

  At least the day was over. He hit the Play button on his answering machine, hoping more girls had called, or friends, or anyone to make him feel better. Instead…

  Beep: “Wade, this is your father. Call home at once.”

  Oh, no, Wade thought.

  Beep: “Wade, this is your goddamn father. I know you’re there; you’re probably sitting on the fucking bed with a beer right now. Call goddamn home at once or you’ll be goddamned sorry.”

  Wade dialed the phone in slow, comatose dread.

  “Hi, Dad. This is—”

  “I know who it is, goddamn it. What the hell are you trying to pull down there? Three traffic tickets? On your first day back?”

  Wade flubbed. “How did you find out about—”

  “Dean Saltenstall told me all about it.”

  Wade seethed. Why that blue blood no dick piece of garbage! So help me, I’ll— “Dad, I can explain.”

  “No, you can’t. There’s no excuse for irresponsible shit like this. You’re supposed to be shaping up, not fucking up.”

  “Really, Dad, I—”

  “Heed my words, son. You’re at the end of your own rope. One more fuckup and you can start packing for the Army.”

  Click.

  Nice talking to you too, Wade thought.

  There was a knock at the door. Tom entered, dressed for town and bearing a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Carter walks into the White House groundskeeping office. He’s holding a pile of dogshit in his hands, and he yells, ‘Goddamn it! See what I almost stepped in!’”

  “That’s the worst joke I ever heard. Anyway, dogshit, bullshit, it’s all the same to Republicans. They’ve got plenty of both.”

  Tom stopped midstep, sniffing. “What’s that smell?”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Wade lied.

  “Smells like that stuff janitors use to clean toilets.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Wade said. “We partying tonight?”

  “Of course.” Tom looked at the TV and frowned. Inbred psychotic bumpkins were yanking the pants off a bug eyed blonde. “What’s this? A new campaign ad for the Democrats?”

  “No, it’s the reruns of the last Republican Convention. Don’t you remember?”

  “Hey, I’m laughing… See if you can drum up Jervis for tonight. I haven’t seen him all day. And… Jesus, that smell’s really strong. You been cleaning toilets?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” Wade balked. “Much later.” If anybody—anybody—found out he was cleaning toilets for minimum wage, his reputation would be…flushed. “I need some time to get ready. Meet me at the inn in an hour.”

  Tom nodded, sniffing, and left. Wade finished his Adams and dropped the bottle into the trash compactor. The sound of it being crushed made him picture himself being crushed by Dad, the dean and Besser. He quickly gathered his shower gear
, but stopped. On the TV a girl with large breasts was being dismembered by an obese, drooling slob in overalls. Wade grimaced. Whatever happened to happy movies? He knew it was only the power of suggestion, but the grimy hillbilly madman on the TV screen bore a distressing resemblance to Professor Besser.

  —

  CHAPTER 8

  Professor Besser! The name screamed in her head.

  Had she been sleeping? Penelope wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, the image remained, crisp and bright as neon. The big face in the moonlight… It was the last thing she remembered before blacking out—being carried into the woods by…Professor Besser.

  She pressed against her memory. What had happened?

  The power failure. The stables and…my God, the ax! The horses!

  She remembered escaping, but she hadn’t escaped, had she? She’d made it to the car, but before she could drive away—

  There’d been someone in the car, hadn’t there?

  Someone waiting.

  The woman, Penelope remembered.

  Something clicked, a snap like a tiny bone. Then the rest of the memories siphoned back into her head.

  —Hello, Penelope, the woman said.

  “How do you know my…” but Penelope’s words languished. Her hand never turned the ignition. The woman was looking at her now, and all Penelope could do was look back.

  —You can help us.

  The woman was dressed in black, a black cape with a hood. The hood made the woman’s face hard to see. Oddest of all, she wore sunglasses in spite of the night.

  —Don’t be afraid. I want to be your friend.

  Within the drooping hood, details of the woman’s face seemed to shift beneath a fine blur. Her skin was vibrant white, bloodless.

  Penelope didn’t understand anything now. There was only this. “What do you want?” she peeped.

  —We want you.

  At once Penelope was drowning in her whole life. Tears came. All she ever wanted was to be cared about, to be…wanted.

  The woman’s luminous smile eased close. —You’re very special, Penelope. I can show you how special you are.