The jukebox in my head was playing the flip side of Atlantis. Corny as it sounds to modern ears, the wages of sin is death. I drove to the church.
Chapter Seventeen
Slouching Toward Belleville
“God it was who forgave David through Nathan the Prophet, when he confessed his sins, and Peter weeping bitterly for his denial, and the sinful woman in tears at his feet, and the publican, and the prodigal son...”
The priest’s right thumb and two fingers pressed together and tapped the sign of the cross over my bowed head.
“May that same God forgive thee all things, Damian,”—I had not heard my communion name in months.—“through me the sinful priest Seraphim—both in this present world and that which is to come—and set thee uncondemned before His dread judgment seat.”
I had stared at the icon of Christ in the flickering candlelight and confessed everything. And I mean everything. The icon seemed to become three-dimensional, a kind of hologram. The Church calls icons windows into eternity. I peered through one of those windows at the visage of my savior and told him what He already knew. When I had finished, Father Seraphim’s hushed voice seemed kind, yet sorrowful.
“When you go home tonight, I want you to pray Psalm Fifty-One from your heart. You know the story of David? How his momentary giving in to lust for Bathsheba led to his taking a human life? The life of her husband, Uriah the Hittite? How David arose from his couch and saw Bathsheba bathing, purifying herself from her uncleanness according to Levitical law? He committed adultery with her and conceived a child that very night—the child who became Solomon. How David connived to slay Uriah in battle, that he might have her?”
I had been nodding along in agreement. Then Father Seraphim inquired, “Do you know how the story ends?”
I stared down at the icon, the cross, and the Gospel. My silence told him I didn’t.
“Then read Second Samuel, Eleven, too,” he said. “God forgave David, but only after David’s sin had brought about two deaths and much misery upon him and his whole house. It must have seemed such an insignificant sin to David at the beginning—well worth the risk, like cheating on one’s diet by eating a sweet. She, a beautiful woman in the full bloom of youth; he, the King of Israel, rising from slumber, well-fed and prosperous. How he must have burned with powerful lust at the very sight of her. God must have seemed for him very far away at that moment of greatest temptation. ‘Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.’ Do you know these verses?”
I had to admit I didn’t.
“Proverbs Nine. The words of the wanton woman to him who is without understanding. ‘But he knoweth not that the dead are there; and that her guests are in the depths of hell.’”
I felt like I had already paid hell a visit. I longed for more insight from Father Seraphim. “I need practical advice to escape the mess I’ve gotten myself into, Father. I can’t go live on a mountaintop. What am I supposed to do about these other women? I think it all has its roots back in my childhood. Someone close to me”—I didn’t tell him it was Sandra.—“told me I’m a sex addict.”
“Was David a sex addict? If lust is your cross, pray that it be lifted from you, or for the courage to bear it righteously. As for these women, I wasn’t exactly—how you say—born yesterday, you know? In Soviet Russia there were also such women.”
“What should I do to resist?”
“Pray for them... and for yourself.”
“No offense, Father, but all this sounds kind of like a—”
“A broken record?” Why did everybody I talked to lately seem to be a mind reader? “You accuse me of mouthing platitudes, yet it is you who demands a facile answer, one that provides a quick and easy escape from all the troubles and from all the evil companions your sins have called down upon you. Pray for their repentance, and for yourself that you do not fall into a worse temptation.”
“Shall I pray for someone to repent even after she’s sold her soul to the devil?”
Father Seraphim snorted and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Her soul is not hers to sell, and the devil has no intention of keeping his end of any bargain. There is, how you lawyers say, fraud in the consideration and therefore no contract. Is it not so?”
I marveled at his knowledge of the legal concepts.
“But what about—”
“The devil has a hold over her only as long as she allows it,” he said. “Believing otherwise keeps her from repentance. Those who would keep her from the Truth so they can revel in her iniquity are telling her these lies. You must pray that she no longer listens to their lies but rather turns away from her sinful path before it is too late.”
“When is too late?”
“Why, the moment of her death,” he replied, as though he’d suddenly realized he was talking to a dolt.
“There are those who believe she may have the power to live for hundreds of years, Father.”
Father Seraphim stroked his flowing white beard. “Your mother is buried in Salem?”
“How did you know?” More mind reading. I figured I must have told him and forgotten.
“You have never visited her grave.” It was a statement of fact.
“No. I—I was away at college, and she had the bad timing to die during finals week. I never bothered to come back for the funeral.”
“Why? Was she indeed so terrible?”
Indeed she was, but I didn’t feel comfortable admitting it to anyone, even in confession. So I said nothing.
“You should visit her, and soon. It is only fitting. She was your mother, after all. Pay your respects. Bury the past with her. In Salem, you may find the answers you have been seeking.”
“What about this latest murder, Father? How can I ever explain the physical evidence if they try and tie it to me?”
“Is this a legal question you are now asking me?” he inquired archly. “Very well, then. What also are you lawyers fond of saying? Tell the truth but don’t volunteer. You are innocent? Fine. Then pray for our Heavenly Father’s help and guidance. In your hour of need, He will give you the words to say. Until that hour comes, how you say? Keep your trap shut! Go in peace.”
By four o’clock the weather was as warm as it had been in weeks. Nearly all the snow and ice had melted. The afternoon mist would soon turn to fog. The car radio warned of early evening thunderstorms. I thought of going to the office. I thought of swan-diving off the St. Louis Arch. Instead, I spent our last sixty bucks until payday on a dozen white roses in a green glass vase and drove around some more until Sandra’s car was gone.
Any resolve on Diane’s part to stay angry collapsed when she saw me holding the blossoms out to her. She pressed them to her nose and inhaled. Then she set the vase aside on the kitchen table, turned, and gave me the most sensuous, lingering kiss I could remember. We said “I’m sorry” in unison, tried it again, tripped over each others’ apologies once more, and both laughed.
“You have a right to have a drink now and then, I guess, Ricky.” It took a lot for her to say it. “After all, you work hard to support us.”
“No, I’m through with all that. Never again. And I’m so very sorry if I hurt you in any way, Diane. I’ll make it up to you if it takes me the rest of my life.”
She made a sheepish face. “The kids are at Mom and Dad’s. Want to start making up right now?”
“You mean making out, don’t you?”
“You’re quick,” she said.
“Not that quick, I hope.”
We raced up the stairs and tore off our clothes. I locked the door to the hallway, but there was no lock on the guest room door from the master bedroom side. Lying there in bed with Diane, I realized that I had been an utter fool to stray.
Diane’s hands played with her hair, tousling it into vanilla cotton-candy swirls. Orthodox crosses—hers and mine—clinked together like champagne glasses raised in a wedding toast. Our voices echoed throughout the quiet house as a human descant to the animal intensity
of our lovemaking. Diane suddenly went tense. Over my groanings, I heard a familiar voice say, “Don’t stop.” It wasn’t Diane’s.
“Sandy!” Diane’s shocked expression startled even me. She struggled to hide her nakedness under my body.
“Don’t stop,” Sandra repeated calmly, never taking her eyes off us—oblivious as a child to her own nudity. “Sex is beautiful, you know? You guys just need to take the training wheels off and lose the shame. I’m here to help you, anytime you want.”
Diane had found the sheet and pulled it over us. “Sandy, some things are sacred, you know? Give us a few minutes, okay? My gosh.”
“If you pull your legs up a little more, Di, you’ll get deeper penetration,” Sandra offered.
“Thank you for the advice, Sandy,” Diane huffed in her best patronizing manner. I was the only one close enough to see the hint of a goofy smile playing across her face as she turned away. Sandra eased backward into the guest room and closed the door.
“Do you believe her?” Diane whispered into my ear. Kokker’s words about a cat being like a woman came back to me. Now that the Sandra cat had crossed our paths, how would we ever put her out for good? In all the hangover misery and all the turmoil of the past few hours, I hadn’t had time to reflect on the deeper implications of Sandra’s open-ended visit. Was Kokker really angry about her absence? If he was, my job might prove to be in jeopardy.
Or were all of us blindly playing into Kokker’s master plan? And what about Liz’s comments, strange and unbelievable as they seemed? The brand of Lucifer. Were my wife and kids in danger from dear Aunt Sandy?
“I really wish you’d ask her to leave, Diane,” I whispered as we lay together in post-coital languor. “I mean, it’s not like she has nowhere to turn. She’s rich enough to afford any of the best hotels in St. Louis.” Liz’s ancient legends seemed so improbable and weird. I knew Diane would never believe any of them. “We can’t have her walking in on us like this all the time,” I added.
“Bear with me on this one, Ricky. It’s an instinct.” What Diane called her instincts, I held in healthy respect. “It’s more than her marital troubles. I can sense it. Sandy’s searching for something.”
We lay together in silence. For a while, I thought Diane might be asleep. The room was already cloaked in the near-darkness of evening when I heard Sandra’s footsteps descending the stairs. A few moments later, she cold-started her Mercedes and pulled out of the drive, leaving us alone in the house at last. Diane rolled over and sighed, smiling catlike over her pillow at me. Outside, I heard distant thunder accompanied by the gentle tattoo of rain against the roof.
“I went and saw Father Seraphim,” I told her.
“I know.”
“He wants me to visit my mother’s grave.”
“Maybe you should.”
The door chime sounded. Diane sat bolt upright in bed.
“Who the hell is that?” I asked her.
“I forgot to tell you. The computer crashed. I called someone to fix it.”
“Who fixes computers at this hour on a Saturday?”
“Don’t get mad, okay? I called Janis Mezzanotte from your office. She said she’d be happy to stop by after work and see what she could do.”
The chime sounded again. Rain flooded the clogged eaves troughs and cascaded down our bedroom window. “Would you mind getting the door, hon?” Diane said.
I bounded out of bed, threw on some sweatpants and a t-shirt, and ran downstairs barefoot. Janis stood umbrella-less on the side porch. An unexpected flash of lightning cracked the sky and silhouetted her against the evening rain.
“Your hair’s wet,” I remarked.
“Can we discuss my coiffure inside?” She smiled as I stepped aside to let her pass.
“Would you like a towel?”
“Please. A big one.” Adding, “I prefer big ones.”
She removed her coat. I found her a towel. She dried her hair, then turbaned the damp towel around her head like the other night.
“Excuse the informality,” she said. “I can’t stand cold, wet hair. Where’s the patient?”
“Huh?”
“Diane tells me her computer crashed. How about I take a look-see?”
I led her back to the shop. “I don’t know what the problem is,” I said. “Diane only told me about it five minutes ago.”
She looked me up and down. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” she said.
I led her into the workroom. When she booted up Diane’s computer, all that showed on the monitor was a blue screen asking for a password. Lightning flashed again. “Hope we don’t have a power outage tonight,” Janis said. “Could prove embarrassing.”
“Maybe you’d rather come back some other time,” I offered.
“Don’t be silly. Wifey-poo needs her computer up and running. Like her husband.” Moments later Diane walked in.
“Janis, hi. Gosh, you look so beautiful. Like you haven’t aged a day since I saw you last.” She advanced quickly to Janis and took both hands in hers. “I was so sorry when I heard about Madeleine.”
Janis shrugged. “All we can do is hope.”
“We’re praying for you, Ricky and I, aren’t we, honey? For both of you.”
Janis patted Diane’s hand. “Work takes my mind off it,” she said. “That’s why I was almost relieved when I got your message.”
“Ricky’s always saying how you’re the smartest person he knows when it comes to computer-type things,” Diane said. Janis turned to me and acknowledged the compliment with a sardonic expression.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“Every time I turn it on, all I get is that thing you see there. Do you think it’s salvageable?”
Janis nodded. “Tell you what, let me play with a few things, get into your system a little bit.”
“Would you care for some coffee?” Diane asked. “I’ll make us some espresso if you’d like.”
“Espresso sounds perfect, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. Thank you for all your trouble.” Diane hurried out toward the kitchen.
“She does have an afterglow about her, doesn’t she?” Janis said.
“Believe me, Janis, I didn’t set this up—”
Seated in front of the computer, she regarded me over her shoulder and said, “I wouldn’t mind if you had, Ricky. We’re professional colleagues, after all.” She tried a password. “That’s why they pay me the big—” A thunderclap explosion, a blinding flash, and everything went dark.
I heard Diane’s startled scream come from the kitchen. Janis’s lips found mine in the darkness. The cool peppermint of her breath mingled with the fabric softener fragrance of the damp towel around her head. Her long fingers searched until they found lewd purchase, as the poets say.
“Hon, where’s the First Alert?” Diane called out. Suddenly David and Bathsheba were mere stories in a children’s picture book.
Chapter Eighteen
Ricky Sucks the Big One
Once the power came on again, Janis pressed a switch. Diane’s computer hummed and whirred, the sound of a hundred tiny tappets hammering. Soon the familiar sign-on screen appeared. Janis said, “Mad must have set up a separate user identity and password, then made herself the administrator. She hijacked your computer, in other words.”
“Think... think.” Janis made a clucking sound through clenched teeth. For passwords she tried “Goth-this” and “Goth-that” without success. She tried Mad’s name, then initials. Nothing. “Stupid,” she muttered. “What night was she here? Of course!” She typed in Saint Agnes.
“Bingo!” she said. “Mad always saves her chats. Let’s see what secrets she was trying so hard to hide behind that password. Maybe we can identify her little pen pal.”
“What moniker does he use?”
“His screen name is the_candleman.”
I started to say something but caught myself. Artie was my connection. And if I could find Mad myself, ther
e would be no end to Janis’s gratitude.
Janis set about copying Madeleine’s chat transcripts onto a disc to take home with her, vowing to give them to Diaz. Diane came in with a silver tray and three demitasses redolent of espresso. We all sat cross-legged on the floor to drink from them.
“I can’t believe how you fixed it so quickly—ohmigod!” Diane had spilled espresso all over her white silk blouse. She searched for a rag to dab it up. “I have to act fast. Will you excuse me?” Diane hurried toward the laundry room at the other end of the house, holding her blouse away from her chest with thumbs and forefingers like a little girl trying to have breasts.
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