Holy Terror

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Do I know you?’ Hetti demanded.

  ‘Yes, you do. It was a long time ago, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Step into the light.’

  ‘I don’t have to, Magda. You remember me. Think of those Vaudeville Days.’

  Hetti peered into the triangular shadow which fell across Sidney’s face. There was a long moment of hesitation, and then she said, ‘Ce? It can’t be. Sidney Randall? I heard you were dead.’

  ‘I was dead, in a way, Magda, but now I’m alive again.’

  ‘I heard you were suffering from terminal cancer.’

  ‘Not cancer, Magda, but almost the same thing. Remorse.’

  ‘And now you’re trying to mesmerize me? Me, Hetti, from Hypnos and Hetti? You must be crazy. This is all crazy. What are you doing here, Sidney, with this policeman? That was never like you.’

  Conor said, ‘I have to tell you, Ms Slanic, you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into. The sooner you give me that stolen property back, the easier it’s going to be. We’re not dealing with idiots here. We’re dealing with people who own half of Manhattan. Personally, I’m asking you to hand over whatever it is you’ve taken. These people won’t even ask you. They’ll have you tortured until you tell them where it is, and then they’ll kill you. And the cops won’t help you, either.’

  Hetti half closed her eyes and looked at Conor from beneath lids that were shadowed dark purple, like two gleaming beetles. In spite of the whiteness of her face and the eccentricity of her dress, he could see now that she was actually very beautiful. She had bone structure that made Greta Garbo look like her less attractive sister, and her mouth was an indecent promise made flesh.

  ‘You think this is all about robbery and blackmail?’ she said, in a husky, barely audible voice. ‘You think so small.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to tell me what it is about?’

  ‘Do you really want to hear it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a long story but you like long stories, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Conor,’ Sidney cautioned him.

  Conor quickly and deliberately turned his head away, breaking the pattern of Hetti’s ‘yes set’ and cutting off her visual communication. Hetti glanced at him and the expression on her face was almost murderous.

  ‘Oh, I get it! I see! Sidney teaches you a little bit of hypnotic jiggery-pokery and you think that you’re resistant? You think that you can take on a professional like me?’

  ‘No harm in trying.’

  ‘Well, you’re ridiculous. I won’t admit to anything. Look around you. Do you see any papers, any bonds, any jewelry?’

  ‘You’ll tell us, given time.’

  ‘You think so? You’re all mad! You wait till Ramon gets back. He’ll have you filleted, all of you.’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to wait until Ramon gets back,’ said Conor. ‘We’re going to take you with us; and when Ramon comes back he’s going to find out that you’re gone; and he’s also going to find out that he won’t get you back until he tells me where you’ve hidden your loot.’

  Hetti stared at Conor unblinkingly and her eyes were so black and unfocused that he felt drawn toward them, as if he were diving from the edge of a cliff into a black and bottomless pool, plunging deeply into space and time, another existence altogether, where there was nothing to run from, no problems of any kind, no stress, no terror.

  And then Sebastian laid a hand on his shoulder and he took a grip on himself and remembered where he was and what he was doing.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he told her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. We’re leaving.’

  ‘I’m not going with you. I refuse. I don’t give a damn what you think. We didn’t steal your stupid stuff. We didn’t steal anything.’

  Conor approached her, very close. She was breathing hard, so that her nostrils flared. He lifted the diamond cross that was hanging around her neck and held it up in front of her face.

  ‘You didn’t steal anything, hunh?’ he asked her. ‘This cross belongs to Mrs Nils Stannard the Second. Her late husband gave it to her after he’d been to Lourdes. It was deposited at Spurr’s Fifth Avenue less than a week after I was appointed chief of security and she made a point of showing it to me. If you have this, Ms Slanic, then I think the logical conclusion has to be that you have everything else.’

  Sebastian excitedly clapped his hands. ‘There! That’s detective work for you! My God! Isn’t he a genius?’

  ‘You still can’t prove anything,’ breathed Hetti. Her nose was no more than six inches away from Conor’s and he could smell her perfume and the tobacco on her breath. ‘I could have bought this necklace from a pawnshop; from a friend; from anyplace at all.’

  ‘You hypnotized me once,’ Conor told her. ‘You’re never going to do that again.’

  The silence between them seemed to go on forever. Then she tilted back her head a little and said, ‘I can do it any time I like.’ And with that, she let her black satin robe slide off her onto the floor, with a soft swooping sound, and stood in front of them in a black basque and sheer black stockings.

  Conor didn’t allow himself to take his eyes away from her face. ‘Get dressed, Ms Slanic. We have some talking to do.’

  She hesitated for a few moments longer. Then she turned and picked up a long black dress that had been hanging over the back of the chair. She lifted it over her head and slid into it. Then she came back to Conor and said, ‘Zipper, please, Chief O’Neil.’

  Conor took hold of the zipper at the back of her dress and tugged it upward. Although her skin was so white it was very warm. There was a small pattern of moles on her left shoulder-blade in the shape of the constellation Hydra, the water-snake. Sidney was watching Conor closely.

  She put on a pair of strappy black sandals. ‘So where are you taking me?’ she demanded. ‘I hope you realize that this is kidnap, and what the penalty is.’

  ‘And you’re going to complain to the cops?’ asked Conor. ‘I don’t think so, Ms Slanic.’

  Hetti picked up her purse and closed the dressing-room door. Conor took hold of her right arm and Sidney stayed close to her other side. Sebastian and Ric went on ahead. The dance music from Franklin was still blaring, and the cast were still going whump – shuffle – whump on the brightly lit stage. ‘No!’ they heard the director screaming at them. ‘You’re supposed to be bolts of lightning! Crackling, dazzling, bursting with voltage! For Christ’s sake, you look like cows?

  They hurried along the landing that led to the stagedoor stairs. They had almost reached the end of it when they heard the door bang open. A square of sunlight suddenly jumped up the pale green wall, a square of sunlight with flickering shadows in it. They heard voices, and somebody coughing.

  ‘Tengo mucha prisa.’

  ‘OK, OK. Comprendo:

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Conor, gripping Hetti’s arm more tightly.

  Ric peered over the railings. ‘I can only see their legs. There’s three of them. No – that must be Ramon in the middle. I’d recognize those Cuban shoes anywhere.’

  ‘What are we going to do? hissed Sebastian.

  ‘Rush them,’ said Conor. ‘Straight down the stairs as fast as you can, grab hold of Perez and go for the street. Shout a lot. Surprise them. Standard SWAT technique.’

  Hetti tried to twist herself away from him. ‘Ramon!’ she called out. ‘Watch out, Ramon! O’Neil’s here!’

  ‘Sebastian! Ric! Go for it!’ Conor shouted.

  ‘What the hell?’ came from downstairs. But then Sebastian and Ric hurtled down the stairs, three and four at a time. They screamed at the tops of their voices, as Conor had told them, but they were so shrill and high pitched that they sounded like ululating Tuareg women. Eee-ee-ee-eee-eee! They collided emphatically with Ramon and his cronies, and Conor could hear nothing but scuffling and swearing and windows cracking in Sammy’s office.

  ‘Get oudah heah!’ Sammy was shouting. ‘Get oud
ah heah, all of youse!’

  ‘Come on!’ Conor told Hetti, pulling her arm.

  ‘Let go of me, you bastard!’ she spat at him. ‘You don’t even know what you’re doing!’

  She deliberately dropped to the floor, wriggling around, her sandals slapping against the wall. Conor wrenched her back onto her feet again and slapped her face, hard. She staggered back, one cheek flaming, her eyes wide with shock.

  ‘You think I have any sympathy for you?’ Conor yelled at her. ‘You think I have any goddamn sympathy for you? You’ve ruined my life, you’ve ruined my girlfriend’s life, you’ve almost gotten me killed! Now get down these goddamn stairs and don’t you even think about getting away from me!’

  Sidney said, ‘Let’s just get out of here, shall we?’

  Conor was furious now. He pulled Hetti down the stairs, heaving her upright when she tripped. Right outside Sammy’s office, Sebastian and Ric were fighting with two heavily built men, both of them bearded. They were silhouetted against the brilliant sunshine from the street outside, their arms swinging like windmills. Sparkling specks of dust flew into the air. Ramon Perez was keeping well back, one yellow-gloved hand lifted in front of his face as if he found all of this mayhem too offensive even to look at.

  Sammy was standing in his office, his fists clenched, his mouth opening and closing, powerless to do anything at all.

  ‘Magda!’ said Ramon, as Conor dragged her downstairs.

  ‘I want both of you!’ Conor raged. ‘Because of you, innocent people died, and you’re not going to get away with it, either of you!’ He felt so full of righteous anger, almost like Christ in the temple throwing out the money-changers. He felt that he could tear down the walls of the theater, if that was what it would take to bring Hypnos and Hetti to confess what they had done to him.

  Again, Hetti attempted to wrench herself away, but Conor shoved her against the wall and said, ‘Don’t even think about it. You understand me?’

  The fight between Sebastian and Ric and Ramon’s bodyguards grew fiercer and quicker and bloodier. Both of the bodyguards wore jeans and T-shirts – one man was crop-headed, the other had long greasy black hair combed in a high, exaggerated quiff. They were big: but Sebastian and Ric were lightning quick on their feet. Sebastian was ducking and weaving and spinning around, kicking his opponent in the arm, in the chest, in the hip, in the side of the head. Ric couldn’t kick, but he was so nimble that every time the bodyguard in the green polo T-shirt tried to swing at him, he simply wasn’t there.

  Sebastian cornered the greasy-haired bodyguard and hit his face with a flurry of blows, so fast that they were almost invisible. There was a blur of noise like thwickety-thwackety-thwickety-thwack! The bodyguard’s nose spouted a fountain of blood and he staggered and dropped to the floor.

  Sebastian then turned to the other bodyguard. He leaped from the floor with all the grace of a ballet dancer – his face contorting, his long legs extended, every muscle concentrating on a devastating drop-kick. But the bodyguard saw him a split second too soon, and swayed away sideways. Sebastian missed him and landed against the half-open stage door with a loud slamming sound.

  The bodyguard twisted around, his fist clenched, his arm cocked up like a pistol hammer. But Conor tapped him on the shoulder, said, ‘Hey! You’ve forgotten something, haven’t you?’ and punched him in the stomach, very hard; and then gave him an uppercut which pitched him backward into the doorway of Sammy’s office.

  Sebastian climbed to his feet, clutching the back of his head. Ric dusted off his polo shirt.

  ‘Beginners,’ sneered Sebastian. ‘I’ve been learning karate for seventeen years. I could have been a second Bruce Lee.’

  ‘Gypsy Rose Lee, more like,’ put in Ric.

  ‘Never mind about that,’ said Conor. ‘Let’s get going. Sammy?’

  Sammy nodded, his eyes still wide and his mouth still hanging open.

  ‘How about hailing us a couple of taxis? Could you do that for us?’

  ‘Taxis? Fuh shaw. Two taxis, is that what you want?’

  Hetti went over and stood next to Ramon: Hypnos and Hetti, the double act, close together again.

  ‘So what is this all about, Chief O’Neil?’ asked Hypnos. He was trying to sound controlled but his voice was quivering.

  ‘It’s what we call the end of the line, Mr Perez. You stole the contents of my customers’ safety deposit boxes. Now I want them back.’

  ‘Or else?’

  ‘Or else Lieutenant Slyman finds you sitting on his doorstep with enough prima facie evidence to send you to the slammer for a very long time. Conspiracy, theft, blackmail … extortion.’

  ‘You’ll have to prove all of that.’

  ‘Oh, I will, believe me. Fll prove it to the point where you and Ms Slanic don’t have any conceivable chance of release. How does fifteen years’ prison sound to you? Think how old you’re going to be, the day they let you out.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Ramon.

  ‘I see,’ said Conor, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘Never lost for words.’

  Hypnos reached into his coat pocket and took out a small folded packet of aluminum foil. ‘Mind if I take a snort?’ he asked Conor. ‘All this aggression … it’s totally stressed me out.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘What do you think? Just a little recreational talcum powder.’

  Conor noticed that Hetti was half smiling, in spite of her fiery cheek. He thought: something’s wrong here … Why are they both so cool about this?

  Ramon unfolded the foil. Inside was less than half a teaspoonful of brownish-white powder.

  ‘See? No surprises. Just a little nose candy.’

  ‘Let me take a look at that.’ Conor held out his hand and Ramon gave him the foil. With some hesitation, Conor sniffed at the powder. But with no hesitation at all, Ramon Perez stepped up and blew it into his face, and then at Sebastian and Ric and Sidney.

  Conor said, ‘Shit! What the hell are you—!’

  The walls revolved sideways. The floor tilted onto its end. And then the whole theater silently collapsed inside of his head.

  * * *

  He was dreaming, he was floating, he was spinning around in circles. He was high in the air, up above a circus tent. He was sleeping in his own childhood bed, with the crucifix hanging on the wall above it, the crucifix that always frightened him so much. He was horrified by Christ’s emaciated body, but at the same time he felt such pity for Him, such compassion, that he used to kneel on his pillow and touch His wounds, and promise to save Him, no matter what. He even brought Him food, tiny crumbly pieces of cookie or pound cake, and tried to feed them into the statue’s mouth, so that at least He wouldn’t die of starvation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jesus,’ he used to say, and he was saying the same thing when he opened his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I’m truly, truly sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ said a sarcastic voice.

  He blinked. The light was so strong that it was difficult for him to see who was talking to him. But gradually the fuzziness came into focus, all the images collected themselves together.

  He was sitting on a hard wooden chair in a plain yellow-painted room. In front of him stood a tall white-haired man in a black three-piece suit, wearing tiny sunglasses with sapphire-blue lenses.

  The man leaned forward and peered directly into Conor’s eyes. ‘Y’all awake?’ he asked, in an echoing voice. ‘Good, you’re awake. I was worried for a while there. Thought you might sleep for the rest of your natural life.’

  Chapter 16

  Conor looked around in mystification. There was nothing in the room to indicate where he might be. It was sunny outside and he could hear traffic in the street below but a parchment-colored blind had been drawn down over the window. There were no pictures on the walls but darker rectangles on the wallpaper showed where pictures had once hung. In the far corner stood two other men, also dressed in black suits and black turtlenecks, one of them thin and ascetic looking, the other
crewcut and ruddy cheeked. On a small canvas chair sat another man, heavily built, with a head like a knuckle of pork. His legs were crossed and he was waggling one immaculately polished black Oxford in time to his relentless gum-chewing.

  The man in the blue sunglasses walked around in a circle. Then he sat down in a minimalist steel-and-canvas chair, his fingers steepled, and stared at Conor with an expression that was half contemptuous, half amused.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Conor. He had a raging sore throat. ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘You are here, sir, so that I can take a good look at you,’ the man told him, in a throaty Missouri accent. He was strikingly handsome. He had a high, broad forehead and a long straight nose and a sharp movie actor’s jawline. His skin, however, was dead white, and as dry and flaky as filo pastry. Although he was so handsome, his head was disproportionately large for his body. He was both fascinating and repelling, like the beautiful woman whom Conor had once met whose arms and legs had been horribly scarred by fire.

  ‘Who are you? I thought I was—’

  ‘You thought you were in the Rialto Theater. Yes, sir, you were. But you took a leap, my friend. A quantum leap from there to here; and here you are.’

  Conor didn’t know what to say. The man in the blue sunglasses continued to smile at him and the two men standing in the corner murmured like gossiping monks and the man with the head like a pork knuckle continued to chew gum and waggle his foot.

  At last, the man in the blue sunglasses said, ‘You really don’t know who I am, do you? That just goes to show that publicity isn’t worth squat. I’ll bet they could have put up a poster of me, a hundred feet high, right in the middle of Times Square, and you still wouldn’t know who I am.’

  ‘I guess that you’re something to do with Ramon Perez and Magda Slanic.’

  The man let out an operatic ‘ha!’ of total contempt. ‘Hypnos and Hetti? Those two? I rescued those two from destitution. They were down as low as a man and woman can go, before I picked them up, and showed them that they still had a part to play in God’s great purpose.’