Mary sighed deeply, gazed down at the bottom of the canoe. "Sacra can bring harm to people, Mongo. It isn't something I believe, it's something I know. You have a point when you say that Sacra has already hurt Garth through me, but it's not that simple. Sacra controls other people too; there are a number of men and women who will do whatever Sacra tells them to do. There are people who will kill for him; he doesn't have to do it himself. That's why I've . . . done what I've done. I can't bear the thought of Sacra and his people harming Garth. If the price I pay is having him leave me, then I'd rather pay it than have Garth hurt — or dead. That's what could happen if Sacra doesn't get his way."
Now it was my turn to sigh. "Mary, you can't shut out Garth. The price you're paying is worse than wasted, worse than if you were simply getting nothing in return. What you've bought so far is misery for the two of you. Again, I'm not going to bore you with war stories, but I can absolutely assure you that your old boyfriend is a pussycat compared to some of the people my brother has handled in the past. But don't you defeat Garth. You've got to have faith in him."
Once again, Mary was silent for a long time. I poured some more wine, watched her watching the river. The tanker in the deep channel was well past us now, heading for the large, central span beneath the Tappan Zee Bridge. We would soon be bobbing up and down again when its bow wave and wake reached us.
"Talking to you makes me feel better, Mongo."
"Thank you, Mary. That's a nice compliment."
"I lose myself when Sacra is around. He's always had that effect on me. I just. . . get lost. He's a manipulator, and I know it, but I just can't seem to stop him from manipulating me. He's a spiritual terrorist; he finds out what people believe in, and then he goes to work on their hearts."
"Mary, I don't understand what you mean. I don't understand just what it is you perceive that he can do to people, aside from rounding up some gang to beat on somebody. You're saying it's more than that."
"Garth wouldn't understand either. That's because you and Garth have no faith."
The bow wave from the passing tanker finally reached us, and the thick, lazy swell rolled under the canoe, lifting us up, dropping us down in its trough. The strands of the drift net scraped against the gunwale beneath my right arm. I sipped at my wine, asked quietly, "Why do you say that?"
"Neither of you believe in God. You're not religious."
"I believe in mystery. So does Garth."
"Now I'm the one who doesn't understand."
"Mary, there's nothing mysterious about religions — any of them. They all try to give you recipes, recipe religion; cook your life like our priests tell you, and God will reward you. I don't remember exactly when it was, but I wasn't very old. I was sitting in church one Sunday, and I suddenly realized that I didn't buy any of it; I didn't believe any of the things that my parents and those other people there presumably believed that was prompting them to worship and pray to some all-powerful, invisible thing. When that thought first occurred to me, when I first realized I didn't believe in the God I thought everybody in the world believed in, I got real scared. For just a moment, I thought I was going to die, to be punished by that God for not believing in messiahs, miracles, and all that other stuff I know you believe in. Then it occurred to me that, if God was omniscient, if He or She already knew what I was thinking anyway, then it didn't make any difference. There was no point in trying to hide what I thought. And I wasn't afraid anymore. After all, I was only using the brain God had presumably given me in the first place. What replaced the fear was a sense of indescribable awe in the face of the universe, of eternity. I couldn't feel that while I was preoccupied with trying to learn a recipe for living, which in my case just happened to be of the Christian variety. Religions demystify, Mary. They consistently trivialize the notion of God."
"Does what you just said mean you do believe in God?"
"It doesn't mean I believe or disbelieve, Mary. It means that I consider God, whatever that may be, irrelevant. There's no value in thinking about gods one way or another. Being distracted about what some god does or doesn't want leads as often to hatred and murder as it does to anything beneficial; that's not a belief or opinion, it's history. And so I believe in mystery, which is much more self-evident than any deity. Look at this river, the moon; think of the sun, and the planets, and billions more like them, but mostly look at this river, and feel its power passing beneath you. Hey, what do you want for your nickel? You want to live forever? How about living right now? For all the beauty and wonder surrounding you right now, there is no power in the river, or sea, compared to the tides of the human heart. I don't mean to sound disrespectful, Mary, but do you really think a god who created this river, the moon overhead, and the human heart is really going to give a shit what you eat, or anything else you do? Give me a break. There is no magic in life, no miracles. But there is a whole lot of mystery, and God is just a metaphor for the mystery. Humans diminish themselves, and miss the mystery, when they worship the metaphor. Love, my friend, is the greatest mystery of all."
"I love Garth very much, Mongo."
"I'm not the one you should be telling that to. Start believing in your love, and stop believing in the magical powers of Sacra Silver. Garth will survive if you fail to do that, Mary, but you may not. Beliefs like the ones you seem to have can kill. Stop being a victim."
"I met him at a time when my whole life was in ruins," Mary said in a tone that was soft and distant, but not strained. "The Beatles and the Rolling Stones were in, and the music I was doing was out. Bobby, he made the adjustment — he led the adjustment. Later, Judy did too. I couldn't. I didn't know how to do anything but sing folk songs. My records weren't selling, and finally my record company didn't bother pressing any more. I didn't have a recording contract, and I couldn't even get small-town club dates. It was like starting all over again, playing for private parties and in bars. It was a nightmare. I started drinking a lot and then doing drugs, just to get through each day. I almost died from an overdose of peyote and wound up in a mental hospital. To tell you the truth, I don't remember exactly where I met Sacra; I just woke up one morning in whatever seedy hotel I was in and found him in bed with me. At the time, I thought he was the strongest man I had ever met. He was able to take over my life because he gave me something to live for. He told me what to do, and I did it, because it was easier than having to make my own decisions. Then he started making me do things I didn't really want to do, but did because I was so used to things the way they were. Twice I tried to leave him; I got involved with other men. Those two men died, Mongo — one in a motorcycle accident and the other from bad drugs. Don't ask me how I know this, Mongo, because I can't prove it, but I know those men died because Sacra wanted them to. I kept going back to him. I went back after the first man's death because I was still ambivalent about my feelings for Sacra; after the second death, I went back to him because I was afraid. Mongo, once I entered into a lesbian relationship with another one of Sacra's girlfriends, not because I was sexually attracted to the other woman, but because Sacra was turned on by the idea, and he insisted I do it. I'm not comfortable with a lot of decisions I made during those years, and it's just not something I can calmly discuss with Garth. There are things about my past with Sacra that I don't want Garth to ever know."
"Mary, believe me when I tell you Garth wouldn't give a shit if you once made love to monkeys, much less to another woman. He might not much care for it if you did it now, but to him the past is past. As far as he's concerned, the best part of his life started when he met you. I might recommend that you try a similar approach. Throw out all that old, ratty baggage, starting with Sacra Silver."
"Maybe it's too late."
"Nope."
"I don't know what to do, Mongo."
"For openers, throw out Silver. Simply tell him to get the hell out of the house. If he gives you a hard time, call the cops." I paused, watching her, saw panic rise like a flash flood in her eyes, saw the color drain fro
m her face. I continued, "It's better for you to face up to him, Mary. It's what you want, isn't it?"
"More than anything, Mongo," she answered in a small voice. "But I . . ."
Her voice trailed off, but the meaning of the words she hadn't spoken was clear: she was just not up to the job of evicting Sacra Silver from her house, much less of freeing herself from the firm grip he had on her mind, at least not by herself.
I said, "Let me give the matter some thought, Mary. Maybe I can come up with a solution. In fact, it might be better if I took care of the matter — if you give me the okay to do it. Will you let me handle it?"
She seemed startled by the suggestion, and then frightened. "Oh, Mongo, I don't want him to turn his anger on you."
"I can handle his anger. But he has no special powers, and that's the thought you have to keep in mind. Start practicing better mental hygiene."
"I don't want him to hurt you, Mongo. I couldn't bear that, any more than I could bear him hurting Garth. You still don't understand — or won't accept — what he can do to people who cross him or get in his way."
"But you'll let me take care of it?" I asked, casting a wary eye on another, larger set of waves generated by a second tanker, and heading our way.
She nodded hesitantly. "Just remember that I couldn't abide it if anything happened to you, Mongo. Please be very careful what you say to him."
"I will," I said, clenching the wine bottle between my knees and bracing my arms on the gunwales as a large bow wave, its foaming crest sparkling in the moonlight, loomed just behind me and to my right. "Incoming. Hang on."
The bow wave, a healthy four-footer, rolled under us, lifting the canoe. We dipped down, then started up the face of the following wave. The drift net scraped against the canoe, and the plastic buoy bottles rapped out a ragged tattoo on the stern, just behind my head. Up we went again, down again.
"Oh, my God!" Mary shouted hoarsely as she blanched and put both hands to her mouth. She was staring, wide-eyed, at something just behind me, over my right shoulder. The canoe dipped again, and she screamed.
I turned my head to the right, gagged, and almost vomited as the canoe rose and dipped again, and for just a brief moment a large section of the drift net was exposed. In that moment I saw the net's grisly catch — an arm, its flesh still partially covered with shreds of thick, black rubber. The arm had apparently been ripped from its owner's shoulder, because splinters of bone entangled with long threads of tissue snaked out from the gaping socket. On the limb's wrist was a large diver's watch with a red plastic strap that I had last seen being worn by the keeper of this river that now held his remains.
* * *
I untied the painter from the buoy, and we quickly paddled back to shore. Together, Mary and I pulled the canoe up on the beach. Then Mary turned back, wrapped both arms around her body, and began to shake as she gazed out in the direction of the horror in the net, which could not even be seen from where we were standing.
"Mary?"
"God," she murmured. "It's Tom Blaine, isn't it?"
"I think so. Listen, I'm going into the house to call the police, but I'd like you to wait for me down here for a few minutes. Will you be all right?"
When she moved her head slightly in what I took to be an assenting nod, I hurried up the path beneath the overhang, up to the house. Not surprisingly, Sacra Silver's car was still in the driveway, and so I wasn't surprised either to find him still in the music room, sitting in Garth's chair.
I went to the kitchen, picked up the telephone, and called the Cairn police to report what we had found on the river. Then I tried to call Garth to tell him that his friend was dead. He wasn't home, or he wasn't answering the phone, so I left a message on his machine. Then I went into the music room. Silver was half dozing, a magazine in his lap. He heard me come in, opened his eyes, and studied me. He seemed amused by something, probably by the way he assumed my conversation with Mary had gone. He picked up his empty glass off the side table, held it out toward me.
"Get me another drink, will you, Frederickson?"
"Sure," I replied easily as I walked toward him across the polished hardwood floor. When I reached him, I took the glass from his hand, tossed it over my shoulder, then kicked him hard in the right shin, just above his boot top. He hooted in surprise and pain, jackknifed the upper part of his body down, and grabbed hold of his hurting ankle. I grabbed two handfuls of hair, yanked him out of the chair and onto the floor, face down. He started to roll over, saving me the trouble of turning him. I kicked him again, this time directly in the solar plexus. He jack-knifed again, rolled on his other side, and retched, wheezing and gasping for air. While he occupied himself with the task of trying to breathe, I went about the business of patting him down. He wasn't carrying any weapons. I squatted down in front of his face, rapped him hard on the top of his skull with my knuckles.
"Hello," I said. "Anyone home? I don't mean to be rude, big fella, but I needed to make sure I had your full attention. You're a hard man to talk to. It's time to say good night. If I knew how to get you out of the lives of my brother and sister-in-law with magic, I'd use it, but I'm not much into magic. You've got Mary shook up real good, and she's got my brother shook up real good. Neither of them is thinking clearly or behaving properly, so that leaves me in the position of acting as their champion, if you will. Mary tells me that she wants you out of her house, and out of her life, and I intend to see that her wish is granted. Now, I want you to haul your skinny ass out of here as soon as you get your wind back. You'll be pleased to know that I'm not going to thump on you anymore, because I want you to be able to drive."
"You . . . little . . . dwarf fuck. You . . . sucker-punched me."
"I didn't punch you, Sacra, I kicked you. I want you to know I'm the meanest little dwarf fuck you're ever likely to meet. I felt a demonstration was in order, because I had to show you I was serious. If you try to cause any more trouble, I'm the one you're going to have to deal with — not Mary, not Garth. Now, it seems to me that you have a limited number of options. You can go to the police and charge me with assault, but I don't advise that. What with your little disappearing act, and the illegal butterfly knife that you pulled on my brother, your credibility with the cops probably isn't at its peak right now. The cops would insist on knowing your real name, and I don't think you want to give it. Finally, you'd be laughed at; you wouldn't want it bandied about that the mighty Sacra Silver had been beaten up by a little dwarf fuck, now, would you?
"Your second option is to get up and cast a magic spell and hope that I disappear or turn into a toad. If you try that, you'd better hope that it works, because if it doesn't, I'm going to start kicking you again.
"Your third option is to do what I said, haul your ass out of here, and keep it out. This is the course of action I recommend.
You're not to contact Mary again, ever. If I hear that you've so much as sent her a postcard, I'm going to find you and resume this demonstration. I will beat the shit out of you. Do you understand?"
"There's another choice, dwarf," he said in a rasping voice as, still holding one hand to his stomach, he managed to get up on his knees. His black eyes glittered now, shimmering brightly with hatred. "I'll kill you."
"What a terrible thing to say. I'd really hoped you'd begin to show a change in attitude."
Still looking a little wobbly, he slowly rose to his feet and glared at me. Then he did just about what I'd expected him to do, which was to kick at me as if he were trying to score a field goal. I spun counterclockwise away from the kick, then stepped in close to his body and swept his supporting leg out from under him. He landed flat on his back. I hopped on his chest and sat down hard, pressing the index and middle fingers of my left hand against his eyeballs, while at the same time grabbing his throat with my right hand, applying just enough pressure on the carotid artery to discourage him from putting up too much of a fuss about my sitting on him. I squeezed the artery; his hands started to come up toward me, and
I applied a little more pressure to his eyeballs. His arms froze in place, and then his hands started to tremble. Then his arms slowly sank back to his sides. When I judged that he was just about ready to pass out, I released the pressure on his throat and eyes, got up off his chest, and backed away a few paces.
"I was hoping to be able to continue our interesting conversation," I said as Silver, holding his throat with both hands, slowly sat up, "but something's come up that requires my undivided attention. I just don't have any more time for funnin' with you, so we've got to get it on here. We're going to resolve the issue. Now, if you want to take another pass at me, I'll give you a chance to rest between rounds."
He continued to glare at me, but now there was uncertainty and fear mingled with the hatred in his eyes. Finally he looked away. He was finished.
"Exercise your option of getting out of here, Silver," I continued quietly. "And stay away. If you don't, you're going to get round two with the little dwarf fuck, whether you want to or not. You know I could've put a lot more hurt on you than I did. I don't care how many bad spells you try to cast on me, as long as you do it long-distance — which should be no problem for a hotshot ceremonial magician like you. Come at me with a knife or gun, and I'll kill you and claim self-defense. Now, either take another shot at me or get out. Your choice."
He swayed slightly on his feet, still not looking directly at me, then moved unsteadily toward the door. "Your car's behind mine," he mumbled.
"There's room for you to back around it. Don't scratch the paint."
Standing just inside the screen door at the back, I waited and watched until he was gone. Then I retrieved the plastic-wrapped tumbler from the cabinet where I had hidden it. I put the tumbler in the glove compartment of my car, then went back down to the beach.
An Incident At Bloodtide Page 6