Alchemy of Murder

by Rex Baron

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I know that. What kind of bullets will I need?”

  The man produced a small paper box from under the counter and slid it across the scratched and worn surface toward her.

  “Oh, I have to buy them all?” she asked a bit bewildered. “Couldn't I just buy enough to fill it up?”

  “This isn't a gas station,” the man replied impatiently. “We don't fill up guns. You have to buy the whole box of cartridges.”

  “I see,” she answered with a sigh of resolution.

  She had left the gun shop and returned home, intent on ending her tedious and purposeless string of humiliating days. She had never contemplated suicide before, and admitted to herself that the idea smacked of an unrealistic glamour and seemed an end more befitting a theatrical and tempestuous life than the final solution for a lifetime of shame and disappointment. And yet, who had a better right to demand the satisfaction of this final fantasy than those who had been perennially denied all others.

  She ate a modest dinner and retired early, indulging her sense of modesty by having a bath and washing her hair before going to bed. It seemed absurd to care whether or not one had freshly cleaned hair when they were found dead, and yet, she refused to surrender to her own willful intent until these simple niceties had been observed.

  She arranged herself on the bed, so that when she was discovered she would not be found in some lewd or unflattering position. She took the gun from its brown paper bag and held it in her hand, trying to warm it, to make it part of her, so that the bullet would clearly understand her needs and find its way into her skull with as much sympathy as possible.

  She withered at the anticipation of the tearing sound the bullet would surely make when it discharged. It was the harsh sound she feared more than anything. And yet, she reassured herself by remembering that the sound of creation in the Bible was the word. Surely this sound, the single report of the pistol, could change her world as completely as that original utterance, and serve her as mercifully as any unerring and beneficent creator.

  She would not allow it to be an act of violence. Instead, she hoped that the quickness of it would alleviate the pain, would remedy all that had gone wrong with one single cleansing explosion of creation. She would cheat the dark forces of whatever humiliations they had in store for her, thereby reversing her bargain. It was an act of purification, she told herself, a holy act, something to make the angels smile.

  She placed the gun to her temple and tried to relax, to allow the mechanism to do its work without resistance. She let her mind drift into a meditative state and concentrated on the colored lights swirling peacefully before her eyes, beckoning her into their realm. Her finger on the trigger seemed years away in time and space, and she hardly felt the physical connection to it.

  Yellow triangles and red squares turned end over end in the blackness before her closed eyes. In the center of the blackness, a vision of a Queen, seated on a high throne made of glass, slowly glided toward her. It was the image of the woman she had seen in the photographs, Marc's mother, atop the platform, enthroned. She was regal and beautiful, and her youthful likeness to Marc was unmistakable. As the platform drew nearer, the air around Elizabeth took on a frightening chill, and she realized that the throne was, in fact, made of ice.

  “I am the Queen of the pit,” the apparition said, as she held her scepter over Elizabeth's head and pressed the cold metal of it to her temple where the gun rested. “I have come to deliver you from your torment. I have come to bring you to a peaceful place of rest.”

  Elizabeth moved toward her, transfixed by the mesmerizing quality of her voice. As she mounted the first step of the dais and stretched out her hand to take that of the shimmering Queen, her footing slipped and she glanced down at her feet to see the body of a woman frozen into the stairway, as if in a coffin made of ice.

  Through the clouded, blue hardness of the substance, she saw the face of her Aunt Lucy, staring up at her, wide-eyed, warning her to retreat.

  From somewhere behind her, out of view in the blackness, she heard her name being sung, repeated again and again like a Gregorian chant, cascading over the tonal scale, like sparkling water over polished stones. She searched the landscape of her inner mind for its source. A row of Nuns passed in reverent song. On their heels, an old woman with a drawing pad and a box of chalk crayons toddled along behind. It was the birdlike Miss Auriel. She appeared from out of the void, motioning Elizabeth to come away.

  “You are in mortal danger,” Elizabeth heard her say, as the elderly woman's voice drifted toward her. “You must choose your side and take your stand. Your eternal Soul is the wager in this bargain, and all is not yet lost.”

  Elizabeth's brain reeled with confusion. She felt the cold steel of the Queen's scepter still pressed against her skin, and turned back to see Marc seated in the place of his mother, holding a loaded pistol to her head.

  “I'll give you peace,” he whispered as he leaned forward to kiss her.

  Elizabeth pushed him away and ran screaming in the direction from which Miss Auriel had come. A bright light shone in front of her, leading her away, warming the surface of her eyelids, and Elizabeth opened her eyes to find that it was morning.

  She had not noticed that the gun had dropped to the floor hours before, in the middle of the night, and lay there, thwarted in its purpose.

  The imagery of the dream still possessed her thoughts, as she stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. She had already ground the beans and poured the water in the pot, before the first loud crackle of the hot water churning through the coffeemaker shocked her into full wakefulness, reminding her of what she had intended.

  She wondered what had happened to the gun, and was thankful that she had not rolled over on it in her sleep, accidentally blowing a nasty, but non-fatal wound through her body. She pulled her dressing gown around her to protect herself from the thought.

  She watched the coffeemaker drip its dark blood, drop by drop, into the glass container, as she sat with her expectant mug at the kitchen table.

  It was well past eight o'clock, the time that she usually left for the lab. She leaned back in her chair, realizing that it no longer mattered. She had no place at the university. She had no life. Even the colorless one that she had had was taken from her. Marc and his demons had made certain of that.

  She went to the door and collected the morning paper. She shuffled through the news of the world with little interest, until she came to a photograph of Marc on the society page and a short paragraph announcing that he and socialite collector Holly Driscoll were bound for New York to open a dazzling exhibition of celebrity portraits, somewhat vulgarly entitled “People in paint.”

  She felt a strange sensation of fear rise through her body at the idea that he would be leaving Los Angeles. It frightened her to think that he would be so far away from her. It was not the fear of distance between two lovers she felt, but the fear that he might slip outside the range of her careful surveillance, like a cancer allowed to spread unchecked.

  A fragile, gray rain misted past the window, making it impossible for her to feel warm and safe. She longed for company to pass the time until the rain let up, and even considered dropping in on her neighbor, Loretta, before thinking better of it.

  It occurred to her that if she had carried out her intention the night before, her apartment would now be swarming with police and detectives. She visualized them carefully poking through her things, discussing in quiet voices the sadness of the occasion. Her eyes darted to the coffeemaker, to see if there would be enough to accommodate unexpected guests from forensics.

  She finished her coffee and dressed for the day. As she poked under the fallen coverlet with her stockinged foot, she found the loaded revolver instead of her second shoe. She unloaded the cartridges, as the man in the store had shown her, and dropped it in her handbag to return it later to the store. She knew that she had little use for it now.

  How disappointing her suicide had
been, she thought. She could never tell a living soul that she had fallen asleep at her moment of truth and forgotten all about it. They would never understand how suicide could be something one had to be reminded to do, like taking out the garbage.

  The memory of the birdlike Miss Auriel haunted her, and she knew somehow that it was no coincidence that she appeared in her vision. She remembered how the little woman had peered at her over the stacks with unusual interest that day in the library, as she read about her aunt in the reference books. She remembered the uncanny glint of recognition that passed over her when Lucy's name was mentioned, and she wondered if this strange creature held the answers to the questions that wracked her tormented mind.

  Chapter Twenty

  Marc’s studio, Westwood Village

  Marc had already started packing for the trip to New York. He expected to be gone for at least a month, and if Holly had her way and built up enough publicity, they would continue on from there to Europe.

  He glanced around the studio space with mild disdain and decided that he had outgrown it. The portrait of Holly on the easel was surely one of his best, and he smiled to himself knowing that the pact he had made not only ensured him success, but provided him real talent as well. He was pleased that he was, once again, able to inhabit a world where women wore sapphires and diamonds. It had been the world of his childhood, a world that his mother had drawn around her in the small Texas town where she hid from her past. But that world had been exclusively hers, and he had found no corner of it for himself. He had been Helen's beautiful son, almost as beautiful as she, and that was often too much for her to hear, especially as her years grew short and her beauty began to fade.

  She had somehow managed to die before her fiery beauty had been fully extinguished, and was only in her sixties when Marc received the telephone call at his art school that she was dead.

  He always thought of her death as something she had contrived, rather than an event that had overtaken her, the way it does for ordinary people. It was as if she were on exceptionally intimate terms with Death, and had merely summoned him up one day, of her own volition, and strolled away arm in arm into the unquestionably chic and temptingly wicked underworld that he inhabited.

  She had left all in order before she died, the way one would if they had planned a suicide. The bonds and investments had been carefully gone over with her investment counselor, and the insurance premiums had been increased due to her recent physical, showing perfect health. She had intended to depart, even neglecting to buy any new clothes for the season and showing no interest in the upcoming charity events planned for the holidays.

  Such small discrepancies in her behavior went unnoticed by those around her. Only Marc had been aware, at the end of his summer vacation, that she seemed unusually light-hearted and full of energy. She kissed the air next to his cheek as he boarded the plane for his school in Rhode Island, and she seemed, to him, filled with the unbounded excitement of one who had planned a trip of her own. He had feared, at the time, she might be caught in another of her romantic flings with a pretty-faced man half her age, who worked at the country club pro shop, or the curly-haired real estate man who had sold her the overpriced house in the city. But it had been much simpler than that. He knew now that in her mind, the time had arrived to leave. It was not that she was unhappy, but rather that her life had fallen into the realm of the ordinary, lacking the mysterious excitement and dark secrets that seemed an implicit part of her unspoken past. She had come too far from the place in time where she had felt the greatest rewards of her beauty and power. She had grown older than she had intended, and although she was still considered by most to be a great beauty, it was with conditions of age and not without a regiment of maintenance that made her weary and bored.

  When the telephone call had come, waking him in the night, he was told that she had been found dead, sitting upright in a chair of her bedroom, still dressed in the evening gown she had worn when returning from a dinner party. She had simply sat down and slipped away, as if she had willed it of her own accord.

  All but Marc failed to recognize it as a suicide of sorts. But there had been no note with parting words of love or recrimination for those left behind, no poison or empty bottles of pills. His mother had no need of the small assistance that others might require for such an act. She was capable of willing her own demise, as surely as she had created her own life.

  Only Marc knew that she had chosen her gown and had her hair done with special care that night. The party, unbeknownst to its hostess, was a bon voyage for his mother. She knew that she would be remembered by those present that evening as having been exceptionally charming and lovely.

  Marc could see her, after the curtain had rung down on an unforgettable evening, going to her room and arranging the folds of her dress carefully about her in the chair before she retreated into the depths of her inner mind and on to eternity.

  Years later, he had read how mystics of the east and holy men were able to simply walk out of their bodies into another realm, without losing consciousness between the two worlds, and he knew, at once, that his own mother had achieved no less than this startling accomplishment.

  Marc laid out his elegant wardrobe, consisting mostly of the color black, and began folding and packing it into his expensive leather luggage. He still had time before the trip, but he hated the idea of being rushed at the last moment, and preferred instead to have the tedious job done in advance, looking forward to his last evening in LA, which would surely include a triumphant farewell dinner, formally launching his career and his fledgling relationship with Holly in high style.

  He went into the bathroom and ran the hot water at the basin while he peeled off his T-shirt and prepared to shave. It was not until he had the lather spread over his face that he noticed, with surprise, the steam gathering on the mirror in front of him. A word began to appear on the glass, as if drawn by a human finger.

  HEXE. The word continued to develop before his eyes.

  He stared at it, transfixed, as the steam billowed around him. He wondered how it could have come to be there and who might have been responsible. A sudden chill seemed to fill the small space of the bathroom, as if a door had opened somewhere in the apartment, letting in a cold and foul-smelling draught.

  He stared at the single word in bewilderment, trying to fathom its significance. He was rooted to the spot where he stood, unable to rinse the soap from his face for fear of averting his eyes from the strange apparition. He held it in his unblinking gaze, the way one would a dangerous animal, knowing that if he lowered his head and let it out of his sight, he would be vulnerable to its attack.

  He continued to watch it uneasily as his heart pounded in his chest. After a long moment, the surface of the mirror that suspended the word in space seemed to waver and cloud over, distorting his reflection into a tangle of shapeless features and undulating lines. He felt dizzy and confused, as if he had succumbed to the toxins of a rancid can of tuna. He strained to focus his vision, but the harder he tried, the more his own image slipped away from him, disappearing behind a veil of darkness.

  In its place in the mirror, he saw the image of his mother. His mouth dropped open at the sight of her and the razor slipped from his fingers.

  “I have given you a word,” her visage in the glass addressed him. “It is an ancient German word to describe those who traffic in the Wisdom, which is the understanding of the principles of the Kraft. You have no understanding of it in the slightest. It is derived from the Name of the Goddess Hecate who commands the moon and the unconscious minds of men. It is the name for the true Magician, one who manipulates the forces of nature to their own will.”

  “What has any of this to do with me?” Marc asked.

  “You are numbered among those who call themselves by this name. You have crossed over into our world and made your pact with the demon of promises. You are truly one of us now.”

  Marc nodded his head in silence, not certain whether or
not his physical form could be perceived by his mother on the other side of the glass.

  “You have taken the step and have done well,” her voice continued. “You have already begun to reap the rewards of your agreement, have you not?” Again Marc nodded. “Now, it is time to pay back part of what you owe in return for your good fortune.”

  “But I've only had a few weeks,” he protested. “Surely, I will have longer to enjoy those rewards.”

  “There is no time in this place. It is here as it has always been and shall be unto eternity.” The beautiful face in the mirror taunted him almost seductively. “Have no concern. You will live to enjoy your greedy wealth and fleeting fame, as long as you do as I am told you must.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Deliver the woman Elizabeth, your companion in the pact, to us. She has fulfilled her purpose in supplying you with the female-charged fire of energy to complete your task. She has served you well and now, as a member of the White Lodge and our mortal enemy, she must be sacrificed.”

  “But why?” Marc asked, his mouth dropping open in surprise. “It's all over. I have what I needed from her and see no reason to kill her now.”

  “You were intentionally deceived,” his mother said, seeming to draw nearer in the dark glass. “The source of your incantation had purposefully veiled the final purpose of the spell.”

  “I had sex with her. Wasn't that the tantric energy exchange the demon required?”

  “Merely for the carnal amusement of the beast,” she laughed. “The maidenhead of her immortal Soul was hardly a fitting payment for what you will receive in return. The dark forces require a blood sacrifice, as in ancient days, and the contract is not final until the blood of the sacrificial lamb has been shed. This woman is your enemy and has the power to destroy you. You must destroy her first.”