by Rex Baron
“You fool,” she scolded him like a child. “How like you it is to kill this poor woman in the vulgar and desperate way of a pitiful mortal. You have the powers of the universe at your command, and yet you choose to ignore them. You are not a great Magician but a cowardly little murderer.”
“There was no time for some kind of spell,” Marc insisted, taking his eyes from the road and fixing them on the rear view mirror. “We leave tomorrow for New York. I couldn't run the risk of letting her talk. I had to do something.”
“You are forgetting that you have made a bargain with the Dark Masters and payment for your pleasure is overdue,” the voice within the black leather confines of the automobile informed him. “You must deliver the woman Elizabeth to us as promised.”
Marc stared up at the dark reflection in the mirror.
“I have not forgotten my promise,” he said. “You will have her before the night is out.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Pacific Palisades
The voices resonated in her head, as Elizabeth drove along Franklin, near where she had visited with Miss Auriel. But instead of trying to close them out as she usually did, she listened closely, hoping to hear a word of guidance from what she now knew was the collective mind of others like her.
“You are in danger,” they told her.
The voices were jumbled and vague, as if a roomful of people where speaking at the same time, a cacophony of noise that had to be tuned in and searched through, like scrambled radio waves, until one single clear frequency could be found.
“You must stop him before he kills again,” the warning repeated again and again inside Elizabeth's brain, as she turned a corner onto Sunset Boulevard and passed the lush trees and gardens of the wealthy, without noticing them.
All at once, the steering wheel of her car jerked nearly out of her hand, and she found that she had shifted over a lane without intending to. As she struggled to get control of the wheel, she noticed the tops of the palm trees weaving violently, as if a sudden Santa Ana wind had taken possession of them. But it was not a sudden autumn wind, her mind informed her, it was an earthquake.
Her car continued to skid across the lanes of the empty boulevard, as if sliding sideways on a sheet of ice. She pulled over to the curb and stopped, just as the unseen serpent beneath the ground rumbled past, lifting the car and gently setting it down again.
Elizabeth waited for the surrounding landscape to quiet down, for the staggering streetlights and hysterical shrubbery to calm down, before she started her engine and began again. That had been the second tremor she had felt that evening. They were only hours apart and she wondered, tenuously, if they were foreshocks of a disaster yet to happen in the small unguarded hours of the morning, or merely aftershocks of some distant calamity.
She let out a laugh. It had been the first time in months that she had not questioned her own part in this natural phenomenon. It was not her unleashed power that had caused it, but a totally explainable shift in the plates of the earth's surface. She felt no responsibility for having made it happen, and offered up a grateful giggle in thanksgiving for her sanity.
As she turned the corner near her apartment building, two police cars, positioned across the highway, blocked her entry into the driveway of the complex. A handful of people mingled in the street, and the headlights of one of the patrol cars illuminated a figure covered by a white sheet, lying in the midst of them.
Elizabeth slowed her car and stopped. One of the officers waved for her to move on, but she rolled down her window and explained that she lived there.
She pulled her car next to the curb and got out.
“What's happened?” she called to one of the men in uniform.
“A hit and run,” the man answered coolly.
Elizabeth approached the shrouded body, but was held back. A sickening feeling gripped her stomach, as she stared at the lifeless white shape under the flashing red lights of the patrol cars. The voices in her head wailed in horror, as she saw the sleeve of a red satin jacket protruding from under the covering. She pushed past the policeman's arm and drew nearer.
“You can't be here,” the officer shouted at her.
“I know who it is,” she said calmly, as if in a daze. “She is someone who lives here... a friend of mine.”
Elizabeth bent down and lifted the corner of the sheet, revealing Loretta's face, frozen in surprise. The eyes stared up at her, reflecting the blackness of the night sky.
Elizabeth's body flooded with a wash of guilt and sadness. She had not been kind to this woman and had not seen that she had been her sister all along. It was too late now for kindness or love, the simple ingredient of humanness, which she had hoarded meanly in her heart for years, only to squander it on the likes of Marc Augenbech. A chill ran through her body at the thought of their lovemaking and his hands on her body.
Almost without her being aware of it, a policeman took her gently by the shoulders and turned her away from the broken body.
He began to ask her questions. When had she last seen the dead woman, and how did she make a living? But Elizabeth hardly heard him. Instead, her eyes were riveted on Loretta's lifeless hand protruding out from under the concealing drape. In it was clutched a tarot card depicting the skeletal figure of DEATH.
Elizabeth saw that Loretta's arm was stretched out on the ground toward the apartment complex, and the card held intentionally upward, a warning to one who understood the sign.
“Marc Augenbech, the son of Helen Liluth,” the voices echoed their chorus of accusation within Elizabeth's brain.
“Do you have any idea if there might have been more to it than an accident?” the officer asked. “Is there anyone you know of who might have wanted her dead?”
Elizabeth took in a steadying breath and answered calmly,
“No. There is no one.”
“Does she have any family locally who we might contact?”
Elizabeth thought for a moment, then answered sadly.
“I don't know. I mean, she never spoke of any.”
Tears began to flow down her face, and she was unable to answer any more questions. “I'm sorry,” she said. The words trailed behind her, as she wearily made her way to her apartment.
As she approached her door, her attention was arrested by two pieces of paper jammed into the loop of the door handle. She slipped them out and unfolded the scrap of pink, rose-scented paper on top. Recognizing that it was from Loretta, she began to read:
i know you'd rather i didn't butt in, but i got some heavy cards in a reading tonight, just before the nine o'clock “shake and quake.” it has something to do with a good-looking but kind of spooky guy who i saw looking for you. He left this other note earlier tonight. Sorry but i snooped. Don't meet him... something's wrong. i'll fill you in later.
hugs Loretta
Elizabeth took in a deep breath and steadied herself against the wall. Her hands trembled as she opened the clean white sheet of paper that she knew had come from Marc. The note was damnably cheerful, suggesting that enough time had passed for the two of them to make amends. He told her that he was going away and wanted things to be “put right.” Elizabeth stopped and reread the final sentences aloud:
I know you feel that you did not profit from the thing we did together, but I know now what went wrong, and if you come to me, I can show you how you can rectify everything. Must see you before I leave, must be tonight.
Marc
Elizabeth crumpled the stiff paper in her hand and unlocked the door. She lay on the bed in her apartment and breathed in the comfort of the darkness, as she watched the red lights from the squad cars outside circle on the ceiling overhead. She waited for Marc, concentrating on him in her mind, calling him to her, ready for the meeting he had suggested. She stared at the telephone and thought of him… knowing that he would call. At last, she knew who he truly was and what he was capable of. She could only guess what other atrocities, unknown to her, had already been put into effec
t as a result of the conjuration. All she could see, in her mind's eye, was the image of Loretta staring up sightlessly at the night sky. She paused for a long moment, collecting her thoughts and formulating a plan.
Suddenly, the telephone shattered the stillness. She let it ring three times before picking it up. She held the phone to her ear and heard the expected voice.
“Hello Elizabeth, this is Marc. I hope I didn't wake you,” the voice penetrated her body. “I just called because I'm leaving in the morning for New York, and then probably on to Europe. I wanted to talk to you, to see you before I go. I left you a note. Did you get it?'“
Elizabeth placed her hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver to muffle the sound of her own erratic breathing. It was so strange to hear his voice speaking her name, as if nothing wrong had passed between them. There had been a time, weeks before, when she could think of nothing else, and prayed every night as she lay falling asleep that he might call. But now it was all so different.
“What a surprise to hear from you,” she said, struggling to hide the tremor in her voice. “No, you didn't wake me.”
“I called because I need to talk to you,” the voice repeated. “I wondered if you could meet me. I feel as if I'd kind of short-changed you in the last weeks, and I don't want you to feel that I don't appreciate your help with my career and everything.”
Elizabeth did not want to appear too eager.
“We've been over this before and there isn't much to say,” she replied coolly.
Marc cajoled her from the other end of the wire, shamelessly exerting his charm.
Finally, Elizabeth appeared to give way.
“It's after eleven, but I guess I could see you before you go,” she said as brightly as possible, “just for old time’s sake.”
“That's great,” she heard him answer. “I know it’s late, but even if we could just meet for a few minutes, that would be long enough to bury the hatchet. Can you come to my place in about half an hour? We can toast in midnight and hopefully get our friendship back on track again. You know, Elizabeth, in spite of what I said to you before about not loving you, I really do miss you.”
Elizabeth could imagine the charming smile that went with the seductive voice, the smile that he had learned to believe was irresistible and foolproof.
“In half an hour,” she repeated his words before putting down the phone.
She pulled herself up off the bed and poked at her tear-stained face with her fingers, as she surveyed its puffiness in the mirror. She brushed the wrinkles from her skirt and slipped her feet back into her shoes. It did not occur to her to change clothes or fix her hair. The way she looked for Marc no longer mattered to her. The visit would only take a few minutes, she thought. She need not dress for the occasion. She found her car keys and her handbag. She looked inside to be certain that the gun was still there. Her body trembled at the thought of what she knew she must do.
When she stepped outside, the ambulance had already taken the body away, and she was relieved to find the street in front of the complex occupied by only one police car and its two watchful officers. She walked to her car, hopeful that she would not pique their interest, and they would not wonder why she might be leaving her apartment so late. She eased the car away from the curb, keeping one eye on the officers filling out their report. She rounded the corner, grateful that she was not followed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marc’s studio, Westwood Village
Marc had consecrated the knife to his gods before he had telephoned Elizabeth. He was pleased with himself that he was still able to charm her into coming to him, and prayed that she would not be clever enough to bring someone with her. He despised her for her stupidity and emotional weakness. Even after he had told her that he did not love her, she was still willing to run to him for the chance to be with him for a few pitiful stolen moments before he left her forever.
He laid the knife on the table next to the white cord and the other sinister objects he had been told he would need in carrying out the sacrifice. The thought of killing her with the knife seemed repulsive to him, a far too intimate and tactile form of murder, and yet, he knew that it was what had been asked of him, a small price in exchange for his future life of splendor.
He prepared the loft with incense and lined the narrow table under the window with a row of candles, alternating in color between purple and black, until twelve of them stood behind the photographs of his mother. He had drawn a circle on the floor in one corner, out of the way, in preparation for the ritual.
He did not want his intentions to be obvious to Elizabeth the moment she walked in the door, and he hoped that she might even mistake the candlelit, scented atmosphere for a romantic snare rather than the deadly scene of sacrifice it was meant to be.
He was upholding his end of the bargain, he told himself, as he changed into his black sweater and slacks. Surely there was nothing disreputable about that.
When all was ready, he sat back in a leather chair and waited, repeating the names of the demons again and again under his breath, as a security that they would be there to aid him in his work.
One by one, as their names were called, they seemed to come, until the atmosphere around him was charged with the sickening smell of evil. The candles' flames shifted in his perception from a hospitable golden yellow to the color of blood.
• • •
Elizabeth found that the outside door of the studio warehouse had been left unlocked. As she entered, the black metal stairs loomed up ominously, leading to the darkened hallway on the third floor. A scented mist hung about, the smell of mildew, or dying flowers. She coughed into her fist, to clear her lungs of the stench, releasing a small sound that reverberated and magnified against the concrete and metal, coming back to her with the intensity of a gunshot.
Carefully, she made her way up the stairs, holding tight to the railing in order to not lose her footing. There was silence as the last ripple of the sound from her throat found its way into the secret recesses of the dreamlike, darkened landscape. She wished for the comfort of her voices, those others like her, to remind her that she truly wasn't alone.
She reached the second floor landing and could see up through the railings that the door to Marc's studio was open, giving her a small rectangular target of light to guide her to her goal. She was aware of the sound of her shoes on the metal stairs. She too was sending out a signal, a homing device for his keen hearing. From the sound of her footfalls, he would know that she had risen to the bait. The moment had come. There was no turning back.
Elizabeth found her way up the stairs, holding one hand on the wall beside her and walking toward the light. Finally, she stood in the open doorway, holding her bag with the gun inside to her chest for comfort. Marc sat opposite her, his handsome face bathed in the glow of flattering candlelight. How vain she thought him to be, positioning himself so that he would be seen to his best advantage as she came in. She found it ludicrous that he was still concerned about what she thought of him.
He did not rise at first, but acknowledged her presence with a slight bow of his head, followed by an ever-broadening smile.
“I was afraid you wouldn't come,” he said, beckoning her in with his hand.
Elizabeth stepped over the threshold, leaving behind the mundane world of blessed normalcy. Immediately, she sensed the electrically-charged atmosphere and almost choked on the strong smell of incense and sulfur. She saw the row of colored candles and knew at once what he had intended. The voices in her head suddenly began to wail and chant in a confused outburst of lamentation. Elizabeth closed her eyes for an instant and tried to concentrate.
“You look well,” Marc said, without taking his eyes from her.
“Do I?” she replied, gathering her strength. “Misfortune must agree with me.”
Marc did not answer. He rose from his chair and poured two glasses of red wine. He extended one of them across the space between them, but Elizabeth ignored his offering
. Instead, she closed the door behind her and boldly entered the arena.
The wine glass trembled in Marc's outstretched hand, and the hint of fear she saw excited her. She could still affect him, touch him in some way, even if only through her hatred.
“You know why I've come, don't you?” Elizabeth asked coolly.
“Why, to say goodbye, like the dear friend that you are,” Marc laughed, mocking her.
“I've come to stop you,” she said, turning to face him.
He took a deep swallow of one of the glasses of wine and put the other down on the table next to him.
“I don't know what you mean,” he whispered, playing at coyness.
“You know perfectly well what I mean... that painter, my neighbor Loretta, and probably even Raymond... you killed them all, didn't you?”
“I can hardly take direct responsibility for Raymond,” he changed tack, tapping the edge of his glass studiously. “That nasty little niece of his had more than enough venom to do the job. All I did was direct it, like any good Magician.” Suddenly, his charming smile disappeared, leaving behind the face of evil. “Besides,” he continued, “you are as much to blame as I. It was your power, after all, that completed the circuit and allowed it to happen. So you see, dear Elizabeth, we are alike you and I, made of the same stuff. We are both powerful witches. We are in this together.”
Elizabeth searched his face for some sign of emotion. She laughed aloud.
“I got moles. You got moles... All god's chillin's got moles,” she said in a singsong voice. “Maybe you're right and we are made of the same stuff. But what happens to creatures like us, Marc? Will we be burned at the stake, or just die of loneliness?”