Natalie had felt around for the two blankets and crouched shivering in a corner. Her head hurt abysmally and nausea combined with fear to keep her on the verge of being violently sick. All of her life Natalie had admired courage and calmness in emergencies, had aspired to be like her father— quietly competent in situations that would have others babbling uselessly— and instead she crouched hopelessly in a corner, shaking violently and praying to no deity in particular that the honky monster would not return. The room was cold but not with the sub-freezing chill of the out-of-doors; it had the cold, steady clamminess of a cave. Natalie had no idea where she could be. Hours had passed and she was close to dozing, still shivering, when light flickered under the doorway, there came the sound of multiple bolts slamming back, and Melanie Fuller stepped into the room.
Natalie was sure it was Melanie Fuller, although the dancing light from the single candle the old lady held illuminated her face from below and showed a bizarre caricature of humanity: cheeks and eyes gullied with wrinkles, corded neck a mass of wattles, eyes like marbles staring from dark pits, the left eyelid drooping, thinning blue-white hair flying out from a mottled scalp like a nimbus of static electricity. Behind this apparition, Natalie could make out the lean form of the honky monster, hair hanging over a face streaked with dirt and blood. His broken teeth glinted yellowly in the light from the old woman’s candle. His hands were empty and the long white fingers twitched randomly, as if surges of current were passing through his body.
“Good evening, my dear,” said Melanie Fuller. She wore a long nightgown and a thick, cheap robe. Her feet were lost in pink fluffy slippers.
Natalie pulled the blanket tighter around her and said nothing. “Is it chilly in here, dear?” asked the old woman. “I am sorry. If it is any consolation, the entire house is rather cold. I don’t know how people lived in the North before central heating.” She smiled and candlelight gleamed off slick, perfect dentures. “Would you speak with me a minute, dear?”
Natalie considered attacking the woman while she was free to do so, then pushing past her into the dark room beyond. She caught a glimpse of a long, wooden table— certainly an antique— and stone walls beyond that. But between her and the room stood the boy with the demon eyes.
“You brought a picture of me all the way from Charleston to this city, didn’t you, dear?”
Natalie stared.
Melanie Fuller shook her head sadly. “I have no wish to harm you, dear, but if you will not speak to me willingly, I will have to ask Vincent to remonstrate with you.”
Natalie’s heart pounded as she watched the honky monster take a step forward and stop.
“Where did you get the photograph, dear?”
Natalie tried to find enough moisture in her mouth to allow her to speak. “Mr. Hodges.”
“Mr. Hodges gave it to you?” Melanie Fuller’s tone was skeptical. “No. Mrs. Hodges let us go through his slides.”
“Who is us, dear?” The old woman smiled slightly. Candlelight illuminated cheekbones pressing against skin like knife blades under parchment.
Natalie said nothing. “I presume then that ‘us’ includes you and the sheriff,” Melanie Fuller said softly. “Now why on earth would you and a Charleston policeman come all this way to harass an old woman who has done you no harm?”
Natalie felt the anger burning up through her, igniting her limbs with strength, banishing the weakness of terror. “You killed my father!” she screamed. Her back scraped against rough stone as she tried to rise.
The old woman looked puzzled. “Your father? There must be some mistake, dear.”
Natalie shook her head, fighting back the hot tears. “You used your goddamn servant to kill him. For no reason.”
“My servant? Mr. Thorne? I am afraid you are confused, dear.” Natalie would have spit at the blue-haired monster then, but her mouth held no saliva.
“Who else is searching for me?” asked the old woman. “Are you and the sheriff alone? How did you follow me here?”
Natalie forced a laugh; it sounded like seeds rattling in an empty tin. “Everyone knows you’re here. We know all about you and the old Nazi and your other friend. You can’t kill people anymore. No matter what you do to me, you’re finished . . .” She stopped because her heart was beating hard enough to hurt her breast.
The old woman looked alarmed for the first time. “Nina?” she said. “Did Nina send you?”
For a second the name meant nothing to Natalie, and then she remembered the third member of the trio Saul Laski had described. She remembered Rob’s description of the murders in the Mansard House. Natalie looked into Melanie Fuller’s wildly dilated eyes and saw madness there. “Yes,” said Natalie firmly, knowing that she might be dooming herself but wanting to strike out at any cost, “Nina sent me. Nina knows where you are.”
The old woman staggered back as if she had been struck in the face. Her mouth sagged in fear. She grasped the doorway for support, looked at the thing she had called Vincent, found no help there, and gasped, “I am tired. We will talk later. Later.” The door crashed shut, bolts slid into place.
Natalie crouched in the darkness and shivered.
Daylight came as thin bands of gray above and below the thick door. Natalie dozed, feverish, her head aching. She awoke with a sense of urgency. She had to relieve herself and there was no place to do, not even a pot. She pounded on the door and shouted until she was hoarse, but there was no response. Finally she found a loose stone in the far corner, clawed at it until it tilted out of the dirt, and used the small niche as a latrine. Finished, she pulled her blankets closer to the door and lay there sobbing.
It was dark again when she awoke with a start. The bolts slammed back and the thick door squeaked open. Vincent stood there alone.
Natalie scrambled backward, feeling for the loose stone to use as a weapon, but the youth was on her in a second, grabbing her hair and tugging her upright. His left arm went around her throat, cutting off her wind and will. Natalie closed her eyes.
The honky monster roughly pulled her out of her cell and half dragged, half pushed her to a steep, narrow stairway. Natalie had time to catch a glimpse of a dark kitchen out of colonial times and a small parlor with a kerosene heater glowing in a tiny fireplace before she was stumbling up the stairway. There was a short, dark hall at the top, and then Vincent shoved her into a room aglow with candlelight.
Natalie stood in shock, staring. Melanie Fuller lay curled in a fetal position amid a tangle of quilts and blankets on a low rollaway. The room had high ceilings, a single shuttered and draped window, and was lit by at least three dozen candles set on floor, tables, moldings, windowsills, mantel, and in a square around the old lady’s bed. Here and there were the rotting mementos of children long since dead— a broken doll house, a crib with metal bars making it look like the case for some small beast, ancient rag dolls, and a disturbing four-foot-tall mannequin of a boy looking as if it had suffered prolonged exposure to radiation: patches of hair missing and molted, peeling paint on the face looking like pools of subcutaneous blood.
Melanie Fuller rolled over and looked at her. “Do you hear them?” she whispered.
Natalie turned her head. There was no sound but Vincent’s heavy breathing and the pounding of her own heart. She said nothing.
“They say it is almost time,” the old woman hissed. “I sent Anne home in case we need the car.”
Natalie glanced toward the stairway. Vincent blocked her escape. Her eyes moved around the room, searching for a possible weapon. The metal crib was too bulky. The mannequin almost certainly too awkward. If she had a knife, anything sharp, she could go for the old woman’s throat. What would the honky monster do if the Voodoo Lady died? Melanie Fuller looked dead; her skin seemed as blue as her hair in the pulsing light and the old lady’s left eyelid drooped almost shut.
“Tell me what Nina wants,” whispered Melanie Fuller. Her eyes shifted back and forth, seeking Natalie’s gaze. “Nina, tell me what you w
ant. I did not mean to kill you, my darling. Can you hear the voices, dear? They have told me you were coming. They tell me about the fire and the river. I should get dressed, dear, but my clean clothes are at Anne’s and it is far too far to go. I have to rest awhile. Anne will bring them when she comes. You will like Anne, Nina. If you want her, you can have her.”
Natalie stood, panting slightly, with a strange visceral terror rising within her. It might be her last chance. Should she make an effort to brush past Vincent, get down the stairs and find an exit? Or go for the old woman? She looked at Melanie Fuller. The woman smelled of age and baby powder and old sweat. At that second Natalie knew without a doubt that this was the thing responsible for her father’s death. She remembered the last time she had seen her father— hugging a good-bye at the airport two days after Thanksgiving, the soap and tobacco smell of him, his sad eyes and kind smell.
Natalie decided that Melanie Fuller had to die. She tensed her muscles to jump.
“I’m tired of your impertinence, girl!” screamed the old woman. “What are you doing up here? Get back to your duties. You know what Papa does to bad niggers!” The old woman in the bed closed her eyes.
Natalie felt something cleave her skull like an ax. Her mind was on fire. She pivoted, fell forward, tried to regain her balance. Synapses misfired as she staggered around in a palsied dance. She struck the wall, struck it again, and fell back against Vincent. The boy put streaked, filthy hands on her breasts. His breath smelled like carrion. He ripped Natalie’s shirt down the front.
“No, no,” said the old woman from the bed. “Do it downstairs. Take the body back to the house when you are done.” The hag sat up on her elbow and looked at Natalie with one eye open, the other showing only white under a heavy lid. “You lied to me, dear. You don’t have a message from Nina after all.”
Natalie opened her mouth to say something, to scream, but Vincent grabbed her by the hair and clamped a powerful hand over her face. She was dragged from the room, shoved down the steep stairs. Stunned, she tried to crawl away, her hands scrabbling on rough boards. Vincent did not hurry. He took his time coming down the stairs, caught her as she got to her knees, and kicked her brutally in the side.
Natalie rolled against the wall, tried to huddle into a tight, invisible ball. Vincent grabbed her by the hair with both hands and pulled hard.
She rose, screaming, and kicked as hard as she could at his testicles. He easily caught her foot and twisted sharply. Natalie spun but not fast enough; she heard her ankle snap like a dry twig and she fell hard on her hands and left shoulder. Pain surged up her right leg like blue flame.
Natalie looked back just as Vincent pulled the knife from his army jacket and flipped open the long blade. She tried to crawl away, but he reached down, half lifted her by the shirt. The fabric tore again and Vincent ripped at the rest of the material. Natalie kept crawling down the dark hallway, feeling ahead of her for some kind of weapon. There was nothing but cold floorboards.
She rolled onto her back as Vincent stepped forward with a crash of heavy boots, stood straddling her. Natalie turned and bit through filthy denim, feeling her teeth sink deep into his calf muscle. He did not flinch or make a noise. The blade moved in a blur past her ear, cutting her bra strap and leaving a long line of pain down her back.
Natalie let out a gasp, rolled on her back again, and raised her hands in a futile effort to stop the blade’s return.
Outside, the explosions started.
THIRTY-TWO
Germantown
Wednesday, Dec. 31, 1980
The problem is,” said Tony Harod, “I’ve never killed anyone.”
“No one?” asked Maria Chen. “No one,” said Harod. “Never.”
Maria Chen nodded and poured more champagne into each of their glasses. They lay naked, facing each other in the long bathtub in Room 2010 of the Chestnut Hills Inn. Mirrors reflected the light of a single scented candle. Harod lay back and looked at Maria Chen through heavy-lidded eyes; her brown legs rose between the sharp white boundaries of his knees, her thighs were parted, her ankles touched his ribs in the soapy water. Bubbles hid all but the top curve of her right breast, but he could see the other nipple, as sweet and heavy as a strawberry in the dark water. He admired the curve of her throat and heavy weight of her black hair as she threw back her head to drink from the overflowing champagne glass.
“It’s midnight,” said Maria Chen, glancing at his gold Rolex on the counter. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” said Harod. They clinked glasses. They had been drinking since nine P.M. It was Maria Chen’s idea to take a bath. “Never killed anyone,” muttered Harod. “Never had to.”
“It looks like you will have to now,” said Maria Chen. “When Joseph left today, he reiterated Mr. Barent’s insistence that you be the one to . . .”
“Yeah.” Harod stood up and set his glass on the counter. He toweled off and held out his hand. Maria Chen took it and rose slowly from the bubbles. Harod used the towel gently, dabbing her dry, running both arms around her from behind to draw the thick terry cloth across her breasts. She shifted her weight to one foot and moved her thighs apart slightly as he dried between her legs. Harod dropped the towel, lifted Maria Chen in both arms, and carried her into the bedroom.
It was like the first time for Harod. He had not had a woman on her terms since he was fifteen years old. Maria Chen’s skin tasted of soap and cinnamon. She gasped when he entered her and they rolled across a wide expanse of soft sheets; Maria Chen lying atop him when they stopped, still joined, still moving, their hands and mouths sliding against one another. Maria Chen’s orgasm was sudden and powerful, her moans soft. Harod came seconds later, closing his eyes and clinging to her as a falling man clings to the last thing that might break his fall.
The phone rang. Continued to ring.
Harod shook his head. Maria Chen kissed his hand, slid across the sheets to answer it. She handed the receiver to him.
“Harod, you’ve got to get down here now,” came Colben’s excited voice. “All hell’s breaking loose!”
Colben went back into the control room. Men sat at monitors, scribbled notes, whispered into headset microphones. “Where the hell is Gallagher?” bellowed Colben.
“Still no word, sir,” answered the technician at Console Two. “Fuck it then,” said Colben. “Tell Green Team to quit looking for him. Assign them to back up Blue Two near Market.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colben strode down the narrow corridor to stand behind the last console. “The spooks still at Home Castle?”
“Yes, sir,” said the young woman in front of the monitor. She threw a switch and the view shifted from the front of Anne Bishop’s house to the alley behind it. Even with the light-intensifying lenses, the figures near the garage fifty meters down the alley were mere shadows.
Colben counted twelve shadows. “Get me Gold One,” he snapped. “Yes, sir.” The technician handed him an extra headset. “Peterson, I see a dozen of them now. What the fuck is going on there?”
“Don’t know, sir. You want us to move in?”
“Negative on that,” said Colben. “Stand by.”
“Eight more unknowns on Ashmead,” said the agent at Console Five. “Just passed White Team.”
Colben pulled his headset off. “Where the hell is Haines?”
“Just picked up Harod and his secretary,” called the man at Console One. “ETA in five minutes.”
Colben lit a cigarette and tapped the female technician on the shoulder. “Get Hajek and the chopper over here right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Agent James Leonard stepped out of Colben’s office and beckoned him over. “Mr. Barent on line three.”
Colben closed the door. “Colben here.”
“Happy New Year, Charles,” came Barent’s voice. From the static and hollow tone, it sounded like a satellite call to Colben.
“Yeah,” said Colben. “What’s up?”
&nbs
p; “I was talking to Joseph earlier,” said Barent. “He has some concerns about the way the operation is going.”
“So what’s new?” said Colben. “Kepler is always bitching about something. Why didn’t he stay here if he was so fucking concerned?”
“Joseph said that he had other things to take care of in New York,” said Barent. There was a pause. “Is there any sign of our friends?”
“You mean the old kraut,” said Colben. “No. Not since the explosion in the ware house yesterday.”
“Do you have any idea why Willi would sacrifice one of his own operatives to terminate Dr. Laski? And why such overkill? Joseph said the city fire department had to be called in.”
“How the hell should I know?” snapped Colben. “Look, we’re not even sure that was Luhar and the Jew in there.”
“I thought your forensics people were working on it, Charles.”
“They are. But it’s a federal holiday tomorrow. Besides, as close as we can tell, Luhar and Laski were sitting on top of thirty pounds of C-4. There wasn’t much left for forensics to look at.”
“I understand, Charles.”
“Look,” said Colben, “I’m going to have to go. We have a situation developing here.”
“What kind of situation?” asked Barent through the static. “Nothing serious. Some of those goddamn kids from the gang are farting around in the secured zone.”
“This will not complicate the morning’s business, will it?” asked Barent. “Negative,” snapped Colben. “I’ve got Harod on the way over here now. If need be, we can seal off the area in ten minutes and take care of the Fuller woman ahead of schedule.”