The Brownstone, page 29
“Yeah.” Chandal held the door open for her.
“You know I’ve often wondered,” said Sissy, sliding the smooth kid gloves over her long, delicate fingers, “why we didn’t move out there years ago when we felt the urge. We planned to go, remember? I don’t know what we were afraid of. But then we were afraid of so many things then, weren’t we?”
Chandal smiled sadly. “I’ll see you.”
“Write me?”
“Yes.”
She reached over quickly and kissed Chandal on the cheek. “I’ll see you.” She turned away quickly.
Chandal watched Sissy throw back her hair, find a firm grip on the railing, and start down the stairs. She remembered the hours she’d spent trying to impress Sissy. Studying languages, learning to ride horses, talking feminist—all to gain her admiration. “Sissy?”
Sissy turned back, her scarf lifting and blowing in the wind. “Yes...?”
“That night. When you left here. You saw something—felt something in the spare room, didn’t you? More than what you’ve told me.”
Protestation and confusion rose to Sissy’s face.
“Didn’t you?” Chandal asked.
The truth leaped to Sissy’s eyes. Still she said nothing.
“You should have told me, you know,” said Chandal, a mask of regret settling upon her face.
Sissy stopped where she was on the steps and watched as Chandal gave a kind of small, casual wave and then closed the front door. “I guess we’ve never really known each other,” she muttered then hurried away up the street.
Chandal’s mind immediately leaped to the picture of Magdalen’s husband, Dr. Steven M. Rock. But the young doctor was dead. Elizabeth had said that he was. If so, she had been seeing the young man’s spirit. Had Sissy also seen him?
Spirit? Was that even a remote possibility? Chandal couldn’t stop her imagination. Was the doctor really dead? Elizabeth had lied, lied plenty. She wasn’t to be trusted. None of them were to be trusted. Chandal had to remember that.
Flipping through her address book, she found the “M’s”; ran her finger down the column until it stopped at McLeary, Jonas, an old boyfriend fresh out of law school who now worked for the firm of Kahn, Leafgreen, and Rhodes.
Jonas was hard to reach. The secretary’s tone implied that Chandal was trying to get a call through to God, and she was put on hold.
What time was it now? Twelve-fifteen P.M. She switched off the record player, balancing the phone between her head and her shoulder.
Jonas was surprised and delighted to hear Chandal’s voice. “How long has it been?”
“Three years.” With a quick gesture, she swept a couple of errant curls from her forehead. If he could see me, he wouldn’t be that impressed. She suddenly wished that she looked better.
“It feels like only yesterday. How are you?”
She nodded. “All right.”
“Everything’s okay, then?”
“Sure. Uh, you wouldn’t have some time this afternoon, would you?”
He hadn’t. He was leaving town and wouldn’t be back for at least a week. “Is there anything that I can help you with?”
“I needed to locate the records of a doctor. Steven M. Rock. He died in the winter of...”—she paused for a moment, remembering what Elizabeth had said—“...1930.”
“Your best bet is to contact the American Medical Association. If he was a member, they’d have his records.”
They talked a few minutes; he promised to call her the minute he returned. She led him to believe that she’d be delighted to lunch with him at that time and then hung up. God, I wasn’t thinking about him at all, she thought. Now he thinks—Her mind shifted as she dialed information. The American Medical Association wasn’t listed in New York; it was located in Chicago. What Chandal wanted was the Medical Society, Manhattan, County of New York.
Second call; you want membership, I’ll switch you. Membership; you want State Medical Society.
Third call; hold on, I’ll give you the Medical Directory. Yes, we had a Steven M. Rock—he resigned in 1930. Call the Medical Examiner’s Office.
Fourth call; hold on, I’ll give you administration. No, call the Health Department.
Fifth call; yes, this is the Health Department. No, you want Birth and Death Records.
Sixth call—no! We have no record of a Steven M. Rock, M.D., dying during the year of 1930. No, not 1929, or 1931, or 1932. Sorry.
Chandal continued to call every source available; nowhere was Dr. Steven M. Rock listed as dead.
Again she glanced at her watch. Two-thirty P.M. Probably she should eat something. She went to the refrigerator; the cottage cheese had gone bad. Nothing else appealed to her. What day was it? February 15. Barely a month since she’d set foot into the brownstone. Had she packed everything?
In the bedroom, she stopped and stared at the mirror. Justin had painted the back of the mirror black! Why? And why had Elizabeth told her that the young doctor had died of cancer? If he had, there would have been a medical record of it someplace!
None of it made sense. Start at the beginning—California. They were going to California. The building was being renovated—Bender wanted everyone out. So they would take the $6,000 and—but then Bender had changed his mind. Lois was still living there. They didn’t have to leave, after all. Bender had changed his mind. Why? It probably wasn’t important but... She moved quickly into the spare room, switched on the light. Justin’s old desk. First drawer, second drawer—where was it? Bottom drawer—papers, bills, lease—and there it was, the agreement they’d signed accepting $6,000. L&S, Ltd.
She went into the living room, looking at the telephone number on the letterhead. She dialed.
“L&S—good afternoon.”
“Hello, uh, I was wondering if you can give me some information? This is Chandal Knight. I used to live at Forty-six West Eighty-fifth Street. We moved from there about a month ago. Do you remember?”
“Just a minute.” The phone clicked on hold. Waiting, Chandal dog-eared the letterhead. Finally! “Yes, this is Mr. Bailey—can I help you?”
“Yes—hello. Chandal Knight. I lived at Forty-six West Eighty-fifth—”
“Oh, yes. How are you?”
“Fine. I-I noticed that Mr. Bender has decided not to renovate our old building.”
Bailey made an agreeable mumble that she took to mean yes.
“He changed his mind, then?” she asked.
“No, the owners did. They love the building and decided not to destroy its natural beauty.”
“Wait a minute. I’m confused. Doesn’t Mr. Bender own the building?”
“No, he sold it about six months ago.”
“But he was responsible for moving us out.”
“That was part of the condition of sale—that the present owners would buy the building only if it was vacated. It was Mr. Bender’s responsibility to deliver the building totally empty.”
“Oh, I see. Could you tell me who owns the building now?”
“Not actually—it’s part of an estate. The Krispin Estate.”
“Krispin. The two sisters?” Chandal’s hands began to tremble.
“Well—I know there are at least two sisters, but then there could be more.”
“Thank you.” She hung up. Chandal knew now that whatever was in store for her had been arranged for a long time.
The silence intensified. She reached behind her, felt for a chair, and sank slowly down. Were they in the Brownstone right this minute? Listening, perhaps? The danger was real; there was no longer any denying that. What exactly was going on, she didn’t know, but she knew it had started sometime ago. She reached into her pocket, drew out a cigarette, and lit it. Was Justin part of it? She drew in a lungful of smoke. If he was, then he was the enemy. She blew out the smoke in rings—they were imperfect and broke apart rapidly. If he wasn’t involved, he was in terrible trouble. No, she couldn’t leave now. She had to stay and... what? She walked back to the bedroom and pulled the door shut, putting a chair under the doorknob. Idiot. Whoever they were, they couldn’t be stopped so easily. Slowly she pulled the chair away, put out her cigarette.
The phone rang in the living room. Chandal remained still, letting the phone continue to ring. It was probably Sissy. She would ask Chandal to change her mind, stay in New York. Try to work things out. Her body, was moving now.
She wondered how long it would take for the phone to stop ringing. She was only a few steps away from picking it up. Through one door, through the hall, past another door to the table beside the couch.
Only a few more steps, yet an all but overwhelming distance; she would have to be patient with Sissy. Humble. Show no sign of agitation.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Chandal. Is Justin there?”
“Billy?”
“Yeah.” Pause. “Anything wrong?”
“No. No, I just wasn’t expecting it to be you, that’s all.’” ’
“Is Justin there?”
“No. Isn’t he at rehearsal?”
Slight pause. “Uh, no—rehearsals were canceled for the day.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, not really. The playwright’s doing some rewrites. Fein decided to start fresh in the morning. Give us all a break.”
“I see.” Chandal put the phone to her chest. The sweat was running down her forehead into her eyes. She wiped her eyes dry with the back of her hand.
“Chandal?”
“Yes. Billy, can you come over here?”
“When?”
“Now. Please. Justin and I are in trouble. We... we need help. Please Billy, it’s important. Can you?”
“Sure. Sure, I can be there in an hour. How’s that?”
Chandal sighed with relief. “That’s fine.”
“You all right?”
“Yes.” She started to smile nervously. “Just a little nervous.”
“Hey, come on. Relax. It’s been a rough couple of months. Listen, you go into the bedroom and he down. Rest. I’ll be over there before you know it.”
“Okay.” Chandal could feel the tension draining from her body.
“Promise me now, okay? That you’ll go inside and lie down. That you’ll get some sleep until I get there.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Good, I’ll see you in a little while. Whatever the trouble is, I’m sure we can get it worked out. See you.”
Relieved, Chandal dropped the receiver into its cradle. God, why hadn’t she thought of Billy before this? He had always helped them before. He’d make sense out of the whole thing.
Chandal let her body fall limp across the bed. Her frenzy began to dissipate, although it could explode again in an instant. And then, without any warning at all, she felt something snap inside her. Her eyelids flickered—heavy, moist, they closed. Now her body rocked gently in a kind of suspended animation, as though she were floating on a still, calm pond.
“Sleep...” the voice whispered.
Suddenly Chandal realized that she had made a fatal mistake. She became aware of a strange phosphorescent light that seemed to emanate from her body. She trembled. The glow became a brilliant flash—blinding, yet warm. She could see her body silhouetted against the sudden blast of light. It seemed to be suspended in midair. She began to sink, down, down, until she was lost in a deep sleep.
Justin waited. It was getting colder now. Inside Charlie’s, he heard the cheers and the applause; someone had opened in a hit show on Broadway the night before.
“Excuse us.” A young couple brushed Justin aside and entered the restaurant. He followed.
Inside, he dropped on the closest barstool and ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. Pipe smoke burned his eyes; the man sitting next to him resembled a chimney stack. Over a pile of used pipe cleaners and burned matches, the man shoved money at the bartender and left.
Casually, Justin picked up the pipe cleaners and started to shape little figures. A body, a head, arms, and legs. Fired me. They actually fired me! The first figure he shaped represented the playwright. He built facial features, a large protruding nose—bastard! A cocktail napkin created the suit. I’m a talent; anyone knows that! The stage manager was more difficult to create. Long hair—thinner, shorter; I never liked short people! The little figures now lay on opposite sides of the ashtray.
“Give me a knife from the dining room, okay?” he asked a nearby waiter. Justin drew a circle with the end of a burned match; the knife lay across the bar. The bartender became curious when Justin asked for salt and water. The bartender brought them and watched.
Justin waited until the bartender was called away; bent his head low and whispered, “Ahriman, hear now my plea to you.” He placed the two figures into the ashtray; salt went into water; he lit a match and set the figures on fire. “Thus may they be drawn, one to the other, to be together always. As one in death. No more shall they be separated; no more let them live. But ever fast together—let them die!”
Intake Interview 6 (Excerpt)
I. Luther, M.D. 32326
Patient’s attitude since attack on Head Nurse Weiss has deteriorated completely. Patient now refuses to speak. Patient’s last spoken words: I asked, “Will you come to my office to talk?” Patient’s reply: “She will not be there.”
All scheduled consultations will be canceled to allow patient time for self-evaluation.
I. Luther
PART THREE
“I am who I am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHANDAL AWOKE EXACTLY AT TEN P.M. TO THE pulsating sound that came up from the basement. She lay there, her surroundings cold and bleak. “Come to the cellar tonight. At ten. I must talk with you,” the voice had said. But Chandal hadn’t gone to the basement that night. She had been too busy treating Justin’s battered face. And last night—the wake. Afterward, the less-than-settling drink with Sissy. This had been the first night in days that Chandal found herself alone in the brownstone. She glanced at the clock. Ten P.M.! Thoughts scattered, she leaned forward, listened to the sound. She knew it was coming from the basement wall. And behind it, yes—the young man. Of course.
She got up, went into the kitchen. The cellar door was open. She wondered if Justin had come home while she was asleep. “Justin?” she called out in a low voice; the echo came back to chill her. She knew the cellar now; that was important. She switched on the light; it remained dark below. She grabbed for the flashlight, descended the stairs, listened. A soft voice whispered, Help me. They are taking me away. Then the pulsating sound stopped.
Chandal watched as the thin, vaporous image started to materialize through the wall. Lying in a prone position, floating several feet from the floor, hovered the body of Dr. Steven M. Rock. Eyes bulging wide, dressed in an ancient frock coat, pleated trousers, high-buttoned shoes, he appeared before her.
The odor came next. The rancid smell of decaying meat. Meat that had been forgotten, buried away for years to rot. His body, Chandal thought. They had killed him years ago and had buried his body away inside the cellar wall. That’s why there wasn’t any record of his death. Yet, his body appeared preserved. Normal. Alive.
She covered her mouth to stop herself from gagging. The doctor’s body started to float now, away from the wall, toward the small doorway in the corner, which opened by itself to receive him.
A bolt of anxiety shot feverishly through Chandal’s veins. They’re taking him upstairs! No, I must speak with him! I must!
His body floated into the stairwell, rose higher toward the attic, out of sight. “No!” She screamed and rushed toward the door. The door slammed shut, locking her out.
She grabbed for the door; it wouldn’t open. I must talk with him!
She dashed upstairs to the kitchen, moved into the hallway, stared at the second-floor landing. She remembered that each floor had a doorway leading to the side stairwell.
She opened the front door to the second floor, slipped inside quickly, and passed into the first room on her right. She was starting to invent her own moves now, sure of what she was doing.
The door leading to the stairwell was locked; she moved up to the third floor, through the first empty room, through the doctor’s room. She tried the door to the stairwell; it opened. She entered the stairwell, climbed the stairs to the attic. As she climbed, she remembered having been thrown down the stairs, losing her baby. Awkwardly, she placed her hand on the doorknob, cracked open the door slightly. Almost the entire attic was visible to her now, and there on the large wooden table lay the corpse of the young man.
Next to him stood Elizabeth, draped in the folds of a satiny-blue robe, working on the body. The young girl stood off in the far corner, shadowed. Candles burned and the smell of incense was strong. Magdalen—where was she? Chandal looked behind her, down the long descending staircase. It was empty. She returned her gaze to the room.
And then she saw them. The huge icon paintings that she had seen in the museum. The skeleton on horseback, a hideous smile written across his boned face. The body lying in its bier, the mourners twisted and tormented in their grief. Below that painting, the flooding river raged, turned in on the horrified people who were about to be swallowed up. There they hung, looming in the shadows, their death images flat in the gloomy light. Flat, yet alive.
So she hadn’t imagined them. The paintings that she’d thought were in the museum had been in this room all along. She had seen them, maybe not with her eyes, but on another plane of her mind. It was the evil that surrounded her now that had killed Sheila. The distorted introspective religion. They’re devil worshippers, she thought with quiet, resigned certainty. She wondered why she wasn’t surprised, not a bit surprised, not really.
Chandal watched as Elizabeth selected bits of what looked like flesh and rubbed them over the young man’s arms, legs, and face. At length, she chanted, her voice harsh and loud, resembling at once the barking of a dog and the howling of a wolf.
