The Brownstone, page 30
She stopped suddenly; the young girl stepped forward.
“Why are you here?” asked Elizabeth.
“I wish a Handparting from Steven M. Rock,” the young girl replied.
“Do you desire this of your own free will?”
“I do.”
“Then let us proceed, remembering that we stand ever before Ahriman.”
The young girl began to call upon the furies of hell, reminding them of the dreadful, repulsive sacrifices she had made in their honor. She demanded that the corpse stand erect before her. The body did not move. From behind her back, she removed a human hand and slapped the man across his face; the stump shot blood over everything. The body rose, not by degrees, but in a single impulse and stood erect. His eyelids opened.
Chandal felt the sickness in her stomach; she was going to vomit. She took a deep breath, covered her mouth.
The young man uttered no sound. The girl commanded him to speak, to admit that he had betrayed her. If he would tell her what she wanted to hear, she would burn the body in such a way that he would never again be disturbed.
Slowly, he spoke—admitted betrayal and begged her forgiveness. With outstretched hands, he implored her to desist in the ceremony. Request denied; his body was returned to the table. The young girl’s hand shot straight up and held a slimy thing high in the air. “From this fetus, let him be reborn!”
Fetus! Chandal closed her eyes. Oh, God—no! Not my baby! Please—not my child!
The young girl flung the slime onto his body. Elizabeth fit the torch, placed it to his pale frame. Soon he was writhing on fire, and in one violent gush of agony and smoke, he vanished.
Elizabeth, in a high hysterical voice, cried, “Now are you Hand-parted. Let all know you as such. Go your separate ways. So be it.” She bowed her head.
Gagging, Chandal fled down through the building, into the bathroom below, and vomited. Her entire insides felt as though they were coming out of her. “Oh, God!” she muttered. “Please help me!” The phone rang suddenly in the living room. Chandal’s head spun around to face the door. The phone continued to ring—she half-rose, fell back. She tried again to lift her body, failed. The ringing stopped.
Billy, she thought. She had forgotten all about Billy. Oh, please, Billy—call back. Please call back. She waited. Silence.
After ten minutes or so, she got up, kept her head bent low. She washed her face hard, scrubbed it; all evidence of makeup vanished. “Oh, Christ, you’re beautiful,” she muttered sarcastically.
She sat down on the edge of the bathtub, swallowed, and the bad taste in her mouth started to make her feel sick all over again. She opened the medicine chest, grabbed the mouthwash, rinsed out her mouth, and felt better. Again the phone rang in the living room. She opened the door, stepped into the bedroom. The ringing continued. She hurried, stumbling once or twice over the furniture, but never enough to make her come close to falling. “Hello? Hello?” The sound of her own voice frightened her. “Billy?”
It was the producer of Justin’s show. Talking in short, choppy sentences, he told her that the theater was on fire, that they feared Justin, was trapped inside. At least, that’s what an eyewitness had reported. She should get down there right away. Hysteria came fast. Her face crumbled and she spun for the door and was halfway into the hallway before Justin had grabbed her.
“OhmyGod!” She was stunned to see him standing right there next to her.
“What’s the matter? You look surprised to see me.” He smiled.
“The theater—it’s on fire! They told me that you were inside!”
“They’re wrong. As you can see, I’m right here.” There was something too calm about Justin, too constant. Chandal felt uneasy standing that close to him. His body blocked her way; she had no room to move, to breathe.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? The theater is on fire!”
“I know.”
“But someone is trapped inside, they said.”
“So?” A look of amusement came over his face.
“Look, Justin—stop the what-about-it stuff! I’m telling you that your theater is on fire. It’s your production, so can we discuss it?”
He became angry. “Wrong! It’s not my theater, not my production! They fired me today! That’s right—shit-canned! The playwright decided to direct his own play, so now let the bastard burn!”
Chandal started to answer, but Justin turned and walked into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, he stuck his head inside, threw up his hands in exasperation. “Goddamn thing is empty!” He slammed the door shut.
Chandal appeared at the kitchen door. “You think it’s the playwright, then?”
“I hope so!”
“You hate him that much?”
“Yes! How’s that for a simple statement of fact?” He dropped into a chair.
“Statement of fact? I’ll tell you a statement of fact! Not more than an hour ago, I...” She looked for the words to describe what had taken place in the attic, but something made her stop. She took an extra-long look at Justin sitting there, legs crossed, arms folded. Could he be trusted? She went one step further. Did he know what had gone on in the attic? Was he part of it?
Justin smiled. “I thought you were leaving. California, wasn’t it?”
He waited. Chandal said nothing.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“Do you want me to?”
“It doesn’t matter one way or the other. But, if you want to—go ahead.”
“Okay.” She paused. “I think you need help.”
“Help?”
“Yes, I think there’s something wrong with you. Maybe you know what it is, maybe you don’t.”
“Really? And what’s that?”
“Magdalen.”
“Magdalen?” He stiffened.
“Yes, I think Magdalen has gotten to you.”
“Oh, in what way?”
“Your feelings. I think—I think you’re in love with her.”
“In love with her!” His body began to tremble. “How goddamn stupid can you get? She’s an old woman, for Christ’s sake!” He got up and left the room muttering. “You’re so damn ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as that bastard playwright!”
“Yes, you love her!” Chandal followed him into the living room. “Admit it! Admit that you’ve been with her day and night, that you can’t keep away from her!”
“Shut up!”
“No, I won’t. Justin, she’s evil. All of them—evil!”
“I said, shut up!”
“Look at you—you’re grotesque! Lusting after a seventy-year-old woman. Justin, stop a minute. Look at the facts. Not what you feel—the facts! Please!” She was speaking very fast now. “You’re a young man in love with a woman old enough to be your grandmother. Can’t you see how perverted that is? How sick?”
Justin lunged for her, slapped her hard on the face. “She’s a goddess, do you hear me?”
“I hear you—but do you hear me?” She paused, feeling the sting from his slap. “You wanted to know what I thought. All right, I’ll tell you,” she said. “Let’s see if you can take it. I may be completely cock-eyed about everything I’m about to say. If I am, forget it—hate me. I don’t care. Something is wrong here. Maybe you’re a part of it, maybe not. If not you’re the only one in this building who isn’t. Justin, she killed her husband. I’ve checked—his death isn’t recorded anywhere. Why? Because they killed him and hid his body in the basement wall! I’ve seen it!”
“Shut up!”
“Justin, she wants you. She had our building vacated. She knew you’d come to live here. Justin—she’s a witch! I’ve seen them—in the attic. Both of them—witches!” She stopped speaking, looked earnestly into his eyes.
He took a step forward, put out his hand, pressed her arm. He smiled. “I know.”
Numbly, she stared back at him, feeling his fingers closing tighter and tighter around her arm, bruising her flesh. His eyes!
Chandal pulled her arm free. Justin grabbed her again; he couldn’t keep hold and she ran to the front door. It wouldn’t open. She dashed into the spare room and locked herself in. Justin pounded on the door, calling for her to come out, but she was crying far too loudly to care.
Finally, he moved away from the door.
Chandal remained in the corner of the room. Her head jerked back and forth; her mouth hung open. The brownstone fell silent and the young girl smiled. Justin laid his head in her lap, closed his eyes. The attic was now his favorite room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SHE REALIZED THAT HER RUNNING SERVED NO PURPOSE; she couldn’t escape. They were on top of her now—the mannequins, all of them, reaching out for her, pulling at her arms, face, laughing.
Chandal’s eyes shot open, but only her pupils moved to take in the room. Beneath her eyelids, they slid from one side to the other looking for a sign of Justin. The room was empty.
Thin beams of yellowing sunlight forced their way into the spare room through the open spaces in the shutters. Filled with dust, they formed a strange pattern on the floor and across the piles of unopened boxes. One of her fingers moved slightly, next her whole hand; she was still alive. She had survived the night.
She listened; heard the thin, high singing of children playing in the schoolyard the next street over. The sound of their voices drifted away and she was now more alone than ever.
Slowly at first, she moved toward the door. Justin had removed the key from inside the lock. She hesitated, listened—the brownstone was completely without sound. Was Justin home? She had to risk it. Pulling on the door, she found that it was locked from the outside. She pulled even harder. The door wouldn’t budge. They meant to keep her locked away now. For what reason?
Alarmed, she moved faster, back to the window, lowered her body, peered through the tiny crack in the shutters. In the window, high above in the neighboring building, she thought she saw an old man gazing from his room. She pressed her face against the cold window. Yes—there was a man! He appeared closer now, almost within reach.
Wrenching the base of the window, her knuckles whitened, the veins in her neck filled with the excess of strained blood. The man moved suddenly; he was leaving the window. “No,” she muttered aloud, “please don’t go!” Then, like cymbals clashing, the sharp crash of breaking glass echoed through the room. She’d shattered the window with an old wooden statue.
Cold, controlled logic stopped her from calling out. The man was no longer visible at his window—the shutters were boarded over from the outside. Through the shutters, past the thick snow, up over the fence to the sixth floor where he lived, through his closed window—how would he hear her?
The phone rang in the living room, giving her a start. Holding her breath, she waited to see if anyone would answer it.
Justin did. Was it Billy? Was he finally coming over?
The sound of his voice was calm. There was a brief flurry of words which she could not catch. Justin spoke, but never twice in the same way; he used his own voice, then the voice of the young doctor—a high voice, a low voice.
Chandal stood near the broken window shivering and waiting; her hands dug deep into her arms, wrapped around her body for warmth.
Now she heard Justin hang up, walk along the hallway, open the nursery door, but he did not go inside. He turned away from the room, closed the door and moved toward the kitchen. Chandal knew that he was coming to her.
“Chandal?” he said softly, standing outside the door. “Chandal, it’s Steven.” At the end of these words, he shoved a piece of parchment under the door. “Chandal, you must not be frightened. You will be safe with us. Just sign your name in The Tree. Then we will know that you are one of us.”
She hesitated, then picked up the piece of paper. Inscribed across the top were the same symbols that were written on the pad that she’d thrown into the wastepaper basket. Under these symbols were the signatures of Elizabeth and Magdalen Krispin. Beneath them—Steven M. Rock. There was no doubt now. Justin had become one of them. His handwriting was unmistakable. Methodically, she tore the paper to shreds.
Justin spoke so abusively to her now that she took an involuntary step backward and sat on the end of the bed. Suddenly he fell silent, but did not move away from the door; his stillness was more menacing than movement.
The front doorbell rang. Billy!
Justin turned with a measured, deliberate movement from the door. “Chandal, I will let Mr. Fein in now. Do not make a sound, for his sake. If you do, I will be forced to destroy him. Do you understand?” Justin left the kitchen, crossed to the front door, and let Harvey Fein in.
Closing the door behind him, Justin locked it. Something Steven always did when he wanted to annoy a guest. They went into the living room. Justin moved to the record player and flicked it on.
The soundtrack from Funny Girl—loud.
Sentence fragments. They were talking about the fire. The producer was describing the bodies.
“Jesus! They were black. I almost threw up. I was there when they dragged them out, before they covered them up. I shouldn’t have looked. Jesus!”
A pause.
Justin’s voice, flat, emotionless. “Well, that’s sad. Yes—very sad.”
“I’ll never forget it. The building was burning like a goddamn matchbox. You know, it looked like something you see in a movie. No kidding. The fire shooting out of the windows. Black smoke—I mean filthy, pitch-black soot pouring out. Hot as hell. You know, I keep wondering if they were dead before... well, before they burned. I keep seeing them. Burning alive. Jesus, what a way to go!” His voice sounded sick, nervous. “How about a cup of coffee?” he asked.
“All right. I’ll get it.”
The record player was switched abruptly off, interrupting Barbra Streisand in mid-syllable, distorting her sad voice.
Chandal knelt quickly by the keyhole and peered into the kitchen. Justin came into view, looked in her direction, then back toward the living room, and crossed to the sink to fill the kettle with water.
Chandal watched the producer linger in the kitchen doorway. “Nice place you have here. Plenty of space,” he said, twirling a plaid rain hat between his fingers. He was dressed in a finely tailored woolen suit. Immaculately tailored, even in disaster. “So you heard Richards and Morgan were in there last night? Hell, I know they were bastards, but even so...”
“I guess so,” said Justin in a flat voice.
Fein paused uncomfortably. “But, how did you know they were—”
“Billy told me.” Justin lit the flame under the kettle.
“Strange.” Fein sat.
“How’s that?”
“I just spoke with Billy a while ago. He said he still hadn’t been able to reach you. That’s why I stopped by.”
“He called right after you hung up.” Justin looked at the spare room. Chandal held her breath, moving away from the door slightly. No one had called after Justin received the first call. She knew that. There was still hope that Billy would come. That he would be able to make Justin listen to reason.
She cautiously knelt on one knee. Listened.
“Four people dead—it’s hard to believe.” Fein inched forward in his chair. He was practically sitting on its edge. He offered Justin a cigarette, but he declined with a negative jerk of the head. Fein lit one for himself; his hand shook a bit. “Apparently, Richards and Morgen thought you were in the theater; that’s why they lit the fire.”
“If I was still the director, I would have been.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“The way things worked out—I’m not!”
The two men faced each other in awkward silence.
“Where’s your wife?” asked Fein, filling his lungs with smoke.
“California. She left yesterday.”
Chandal stopped herself from calling out. She bit down hard, caught a corner of her tongue. She moved away from the keyhole briefly while she collected her wits. Oh—please! She swallowed hard.
Fein nodded, rubbed his temple. “You want to know the truth, for whatever it means to you?” He put down his cigarette. “I was against his directing his own show. It was my first play; I needed a good director—that’s why I got you. I could have made it happen; I wanted a hit play. If you want something enough and you care, you can make it happen. The truth—I felt terrible about getting rid of you, but Jesus, I was alone, three against one. The stage manager—”
“Bullshit!”
“What?”
“Quit with the games. You had to trust me. I needed time to get my head on straight. I busted my ass for you guys—you dumped me! You want to know something? I’m glad the playwright burned up, the stage manager along with him. I’m glad, so what do you say to that?”
Fein delicately rubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, smiling his still-boyish smile. “Don’t try to shock me with your callousness, Justin. I was born into it. I recognize it for what it really is.”
“What’s that?”
“An effort to create meaning—purpose. Ambition. I recognized it in you immediately. The way you walk. The way you hold your head, your hands, always waiting for the right opportunity. Always expecting a great fist to drop down from out of the sky and crack you on top of your head when you least expect it. So you walk around expecting it—waiting, ready.”
“Take a better look; maybe I’ve changed.”
“A little, not much. Somebody told me a funny story about you yesterday.”
“Really? Who?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. You were at a dinner, had too much to drink, and somebody was eyeing your girl friend. You grabbed hold of him and said, ‘Just because I used to be blind in one eye, it doesn’t mean I can’t see now.’ And you hit him. See, always ready to stop people from taking something away from you. That’s called ambition.” He lifted his hat from the table. “I’ll be talking to you again.” He stirred from his chair.
Chandal tried to speak—no words came. Her mouth felt dry. She swallowed, tried again—nothing. She stood up, stepped back, knocking a large cardboard box onto the floor.
