1990 - Mine v4 (30 page)

"A
what
?"

"My father always said I was going to grow up to be a wind-pisser. Somebody who pisses into the wind. That's what I am, like it or not." His shoulders shrugged. "Maybe I've been pissing in the wind so long I like the way it feels. What I'm trying to say is that I've got a good little life — both of us do. We don't need much, and we don't want much. Just the freedom to speak and write, and up at Rock City I play my pennywhistle and meditate. Life is very good. You know why it's so good?" He waited for her to shake her head. "Because I have no expectations," he said. "My philosophy is: let it be. I bend with the breeze, but I do not break."

"Zen," Laura said.

"Yes. If you try to resist the breeze, you get a broken back. So I sit in the sun and play my music, and I write a few books on subjects that hardly anybody cares about anymore, and I watch my kids growing and I have peace."

"I wish to God I did," Laura said.

Rose came in from the kitchen. She offered Laura the clay mug with the image of her husband's face molded into it. "Red Zinger again," Rose said. "I hope that's o —"

"Not that mug!" Mark Treggs was on his feet as Laura's fingers closed around the handle. "Jesus, no!"

Laura blinked up at him as he reached out to take it away from her. Rose stepped back, out of her way. "It's got a crack in it, I mean!" Treggs said; a goofy smile slid across his mouth. "The bottom's leaking!"

Laura held on to it. "It was okay this afternoon."

His smile twitched. His eyes darted to Rose and then back to Laura again. "Can I have that mug, please?" he said. "I'll get you another one."

Laura looked at Treggs's face on the mug. It was wearing the same goofy smile. A hand-crafted mug, she thought. Made by someone who was an artist. She lifted the mug up, being careful not to spill any of the tea, and as she looked at the bottom for any trace of leakage she heard Treggs say in a tense voice, "
Give it to me
."

There was no crack on the bottom. The artist had signed it, though. There were two initials and a date: DD, '85.

DD.
Didi
?

As in
Bedelia
?

Didi made things
, Treggs had said.
She was a potter, and she sold stuff in town
.

Laura felt her heart stutter. She avoided Treggs's stare, and she took a sip of the Red Zinger. Rose was standing a few feet from her husband, her expression saying she knew she'd screwed up. The moment hung as Redford and Fonda prattled on the TV and the chimes clinked outside. Laura drew a long breath. "Where is she?" she asked.

"I'd like you to leave now," Treggs said.

"Bedelia Morse. Didi. She made this mug, didn't she? In 1985? Where is she?" Her face felt hot, and her eyes locked on Treggs's face.

"I really don't know what you're talking about. I'm going to have to ask you to —"

"I'll pay you a thousand dollars to get me in contact with her," Laura said. "I swear to God, I'm not wired. I'm not working with the" — the word came out — "pigs. It's just me, alone. I don't care what she's done; all I care about is finding her, because she might help me find Mary Terrell and my baby. If I have to beg, then I'll beg: please tell me where she is."

"Look, I don't know what this is about. Like I told you before, I don't —"

"Mark?" Rose's voice was hushed.

He snapped a glance at her.

Rose stared at Laura, the corners of her mouth tight.

"
Please
," Laura said.

Rose spoke again, quietly, as if fearful of awakening the dead. "Michigan," she said. "Ann Arbor, Michigan."

The words were no sooner out of Rose's mouth than Treggs shouted, "Oh, Christ!" and his face mottled up with red. "Oh Christ almighty! Listen, you! I said I want you out of my house!"

"Ann Arbor," Laura repeated. She stood up, the mug still clenched in her hand. "What name does she use?"

"Don't you dig English?" Treggs demanded, flecks of spittle in his beard. He stalked to the door and opened it. A cold wind blew through. "
Out
!"

"Mark?" Rose said. "We have to help her."

He shook his head violently, his hair flying. "No! No way!"

"She's not working with the pigs, Mark. I believe her."

"Yeah, right! You want us both busted? Rose, the pigs could nail our asses to the wall!" His eyes, tormented behind his granny glasses, fixed on Laura. "I don't want any hassles," he said with a note of pleading. "Just leave. Okay?"

Laura stood where she was. Her light-headedness had fled, and her feet were rooted to the floor. "I'll pay you two thousand dollars to get me in contact with her," she told him. "The FBI doesn't have to know. It'll be between you and me. I swear to God, I won't breathe a word about where Bedelia Morse is. I don't care about what she's done, or what you've done to hide her. All I want is my son back. That's the most important thing in the world to me. Wouldn't you feel the same way if one of your children were missing?"

There was a long pause. The chimes jingled and rang. Laura waited, her nerves fraying more with each passing second.

At last Rose said, "Close the door, Mark."

He hesitated, a vein pulsing at his temple. The crimson had faded from his cheeks, his face gone chalky.

He closed the door, and when it clicked shut Laura saw him flinch.

"Aw, Jesus," Mark said softly. "Finish your tea."

He told Laura the story as she sat on the hard-springed sofa and tried very hard to keep herself from jumping out of her skin with anticipation. Mark had kept in contact with Bedelia Morse after the commune had broken up. He'd tried to talk her into getting away from the Storm Front, but she was "on fire," as he put it. Most of the time she was high on acid while she was with the Front, and she was always the type who needed to belong to some kind of group, whether it was a commune or a band of militant terrorists. About three months after the Storm Front was shot up in Linden, New Jersey, Mark had gotten a phone call from Didi. She'd wanted some money to change her face: a nose job and some work on her chin. Mark had sent her a "contribution to the cause." Over the years Didi had sent him and Rose all sorts of pottery: mugs, planters, and abstract sculptures. Mark had sold most of them, but some he'd kept, like the mug with his face on it. "The last time I talked to her was maybe five or six months ago," he said. "She was doing all right, selling her work in Ann Arbor. She was even teaching a couple of classes in pottery. I'll tell you something that I know for truth: Didi's okay. She's not who she used to be. She doesn't score acid anymore, and she'd be the last person on earth to snatch somebody's baby. I don't think she knows anything about Mary Terror other than what's been on the news."

"I'd like to find out for myself," Laura told him.

Mark sat for a moment with his hand cradling his chin, his eyes lost in thought. Then he looked at Rose, and she nodded. He stood up, went to the telephone, and opened a battered little book of phone numbers. Then he dialed and waited. "She's not home," he said after ten rings. "She lives in a house outside Ann Arbor." He checked his Mickey Mouse watch. "She doesn't usually keep late nights… or she didn't used to." He put the phone down, waited about fifteen minutes, and then tried the number again. "No answer," he reported.

"Are you sure she's still living there?"

"She was there back in September. She called to tell me about the classes she was teaching." Mark made himself a cup of tea as Rose and Laura talked, and then he tried the number a third time. Again no answer. "Bummer," Mark said. "She's not a night owl, that's for sure."

Toward midnight Mark dialed the number once more. It rang and rang, and went unanswered.

"Take me to her," Laura said.

"Uh-uh. No can do."

"Why not? If we left in the morning we could be back by Monday. We could take my car."

"To
Michigan
? Man, that's a long trip!"

Laura opened her purse and brought out her checkbook. Her hands were trembling. "I'll pay all expenses," she said. "And I'll write a check out to cash in the amount of three thousand dollars and give you the money as soon as we find Bedelia Morse."

"Three thousand dollars? Lady, are you rich or crazy?"

"I have money," Laura said. "Money's nothing. I want my son back."

"Yeah, I can see that. But I've… like… got a job to go to tomorrow."

"Call in sick. I don't think you're likely to make three thousand dollars over the weekend at Rock City, do you?"

Mark's fingers stroked his beard. He began to pace the room, stealing glances at both Laura and Rose. He stopped to dial the number once more. After a dozen rings, he said, "She must've gone somewhere. Like a trip or something. She could be gone all weekend."

"Three thousand dollars." Laura held up the check with
Cash
written on it. "Just take me to her house."

Rose cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. "That's a lot of heavy bread, Mark. We need some work on the car."

"Tell me about it." He continued his pacing, his face downcast. In another moment he stopped again. "No pigs? You swear to God, no pigs?"

"I swear."

Mark frowned, caught in a thicket of indecision. He looked at Rose for guidance, but all she could do was shrug her shoulders. It was up to him. "Let me think about it," he said to Laura. "Call me in the morning, about eight o'clock. If I can't reach Didi by then… I'll decide what to do."

Laura knew that was the best she could expect for now. It was almost twelve-thirty, and time to get some sleep if that was possible. She stood up, thanked Mark and Rose for their hospitality, and she took the check with her as she left. She walked out into the cold wind, her body bent against its force but her spine far from broken. Before she went to bed she would get down on her knees and pray. Those words to God — whether heard or unheard — were keeping her from losing her mind. She would pray that David would be safe for another night, and that her nightmare of sirens and snipers would not come true.

Laura got into the BMW and drove away.

The lights stayed on at the Treggs's house. Mark sat in a lotus position on the floor before the silent TV, his eyes closed, praying to his own deity.

Reasonable

SATURDAY NIGHT, THE SEVENTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

Tomorrow, the weeping lady. And Lord Jack, waiting for her and Drummer.

The baby was asleep, swaddled in his blanket on the other bed. The motel, in Secaucus, New Jersey, was called the Cameo Motor Lodge. It had a cramped little kitchenette and a view of a highway, and cracks riddled the ceiling from the vibrations of the trucks hauling freight in and out of New York City. Sometime before eleven, Mary Terror licked a Smiley Face from her sheet of waxed paper, and she kissed Drummer on the cheek and sat in front of the TV.

A monster movie was on. Something about the dead struggling out of their graves to walk among the living. They came out dirty-faced and grinning, their mouths full of fangs and worms. Mary Terror understood their need; she knew the awful silence of the tomb and the smell of rot. She looked at the palms of her hands. They were wet. Scared, she thought. I'm scared about tomorrow. I've changed. Gotten older and heavier. What if he doesn't like the way I look? What if he thinks I'm still blond and lean and I'll see it in his face oh I will I'll see that he doesn't want me and I'll die. No, no. I'm bringing his son to him. Our son. I'm bringing him light in the dark, and he'll say Mary I love you I've always loved you and I've been waiting for you oh so long.

Everything will be cool, she thought. Tomorrow's the day. Two o'clock. Fourteen hours to go. She held her hands up and looked at them. She was trembling a little. I'm freaking, she thought. She saw the moisture on her palms begin to turn red, like blood seeping from her pores. Freaking. Sweating blood. No, no; it's the acid. Hang on, ride it out. A rider on the storm, oh yes…

Someone screamed. The sound jolted Mary. She saw a woman running on the TV, trying to get away from a shambling, half-decayed corpse. The woman, still screaming, stumbled and fell to the ground, and the monster in pursuit flailed on toward the screen.

The television screen cracked with a noise like a pistol going off, and in a shatter of glass the living corpse's head burst from the TV set. Mary watched in a trance of horror and fascination as the rotting thing began to winnow out of the television. Its shoulders jammed, but its body was all bones and sinew, and in another few seconds it pushed on through with a surge of frenetic strength.

The smell of grave dirt and mold was in the room. The living corpse stood up in front of Mary Terror. A few tendrils of long black hair hung from the shriveled skull, and Mary could see the almond-shaped eyes in a face as wrinkled as a dried apple. The mouth stretched open, a noise of whirring air came out that shaped words: "Hello, Mary."

She knew who this was, come to visit from the dead. "Hello, CinCin."

Cold fingers touched her shoulder. She looked to her left, and there stood another creature from the grave, wearing dirt-crusted African amulets. Akitta Washington had dissolved down to a skinny stick figure, and what remained of his once-ebony flesh was now a leprous gray. He held up two bony fingers. "Peace, sister."

"Peace, brother," she answered, and returned the sign.

A third figure was standing in a corner of the room, skeletal face cocked to one side. This person had been a petite woman in life, but in death she had bloated and burst and dark glistening things were leaking from the cavity where her insides used to be. "Mary," she said in an ancient voice. "You bitch, you."

"Hi, Janette," Mary replied. "You look like shit."

"Being dead doesn't do a whole lot for your looks," Janette agreed.

"Listen up!" Akitta said, and he came around the chair to stand beside CinCin. His legs were gray toothpicks, and where his sexual organs had been, small white worms feasted. "You're going there tomorrow. Going to be walking on a fine line, sister. You ever think that maybe the pigs planted that message in the
Stone
?"