Abattoir (11 page)

“What’s next?” Su Ling asked.

“I don’t know. But until I do, there’s one thing you must do: Make sure that she has plenty of paper and pencils near her bed. And keep every little scrap of what she draws.”

§

There was unbearable silence. The tenants of the Exeter sat in a neat circle beneath the shade of the ornate arbor that graced the rear of the building. Constructed of fine teak with a floor of Italian tile, it might have been gracious and calming in another environment. Here, beneath the shadow of the Exeter, it felt strangely confining and repressive.

As he watched them fanning themselves in the late afternoon August sun, Cantrell sensed their restlessness, and was not surprised by it. Moreover, he felt their
anger
.

The meeting had begun calmly enough with Cantrell’s announcement that Stuart Brown’s former flat had been totally cleaned and repaired and was now back on the rental market.

The tenants were obviously uninterested in the news. They were more concerned with the fate of Bill Sloane and the arrest of his wife only a week ago.

That event, preceded by Brown’s bizarre behavior and disappearance, had clearly affected them.

Cantrell still wasn’t sure where they all stood. From the looks on their faces—Su Ling being the only exception—common fear had begun to curdle into hostility.

“Why are we all sitting here? What’s
wrong
with you people?”

The voice belonged to Crispin Tucker, a 40-ish, pony-tailed, well-heeled New Ager, who seemed to have a mystical explanation for everything.

“We need help,” Tucker said, rising from his folding chair and addressing the group, as if he were in charge.

“What sort of help are you talking about?” Cantrell asked, attempting to reassert his leadership of the meeting.

“You know what I mean: we need a
professional . . .
”

Cantrell, who’d always had a problem taking Tucker seriously, tried for a glib retort:

“Are you talking about a plumber, Crispin, or someone who can wave a magic wand?”

Nobody laughed.

The New-Ager stared at Cantrell.

“Maybe you think this is funny, Cantrell—one man crazy, another man murdered at his own table—but I think I speak for the group when I say that none of us agree with you.”

Cantrell leaned back in his chair and rubbed his head. “Okay, Crispin. Point taken. Seriously—what do you recommend?”

“There’s bad karma here. Something’s wrong.”

“You’re saying that the Exeter is a haunted house?”

Tucker grimaced. “Kind of. I’m talking about the vibe. It’s wrong, off kilter.
Negative
.”

Cantrell remained silent before the various nods and grunts of agreement.

One tenant stood up and wondered why complaints that had already been made weeks ago—about noises at night, strange smells, clocks that stopped momentarily, and more—had yet to be addressed.

Another testified to a new phenomenon: She claimed to have seen something in her flat—“a wispy shred of something”—that flitted through her apartment, just out of her field of vision.

When the tellers of several such tales were finished, Cantrell rose and addressed the tenants:

“Okay, folks; my job is to listen and to help find solutions. To prove that I have listened to you, I have looked into every single concern that has been expressed to me. I’ve had the boiler inspected. No problem. The pipes checked. No problem. The electrical circuits. All fine. The foundation inspected. No problem. I can show you the reports and the bills—this building checks out perfectly. It’s sound, well above code in each and every category.

“But I want to remind all of you. The Exeter is an
old building
. It’s settling. It’s adjusting to the renovations it has undergone. This is a process of time.”

He could see by their expressions that the tenants weren’t buying it.

Tucker stood up and faced Cantrell.

“You don’t believe that any more than we do. You know that none of what we’ve been experiencing can be explained by engineers and architectural mumbo jumbo.”

Cantrell sighed in defeat.

“All right then. I’m open to your suggestions, Crispin. Are you saying we ought to hire an exorcist?”

“In a way, although I would prefer a less cliché term. How about a shaman? A holy man or woman? Someone who can check this building out, and perhaps do something about what seems to be inside it.”

The tenants again nodded their agreement.

“If we bring in a medium, or a shaman as you call it, none of us will ever live it down: the Exeter will become a freak show. Forget about media attention—word of mouth will do it. It will gain a reputation and we’ll be lucky to ever see a new tenant again . . . ”

Tucker was not vanquished. He had another idea.

“Okay then, have you ever given any thought to fen shui? What about rearranging, or even redecorating, the entire place? I’ve heard that fen shui can have a profound impact on negative spaces. It couldn’t hurt.”

Cantrell sighed. He suppressed the urge to smile, even as anger rose.

“Okay, I’ll look into it. Bring me some names, Crispin, and we’ll discuss it further.”

A young couple suddenly stood and glared at Cantrell.

“This is all bullshit!” the man said angrily. “Fixing the pipes isn’t going to cut it. We could bring in the pope to bless the place; it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Don’t any of you realize that this place used to be an abattoir, a slaughterhouse?”

An uneasy silence greeted these words.

“Yes, Marshall. I do know what this building used to be, as do most of you by now. But it’s been transformed into something new. I’ve got to be honest with you: I have a hard time believing that things that happened 60 or more years ago have any bearing on what happens today. Call me a skeptic. I just can’t accept that.”

“Not only are you a skeptic, Mr. Cantrell,” the young man’s wife said. “You’re a fool. Can’t you see it? This place is
cursed
. . . ”

Stunned silence greeted her words.

“I can’t speak for anybody else in this God-forsaken building, but we’re leaving,” she continued. “We’re out! By the end of the week, we’re gone, lease or not. Sue us if you want.”

The woman turned to the group. “And if the rest of you have any sense, you’ll do the same.”

The meeting obviously over, the tenants began to file out.

Cantrell knew there was nothing he could say or do to stop them, so he didn’t try. Nor did he say a word when the rest of the group followed suit; all except Su Ling.

He looked out at the darkening arbor, occupied now only by Su Ling, who sat quietly on the wooden porch swing near the end of the patio, Anna sitting quietly on the grass, oblivious to everything around her. Su Ling beckoned him with a finger.

“So you’re not running away with the rest of them?”

She smiled. “Did you think I would?”

He returned the smile. “No. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Have a seat,” she said, motioning for him to sit beside her. “After all, you designed this swing, didn’t you? I love it. Have you ever sat in it?”

Cantrell shook his head and took a seat. “No. I loved swings when I was a kid. I designed this as a little personal touch. I’m glad you like it.”

They sat in silence for several moments. “I guess I blew it with them, didn’t I?”

“That’s a harsh way of putting it.”

“But that’s what it is. I don’t think a single person walked out of here feeling any better than when the meeting began. I’m starting to feel as if I’m under siege.”

“How do they say it? The wolves are at the door.”

He smiled. “And
that’s
not harsh?”

“But it’s honest, Alex. These people are scared. Do you really blame them?”

Cantrell nodded. “Well, to share your honesty, Su, I can’t blame them. Too much has gone wrong. Too much is impossible to explain. I mean, what do you make of all this?”

A sudden chill, despite the warm evening, seemed to cross Su Ling’s spine.

“I think you are a skeptic, Mr. Alex Cantrell, and that’s why none of this makes sense to you. I am not a skeptic. In my home country, and even here as I was growing up, I heard many stories of ghosts. The Vietnamese people, like most Asian people, have no problem believing in the supernatural. And let’s be honest again. That’s what we’re really talking about, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” he said quietly, almost fearful of being overheard.

“The Chinese regard spirits as routine. They put bead curtains on their doorways to confuse spirits who might wish to enter their homes. Other people cover their mirrors, or put salt on the threshold. To them, spirits and the supernatural are as real, and as common, as the sky and the birds that fly in it.”

“Let’s suppose you’re right; let’s say that spirits are as common and routine as you say: Is it common for spirits to make a man suddenly go insane? Or to encourage a woman to murder her husband for no apparent reason? Or to make a pool of blood appear under your clothes dryer, for God’s sake?”

He realized that his voice had risen, and he apologized for the momentary lapse.

Su Ling took his hand and held it.

“No, I don’t think any of those things are common. They’re terrible, but I don’t have the answers, Alex. Still, I feel pretty sure telling you this—all the awful things that have happened in this building were not caused by leaky pipes or settling foundations. Or any fault of yours, for that matter. You understand plumb lines. You’re comfortable with blueprints and construction schedules and precision. That’s not what this is about. This is no failure of yours, if that’s what you’re thinking. This is way beyond even you, Mr. Alex Cantrell.”

He looked her in the eye, immersed in her dark beauty. He realized, very suddenly, that he trusted this woman. That he needed her.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “One more lapse into honesty. I’m scared, Su. I really am.”

She smiled. “I know you are. I am too. But I want you to know this—you’re not alone. I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Without thinking about it, he brought his lips to hers. They kissed passionately, though the new emotions blossoming between them only provided camouflage for the fear that had brought them into one another’s arms.

10

“So
you’re
Derek Taylor. You’re not at all what I expected.”

Taylor looked at the man—30-something, narrow rectangular glasses, black turtleneck, slicked-back hair—and wondered what he
had
been expecting.

“And you are?”

“David Dunn,” the stranger replied. “I’m a friend of Ella Sanders. I work with her.”

Taylor tried to remember not only where Ella worked, but who the hell she was. He realized that he didn’t care. His eyes returned to the stranger—to David.

“Glad you could make it tonight,” he said warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

They shook hands firmly before David pulled away, merging into the swirling mass of party-goers liberally enjoying Taylor’s sumptuous flat, open bar and assorted high-end drugs.

It was turning out to be a highly successful soiree. At least 50 of the city’s hippest, most desired, young executives, artists and
nouveau riche
had gathered here, most of them eager to check out Taylor’s hot new digs at the Exeter which, at the moment, was considered the best address in town. All of them had come to see and to be seen.

He vaguely enjoyed their presence; the din of collective conversation, but, as usual, felt detached and remote from his contemporaries. If it weren’t for the fact that he was obliged to throw this party, he’d happily hoist each and every one of them out the door. That would be social suicide, of course; as much as Taylor didn’t fit in with these people, they counted him as one of their own.

As the hours swept by, punctuated by Godzilla bass and escalating mirth as the champagne flowed, Taylor watched as men and women—occasionally, women and women—began to pair off and leave. It almost amused him how predictably
ritualistic,
the mating dance was—casual touching, leading to close dancing; to passionate kissing; intimate groping.

At least they had the good taste to save their actual copulation for later—on their own sheets.

Invariably, one would remain behind. This particular sacrifice was named Susan. She stood five foot five, her dyed red hair contrasting with his own close-cropped ebony. She was gorgeous; shapely, well dressed, and seemed moderately intelligent, although the cognac and cocaine had obviously had an effect.

She drew close to him—
crowding him
—and he smelled the alcohol on her breath. She brought her lower torso into contact with his own and began a slow, side-to-side gyration. Taylor felt the vague stirrings of early arousal.

Susan brought her lips to his ear. “I heard you’re the best, Derek,” she whispered. “Prove it to me?”

Prove what? That I can fuck the next gold-digger in my sleep?

He took her hand and led her into the mirrored bedroom, which was lit by several candles, scented with jasmine incense.

§

Derek was 12 years old. His uncle Steve was watching over him, as he frequently did when Derek’s parents were out of town, on one of their many jaunts to exotic locales. The uncle and his nephew had always been close.

On this particular evening, Steve tried to expand those interests, in a direction that the boy did not anticipate.

“I want to show you something. You won’t believe this, Derek.”

He pulled out a number of slick and glossy magazines. Derek read their titles—Penthouse, Hustler and Oui. He recognized some of them from his forays into the 7-11, but had never gotten a good close look.

Especially inside.

Steve fanned them out on the carpeted floor, the pages turned to the large format centerfolds. There, before Derek’s unbelieving eyes, were photographs of what he considered older women.