Burial (40 page)

‘Well, I scarcely
ever
watch television, but there was something on the news about a racehorse that belongs to a friend of mine, Douglas Evershed III, you must have heard of Douglas, he's quite an eccentric.'

‘Yes, I have, but what was this about —?'

‘It was that girl, that same girl who was waiting for you downstairs in the hall the last time I visited! They had a news-item about some terrible mass-murder in Arizona, and there she was, clear as daylight. They were interviewing the sheriff or somebody and she was standing right in the background. There was no mistaking her.'

I covered my mouth with my hand for a moment and
thought hard.
Karen? In Arizona
? How could that be?

‘Can you remember what station that was?' I asked Deirdre.

‘Of course, NBC.'

‘And you're absolutely positive it was her?'

‘No question at all. She was standing right behind the sheriff, clear as daylight.'

I felt the strangest shiver go down my spine; partly of hope, partly of dread. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised at Karen appearing halfway across the country — even though she had
dropped
out of sight only the day before yesterday down a bottomless grave in Greenwich Village. I knew from experience that Misquamacus was capable of travelling through time and space in the most extraordinary way; and maybe he had taken Karen with him.

I rummaged through my bureau and pulled out a Manhattan telephone directory with a torn cover. I licked my finger and leafed through to NBC. Deirdre watched me, smoking and agitated.

‘Have I
said
something?' she wanted to know.

‘I'm not sure,' I said. ‘But I want to see that news item for myself.'

‘Well, for goodness sake,
I
can help with that,' said Deirdre. ‘I videotaped the whole news, so that Douglas could see it when he came back from France.'

For once in my life I actually believed that God and happenstance were both on my side. ‘Deirdre,' I said, ‘you're an angel from heaven.'

She dragged at her cigarette, and then explosively coughed. ‘Don't kill me off yet.' She opened her pocketbook. ‘Here — call this number. It's my car-phone. Tell my driver Felipe to go get the tape for you and bring it back here.'

She stretched herself back on the chaise-longue, her skinny thighs wobbling slightly under the clinging emerald-green satin. ‘And while Felipe is doing that,
you
can give me a fresh reading.'

‘Oh — yes,' I agreed. ‘What's it to be today? Cards? Tea-leaves?'

‘Oh, cards. Those French cards. I really like what they have to say. They give me such a
frisson
, if you know what I mean.'

I sat down at the table and set out the cards. Behind the beaded curtain, in the kitchenette, the coffee-machine continued to bloop. None of my divinations were particularly mystic, but this morning's reading was going to be even less mystic than ever. I couldn't think about anything else but Karen. Was she conscious of what she was doing, I wondered, or had Misquamacus somehow hypnotized her? What was she doing in Arizona? Had she flown there, or had Misquamacus transported her — in the same way that he must have transported himself in the 1870s? Was she really there at all — or was the face that Deirdre had seen on the evening news nothing more than an illusion, a trick, a magical joke?

Deirdre peered through the cigarette smoke at the cards which I was turning up. ‘Wasn't that terrible, that earthquake in Chicago?' she said, apropos of nothing at all. ‘Sometimes I think that God's punishing us, you know, for being too arrogant.'

I said nothing, but held up the first card. It showed a hillside, with autumnal trees on it, and clouds. Some of the clouds were shining white, others were grey and depressing. You can see why I liked the Lenormand cards so much. They gave me
carte-blanche
to say whatever I thought was most suitable. Or at least
carte-
completely ambiguous.

‘What does it mean?' Deirdre asked, excitedly.

‘It says, “
Clouds brightly shine strung in precision … life will be fine with firm decision.”
In other words you have to make your mind up. Make some choices, and stick to them.'

Deirdre obviously didn't like the sound of that. ‘What's
going to happen if I don't? Can't I hedge my bets just a little? I
hate
to make choices. I mean I like what I choose, but I can't bear to lose whatever it is I
haven't
chosen. I want it
all
.' She laughed, coughed.

From the kitchenette, I heard a sharp spitting noise, and then I smelled burning. The coffee-machine had overflowed and shorted out the bare wires that were stuck in the plug.

Deirdre waited for me impatiently while I mopped up. ‘I told you — you should read your own fortune once in a while.'

Amelia came over just before one o'clock and we sat and shared a Neapolitan pizza and watched the videotape that Deirdre had lent me.

The anchorman started by saying that ‘- the tiny desert community of Apache Junction, less than thirty miles east of the state capital Phoenix, has become the focus of the most intensive police operation in Arizona's history …'

‘Apache Junction,' I interrupted, shaking my head. ‘I should have known. Under The Old One. The place where they tortured Geronimo's men.'

The bulletin switched to NBC's on-the-spot reporter, a handsome high-cheekboned Indian girl with glossy black shoulder-length hair. She said, ‘Here at the used automobile dealership of local character Papago Joe, police are still investigating the horrific deaths of seven men and women, whose mutilated bodies were discovered two days ago in an automobile inspection pit.

‘All of the victims were out-of-towners, and five of them came from out of state, including Washington, Minnesota and Maine. Police as yet have no idea what they were all doing here, or who might have been minded to murder them all. Sheriff Ethan Wallace is currently working on the theory that they were all members of an illicit drugs or gambling syndicate who tried to double-cross influential
figures in the Phoenix Mafia.'

The interviewer then turned towards a hot freckly man in green-lensed Ray-Bans, who stood with his hands parked on his bulging sides, systematically chewing a large cud of gum.

She asked him why he believed this was a mob killing, but I didn't bother to listen to what he was saying. Because Deirdre had been right. Close behind Sheriff Wallace's shoulder,
in the same yellow blouse that she had been wearing on that day she disappeared
, stood Karen; my Karen. The girl who had now become ‘my Karen,' and who had now been taken away from me.

She was listening to the sheriff and nodding as if she agreed with him. Then she turned to one side and talked to the man standing next to her. The man nodded and pointed. After a while, Karen moved out of camera-shot and disappeared.

‘Karen,' I said to Amelia, standing up.

‘No question,' Amelia agreed. She took out a cigarette, although she didn't immediately light it. ‘But what is she doing
there
, in Arizona?'

‘Who knows? I guess she's there because Misquamacus wants her there, that's all.'

‘But how did she
get
there?'

‘Misquamacus has a way of appearing wherever he wants, whenever he wants. Don't ask me how it works, He's a spirit, after all, a manitou. I guess that time and distance don't mean all that much to him.'

Amelia said nothing; but as I rewound the videotape she looked distressed.

‘Misquamacus has no real physical substance,' I reminded her. ‘He's using Karen like a sort of human puppet — the same way he did when he used her body to have himself reborn. He spoke with her voice; he saw with her eyes; he touched with her hands. I guess you could say that she's possessed.'

On the videotape, Karen reappeared, running backwards.

‘Look at her!' I said. ‘Look at the way she's staring. She's not even blinking. She probably can't even remember who she is, or why she's there.'

Amelia said, ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I don't know. Maybe Martin may have some ideas.'

‘You think so? I don't know. He's probably far too wrapped up in his own problems. Besides, how are you going to get to talk to him?'

‘I'll ask his lawyer. And I don't think he's going to be too wrapped up in his own problems to understand that if I can rescue Karen, then there's a good chance that I can come up with something that will help to prove his innocence, too.'

‘Like what?'

‘How should I know? Maybe a feather out of Misquamacus' headband. Maybe a piece of that shadow-thing, in one of those shadow-bottles that Dr Snow was talking about.'

‘I hope you're joking.'

‘Only partly.'

I searched through the pockets of yesterday's shirt and found the crumpled piece of paper on which I had written the number of Martin's lawyer. I punched out the number and waited while the phone warbled. Amelia said, ‘This is all so
frustrating
. It's like trying to catch ghosts.'

‘Are you kidding me? It
is
trying to catch ghosts.'

‘Kaskin Moskowitz Kaskin.'

‘Could I speak to Mr Abner Kaskin, please?'

‘Hold on, sir.'

I waited and listened to ‘Tulips from Amsterdam' as played by Robby the Robot. Eventually a brisk secretarial voice said, ‘Good morning, sir. I regret that Mr Kaskin is out of the office.'

‘This is Mr Erskine. I wanted to talk to him urgently.'

‘May I ask in what connection?'

‘It's about Mr Martin Vaizey. It could be critical.'

‘Mr Kaskin's gone to see Mr Vaizey this morning, in the hospital.'

‘In the hospital? What do you mean — in the hospital? What's happened?'

‘Mr Vaizey's had a serious accident, sir.'

‘Accident? What kind of accident?'

‘I'm sorry, sir, I can't say.'

‘Where is he? Which hospital?'

‘If you can hold a moment, sir, I'll — '

‘Which hospital?' I snapped at her. ‘This could be critical! This could make all the difference!'

‘Sir, there's no need to — '

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. Please tell me which hospital. If Mr Kaskin gives you any kind of flak you can lay all the blame on me, I promise you. I'll even tell your fortune for free, how about that?'

‘My
fortune
?'

At that moment, however, Amelia tapped my shoulder. She had ejected the videotape that I had borrowed from Mrs John F. Lavender and there on the TV screen was the mid-morning news. They had flashed up a photograph of Martin Vaizey, with the caption ‘Homicide Suspect' — then they cut to an ENG camera right outside a Manhattan hospital.

‘Did you say my
fortune
?' Abner Kaskin's secretary repeated, in an incredulous whine. But I cradled the receiver without answering. I couldn't hear what the TV reporter was saying, but I recognized the glass front doors of the hospital behind her. Jesus, I should have done. It was the Sisters of Jerusalem, on Park Avenue, where Karen had been taken when Misquamacus had first invaded her body.

I guess there was nothing remarkable about Martin Vaizey being taken to the Sisters of Jerusalem. After all, it had a state-of-the-art trauma unit, and one of the finest teams of neurosurgeons on the Eastern seaboard. But I was gripped by the lead-lined feeling that we were all being mocked and manipulated; that we were all dancing to Misquamacus' cruel and vengeful tune — that he was dragging us back to the scene of his first defeat, in order to show us how hollow our victory had really been.

The Sisters of Jerusalem,' I told Amelia. ‘Wouldn't you just know it?'

‘That was where —' Amelia began, but stopped when she saw the expression on my face.

‘Did they say what was wrong with him?' I asked.

‘Severe eye injury. They didn't say how it happened.'

‘We'd better get across there,' I said.

‘Harry —' said Amelia. Then she paused. I stopped by the door, and turned around. ‘Harry,' she repeated. ‘Not me.'

I stared at her. She looked very serious, especially in those owlish eyeglasses. I suddenly saw what I should have seen in myself, if not a long time ago, then well before I started trying to play the part of Karen's knight in buffed-up armour. I saw, simply, middle-age. I saw that I wasn't Kevin Costner and that Amelia wasn't Julia Roberts. I saw that in the years that had passed since Amelia and MacArthur had first raised the head of Misquamacus out of a cherrywood table; since Karen had first struggled for her life against an old and malicious spirit; since Singing Rock had danced and cast his magical spells; that we had grown older, very much older.

‘Harry,' Amelia said again, and this time her voice was soft, and very regretful.

I shrugged. ‘It's okay. I understand.'

‘Do you really?'

‘Listen, there comes a time in the life of all clairvoyants
when they have to hang up their pointy hats and put away their Tarot cards and call it a day.'

‘I feel terrible, leaving you to face this all alone.'

‘I'm not alone. You know that' I waved all round the room. ‘There are more spirits per cubic inch than you can count.'

‘That's all right if you know how to summon them up.'

‘Martin Vaizey said we were
all
capable of talking to the dead, if only we'd listen.'

There was a moment between us then of sweet and eloquent silence. Maybe it was the final goodbye that we had never been able to say to each other before. Maybe it was nothing more than the recognition that we had always been destined to go our separate ways, and that a parting was long overdue.