Flight of the Stone Angel (10 page)

A homicide case would get a high priority. Just the name Mallory, her age and description would have a large array. But she gave the sheriff credit for coupling ‘Mallory’ with ‘Kathy,’ which narrowed the field. So the feds were holding out on Jessop, but why?

When the sheriff returned, his deputy was once again standing in the corridor beyond the bars, holding on to a plastic bag full of feathers. Tom Jessop cast an approving eye over the tidy cell. “Good job. I guess you’re ready for something a little more challenging. You remember Mr. Butler, don’t you? The giant with the big nose?” The deputy nodded.

“I want you to drive down to the fairgrounds and wait on him till he’s ready to be escorted back to Dayborn. And try not to put any dents in the car. It’s all we got till Travis’s unit is out of the shop.”

When Lilith had quit the cell block, the sheriff turned to Mallory, and she smiled at him. It was her first friendly overture to this man in all the days she had been his prisoner.

He wore the startled look of sudden recognition, and then his face relaxed. “Now that’s my Kathy.” He said it softly. It was almost a sigh.

And Mallory was still smiling when she said, “Step into my office, Sheriff. Pull up a chair.”

“Oh, the sign,” said Malcolm Laurie, waving it off as though Charles had simply misunderstood the message of miracles for sale. Or perhaps it was a typographical error in four-foot block letters. “It’s a commercial world, isn’t it, Charles? I have to relate to my flock any way I can.” The smile of the charming boy was back.

“So you don’t actually sell the miracles?”

“Oh, sure I do. People don’t trust what they don’t pay for. They’re more inclined to believe in things that cost hard cash. In my line of work, belief is ninety percent of the job. Hell, it
is
the job. If Christ came back today and gave His Sermon on the Mount for free, who would turn out for the show?”

“I believe that sermon was catered with magical loaves and fish to feed the multitude,” Charles countered. “I’d turn out for that.”

“Hey, Mal!” A man with a clipboard was coming toward them. He had the same general features as Malcolm, except for his eyes, which were small and dark. This man was being introduced to him as Fred Laurie. While Malcolm attended to the clipboard, Charles was distracted by the sight of the sheriff’s car pulling into the parking lot. The promised escort had arrived, and he should be saying goodbye to Malcolm soon.

When Fred Laurie had left them, he asked, “What sort of miracles do you sell, Malcolm?”

“Whatever you’re in the market for.”

Over the head of the smaller man, Charles saw Lilith Beaudare alight from the car and look around. Now she had picked him out of the crowd, an easy feat; he was the only person of abnormal height and wearing a three-piece suit. As she was striding across the field, a drunk stumbled into her path and engaged her in conversation. A group of people passed in front of Charles and blocked her from his view. “Suppose I bought a miracle that would let me get away with murder?”

Malcolm’s smile hovered in the zone of bemusement. His eyes flickered with the bright work of running calculations and taking measurements. “Every miracle comes with a caution and a guarantee. The scales of heaven and hell are balanced, and every destructive act exacts a terrible price. So you may decide you don’t want that kind of miracle.”

Now it was Charles who was confused. Was Malcolm taking the literal meaning of getting away with murder? Was this a more common request than he had supposed?

The small group of people passed on. Lilith was visible once more, and in heated conversation. The drunk looked rather pleased with himself, and even more pleased with her.

“What if that’s the only miracle I want to buy?” Charles continued to watch over Lilith as the drunk was moving closer to her. But she was smiling at the reeling man, and so Charles saw no cause for alarm. He turned back to face Malcolm, and reiterated, “Would you sell me that miracle?”

“Yes, but it would cost you dearly.” There was a silence now. Perhaps the salesman of miracles was gearing up for the barter, only waiting on Charles to ask the price so the dickering could begin. But Charles remained silent.

“My guarantees are good as gold,” said Malcolm. “Written in the name of the Lord.”

Charles smiled at the tie of gold and religion which rather neatly summed up the core philosophy of the New Church – payment first, rapture later.

‘But, as I recall, Charles, I already offered you one miracle for free. Have you lost faith in that one – maybe because you didn’t have to pay for it?“

Charles ceased to smile, for now the game had become more intricate. He could no longer hazard a guess at this man’s strategy.

He looked beyond Malcolm to the unexpected sight of the drunk railing at the feet of the young deputy. Now the man was rolling on the grass, tears streaming down his face, as the deputy knelt beside him, forcing his hands behind his back and cuffing him. A much bigger man was standing over them, screaming at her, “That was a damn kidney punch. You punched him when his back was turned!” The drunk’s large champion raised his hands in angry balled fists.

Those fists came down to his sides very quickly, as the deputy rose to her feet in one graceful and fluid motion, her hand lightly touching on the handle of her holstered gun. The trio was too far away for Charles to hear what was not hollered, but the big man raised one hand in the calming gesture of
Okay, enough said.
He then backed away from the deputy with both his hands splayed out to say,
Hey, no harm done.
Obviously, he had decided that Lilith’s hitting the drunk when his back was turned was not such a criminal offense after all.

Lilith Beaudare was smiling as she entered the sheriff’s office with her prisoner. She had safely delivered Charles Butler to his hotel in the square, and also bagged this fine, but highly intoxicated trophy. The drunk seemed a bit too docile, though. Perhaps she had punched him too hard. She did wish he would show a bit more life, a little more angry resistance to make a better impression on the sheriff.

She bundled the drunk up the stairs, gripping him by one arm, as much in an effort to keep him from falling down as to direct his steps. When they were through the door and standing in front of the first holding unit, she was searching her pocket for her key ring when she glanced into the middle cell.

Mallory was gone.

The sheriff was standing at the back of the closed cell with an empty holster. He was staring out the bars of the window, hands in his pants pockets, his head angled to watch the foot traffic at the mouth of the alley. He was within easy hailing distance of help, yet not calling out.

Of course not. Neither had Lilith called out when it had been her turn to lose a gun.

Now the sheriff turned and saw her standing there, gripping what he could see of an arm in a red shirt. Lilith looked back at her prisoner. The drunk had seen nothing of the sheriff yet. The man’s unfocused eyes were cast up to the ceiling, perhaps looking there for flights of angels to carry him home. She pushed the drunk back to the door at the end of the cell block.

“I’m gonna let you go with a warning this time.” She uncuffed him and shook him roughly by the shoulders. “Are you listening to me?” She opened the door and motioned him through it. “Go!” She watched his stumbling, half-falling progress down the stairs, and when he hit bottom, she called after him, “Don’t steal anything on the way out!”

She returned to the middle cell and unlocked the door, resisting the urge to say something sarcastic.
Don’t be in a hurry to get the words out.
She suppressed a smile as she looked down to the sheriff’s empty holster.

His face reddened and his hand moved quickly to cover the leather as though she had caught him naked. “We don’t need to mention this to anybody, do we, girl?

“Girl?”

“Lilith,” he corrected himself.

“Deputy,” she said, in the manner of striking a bargain.

He nodded and the deal was sealed. She opened the door. He passed into the narrow corridor, as Lilith studied the cell’s lock. “Now, how do you suppose she got out? Oh, wait. I see it now.”

He looked down as she pointed to the lock.

“You know, Sheriff, that piece of junk must be as old as the building. It’s a damn antique, isn’t it? Pity the parish didn’t increase your budget this year. You might’ve had that replaced.”

Lilith hit the lock once with her nightstick, but it held. She hit it a second time and put some muscle behind it. The old lock began to give.

The sheriff wore the ghost of a smile.

“Damn penny-pinching fools,” said Lilith, as she continued to hammer away at the rusted metal. “I’d really make those bastards burn for this, if I were you.”

The sheriff’s smile was wider now, and Deputy Beaudare took that to mean that he had finally found her useful.

There was only one other possibility – he might be laughing at her.

He did clap her warmly on the back, in the way that men congratulate one another, but she was still unsure of him as they descended the stairs. He disappeared into his office and emerged a few minutes later with another gun in his holster. Through the open door, she saw the credenza behind the desk was missing the black leather duffel bag. So now the escaped prisoner had two guns, the sheriff’s 9mm automatic and the .357 revolver.

“I’m going after her,” said the sheriff, almost to the door. “I want you to stay close to that phone in case I need you, all right?” And then he was gone, and the door swung shut behind him.

She sat down at her desk and resumed her job of watching a phone that never rang. Nothing had changed.

Lilith powered up the computer. At the C prompt, she prepared to enter a code, but the machine was writing its own commands. Sitting at the edge of her chair, she watched the unfolding notice of a message in a newly created private file which awaited the deputy’s personal password. She entered her password at the next prompt, and her message appeared. By the opening salutation, she knew whose work this was. How long had it taken Mallory to figure out that the password was WOLF?

Dear Rookie,

Not in your best interests if I get caught. I’ll tell the sheriff what you really are. And, Rookie, you don’t even know the whole answer to that one. I’ll call when I want you.

Lilith felt the touch of ice running along her back, fingering her spine from the inside of her skin. As she was deleting Mallory’s memo from hell, she glanced down at the disk pack on the desk. The cellophane wrapper had been sealed this morning, but now it was split open and the box was missing two computer disks. So the escapee had taken time from her busy jailbreak-morning to download the files.

Death created no problem for Ira Wooley when the bodies were laid to rest in the vaults of existing tombs. A fresh grave required him to memorize the entire cemetery anew, but this was rare. Generally, sameness prevailed, and so this was a favorite place. The people were silent; their monuments and stone houses never changed. But the dying bouquets of All Saints’ Day had been removed from the graves, and now he walked through the alleys of tombs, making minor adjustments in his mind, fixing a new image for this city of the dead, sans flowers. “Hello, Ira,” said a voice behind him.

Startled, he turned around to see a tall figure standing at the rim of the tree circle. It was the sandwich man from Jane’s Cafe, and he was moving forward with long-legged strides, increasing Ira’s fear as he drew closer. The sandwich man was smiling, but facial arrangements for love and anger were all the same to Ira. It was a language he could not read. Now the sandwich man seemed to understand that motion communicated menace, and he stood very still.

Ira ceased to gulp the air, and the rhythm of his heart was slowing, but then he plunged into deep distress. The tall man represented a new object in the cemetery. Ira’s body slowly revolved, eyes passing over the ground, the stones, and the trees to create a new inventory. The sandwich man played the statue with endless patience until Ira had committed each object to a new schematic which incorporated the man as part of the cemetery.

When Ira was done, the man spoke again, but what he said did not come across as words yet, only noises at the moment, for the fear had not entirely subsided.

“Do you remember me? Charles Butler?”

“Do you remember me,” said Ira in a monotone.

“I wonder if you could answer a question about what happened to your hands. Would that upset you?”

“Would that upset you,” said Ira. And in the next moment, the noise had become a few words. His hands – upset him? He looked down on the bandages. His hands had done nothing to upset him.

The man was saying more, but his words became noise again, as unintelligible as the wind in the trees, the musical birdcalls and the more mechanical clicks and whirs of insects. Every sound in the cemetery was melding together, all the same noise. Ira focussed on his bandages as he began the work of shutting down the sound. At last, he entered the peaceful zone of white static.

But the man’s words came through again, noise insisting on itself, rising in inflection.

Ira cried out, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” until the sandwich man learned that ‘yes’ meant ’Shut up! SHUT UP!‘ and the man fell silent. And now Ira taught the tall stranger to stand motionless again, and to drop his eyes. It took only a little time till the man learned not to look at him directly. Then Ira’s attention was captured by a drop of water moving slowly along the leaf of a shrub. He was sliding into a trance when the drop elongated and fell off the leaf to become a perfect sphere in free fall. It splashed on the ground and freed him from fixation.

The sandwich man sat beside him so quietly, he became as the trees and the stones. And now they could talk.

“So you played five notes on the piano, and Babe didn’t like that.”

“Babe didn’t like that,” said Ira.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Tell me why.” Ira rocked back and forth, and then he began to hum. Babe had broken his hands but not his mouth. Humming soothed him and reduced the terror of a new voice which he had not been properly prepared for. Jane’s Cafe was not terrifying because he ate his lunch there every day, and his mother was always beside him. But now he was alone with the very large sandwich man, and this was wrong. The cafe was not supposed to follow him about.

But the man seemed to understand him much better than other people did. He was patient and his voice was calm, asking more questions about Babe.

Babe was dangerous. His mother had told him the man was dead, but Ira had no pictures of a dead Babe, and he had not yet seen Babe’s stone added to the cemetery.

Ira looked over the sandwich man’s shoulder as he prepared to speak to him. He delved into his store of dialogue for something appropriate. He decided upon an instruction he had received in the kitchen one bright morning, years ago. He remembered that scene best for the play of light on the wall, taking its patterns from white lace curtains. Then the fascination with curtain patterns had been displaced by his attraction to the fire of the stove’s front burner, and he had reached for it. His mother had restrained him and spoken to him out of deep concern. Now these were the same words he gave to the sandwich man. “Don’t burn yourself.”

The man changed his expression and hung his head a little lower. Ira perceived a touch of sadness as the sandwich man stood up, said, “Goodbye,” and walked away with his eyes cast down to the gravel path.

“Goodbye,” Ira echoed as he watched the tall man disappear into the encircling trees.

A few seconds passed by before he heard the next sound that did not belong in this place – footsteps so light a cat might have made them. He turned slowly, not wanting to see it, unable to help himself.

Impossible.
He sat down on the grass before his knees could buckle underneath him and tumble him to the ground.

It was Dr. Cass.

But she had been made whole again, washed clean of blood. He labored over this
a
moment more, and worked very hard at his school lessons in an effort to put stored pictures in chronological order.

Cass Shelley was dead. He had attended her funeral service. This was a fragment of early memory which followed the flying stones, the breakage and the blood, Cass’s eyes finally closing – closed. This woman before him could not be Dr. Cass.

“Who,” said Ira, without inflection. She walked toward him, and looked directly at him. In a sudden onslaught of new fear, the sense of the word escaped him. When he said it again, it was as meaningless as the language of the owl. “Who.”

The woman knelt down beside him, her hands rising, reaching out for him. She was going to touch him! He shrank back.
No
,
no, this is too much! No! Don’t touch! Oh, please, no
–

She held him firmly by the shoulders. His body went rigid and his eyes rolled up to solid whites. He wanted to scream. He was afraid of her eyes.

“I know you don’t like this,” she said so gently, so softly, it was almost music. “But I need you to pay attention, Ira.
Focus.
You did that for my mother, and now you have to do it for me.”

The words meant nothing. He was terrified. He wanted to look at her without being seen, and she allowed this, dropping her eyes of intense color. But his fear of her was still so great, it sent her shape into a swirl of bright light that threatened to overload his senses. The sun drenched her hair and set it on fire. Her lips of red jumped out at him, parting to show the perfect rows of her teeth.

She was talking again. “I know you heard the song on the record player, Ira.”

Song?

He listened to her voice on the level of music for a while, having no idea what she might be saying. But soon the meaning was forcing its way into his consciousness. Over and over again, the same music, “What did you see?”

He saw the words now, dancing vibrations in the air before his eyes. He watched the rocks fly into Dr. Cass’s face and the rocks that doubled her body over. He nodded his head and said, “What did you see.” Yes, he was there, he had seen it. “What did you see,” he said, nodding again. She released him. He stood up and began to pace in circles.

She walked behind him, golden shadow, thrumming with color, throbbing with energy. He looked up to the sky, because looking at her was unbearable now, too much intensity. She was an explosion of life. His hands began to flutter in circles. His breathing was rapid and shallow – he was suffocating.

“What did you see?”

“She was red!” he screamed, and watched his words burst into colors which made ripples in his perceptions. “No more noise – the dog cried.” This second phrase tumbled out in quieter tones of stone gray. “The letter was blue.” These last words were dull pebbles thudding on the dirt at her feet.

“The letter?”

“Blue.” He shook his head to say it was blue and nothing else; he knew nothing more.

“How many of them, Ira? The people who threw the rocks! How many?”

She said this many times, walking with him around the cemetery, fifty times around the angel, exactly fifty times, and she was always right behind him. “How many?” she asked without tiring, without any sign of ever stopping. His hands rolled one around the other, faster and faster.

“How many?”

“Twenty-seven people! Eighteen rocks!” His count was exact, he had only to look at the television set inside his head, which replayed everything, each rock in its own turn, each body in the crowd vibrating in a separate hue, and an overall aura of violent energy.

He walked to the statue of Dr. Cass’s angel and wrapped his arms around it. He beat his head against the stone, not feeling the pain, but wanting to. She pulled him away. Her soft hand went to the place on his head where the red flowed.

“She was all red,” he said, seeing Dr. Cass in vivid color.

“I know, Ira. I saw her, too. All red.”

She pulled back her hands and sat down in the grass. After a few moments, he sat down a safe distance away from her. In her hand was his own handkerchief, plucked from his pocket and stained with his blood. He never met her eyes but once and accidentally. She was crooning low music, an old lullaby; he remembered it well. He rocked himself, and she was rocking with him. This was so familiar, something beloved that he had carefully stored away.

He replayed the old pictures of a small girl humming his songs with him as she walked alongside him. She had been his only friend and the only child who had never tortured him.

His old playmate.

Rocking, rocking, calmer now, he leaned his head back and stared at the clouds. “Kathy.”

“Yes, Ira?”

“Kathy,” was all he said, and that was quite a lot. It was said with love.