Flight of the Stone Angel (28 page)

Jimmy Simms sat tailor fashion on an old plaid bedspread, hunched over his book, and resplendent in his new-old clothes. His feet were encased in Ira’s castoff socks.

The wooden crate beside Jimmy’s cot held the rest of Darlene Wooley’s charity. Tshirts, jeans, a sweatshirt and a denim jacket were neatly stacked in laundry-faded stripes of red and blue. Jimmy was a rich man now. Beside his cot were shoes that fit his feet perfectly.

The rough surface of the crate held one can of soda, a pack of doughnuts, and a lamp with no shade. The bare light bulb was warm as a hand on the back of his neck, and this illusion of human contact counted as an additional creature comfort.

His small room had once been a storage area for books, and now it was home. Disowned and unhoused at seventeen, he had taken to making his bed alongside the sleeping drunks on the streets of Owltown. One chill night, as winter was coming on, the sheriff had picked him up off the sidewalk and dropped him into this safe harbor at the back of the library. For the past thirteen years he had been content in this place. Augusta Trebec had given him the first odd jobs, and Tom Jessop had scared up more work. Between the all-seeing eye of Miss Augusta’s attic window and the gruff attentions of the sheriff, Jimmy had lived with the delusion of aloof but constant parents.

Now, beyond the door, the telephone was ringing in the main room of the library. He ignored it, taking the call for a wrong number. It was always a wrong number in the evening hours when the library was closed.

When he was still a teenage boy, he had run into the main room each time it rang, believing his mother was calling.

But she never called.

When he missed her terribly, he would show up on the front steps of the house, and she would bring him inside quickly, lest the neighbors should see him and tell his father. Then his mother would give him hot soup and a warm meal – mother food. And she would wash his clothes just like a mother, and give him more clothes, miles too big, to take away with him. She would pack extra food in a paper bag, the way she had once packed his lunch for school. But once he was gone, she forgot him again. She never called. So he had learned not to answer the library phone in the night.

His eyes went back to the page of his book. But the ringing was persistent, and there seemed no way to end it but to take the phone off the hook. The main room of the library was not heated, and so he pulled on Ira’s denim jacket as he left his bed and walked out to the front desk.

Wind came through the old window frames in a gusty sigh, and he could feel the room’s cold breath on his face and neck. The century-old building creaked with elderly joints of wood and plaster, and he could hear mice creeping in the walls.

Jimmy stood by the ringing telephone, keeping one eye on the dark rows of bookshelves. The headlights of a passing car made the globe by the window cast a moving shadow the size of a child. He looked away quickly and picked up the receiver of the ringing telephone. Before he could lay it down to break the connection, a woman’s voice said, “Jimmy?” He stared at the receiver and the voice called out again, “Boy, are you there?”

He held the phone close to his ear now, caressing it. “Mom?”

“No, Jimmy, it’s Augusta Trebec.”

Of course.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I got a small job for you. It has to be done tonight. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. I’ll pay you ten dollars for your time. Does that sound about right?”

“Yes, ma’am, ten dollars sounds just fine.” And he could use the money.

Jimmy was staring at the library window facing Dayborn Avenue. The light of the streetlamp was haloed with misty fog. Not a night to go walking, especially if he wanted to skirt the cemetery, and he did. The new shoes would be ruined by the alternate route over rain-soaked ground, and he had thrown his father’s old pair away.

“Why don’t I come in the morning, ma’am. First light?”

“That won’t do me a bit of good, Jimmy. I need this errand run tonight. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“There’s a bit of fog out there. Why don’t I meet you at the bridge? I know every hole in that dirt road. I won’t let you fall.”

Miss Augusta would not like to be kept waiting on a cold night. He walked along the sidewalk at a fast pace, heading for the bridge over Upland Bayou. Jimmy could only see twenty feet into the mist, and he took comfort in every normal thing in that small field of vision. Sturdy telephone poles and fire hydrants were markers of the solid world he hurried through, as were the streetlamps and the yellow windows of the houses. As he approached the bayou, every landmark beyond the near shore was lost in the fog.

Miss Augusta was waiting for him at the foot of the bridge. Her white face floated above a long dark shawl. She nodded a greeting and turned away, crossing the bridge in silence. He walked behind her, making no attempt at conversation. Small talk was neither his strength, nor hers.

Good as her word, the old woman led him around each rain-filled hole in the road. He could see the dull glow of lights through the trees. So people were still visiting the angel. Though, only this morning, he had heard that the long lines had petered out to nothing and the miracle was over.

As they entered the cemetery, a dense ground fog rolled up to meet him. It was thick as he had ever seen it. His shoes disappeared below his ankles. His eyes strayed to Cass Shelley’s monument. He could only see the back of her wings and the votive candles on her pedestal.

He scanned the grounds for Miss Augusta. She was farther down the alley of tombs, and he feared losing her in the mist and the turn of a corner on the gravel path.

But he had to look back one more time.

Cass’s wings ruffled lightly like the feathers of a living bird. It was only an illusion created by the flickering play of candlelight. He knew that for a written-down, scientific fact – but belief was a different matter in the dark.

He was hurrying by the tombs, in a rush to catch up with Miss Augusta, when he heard the sound of stone crunching on stone. He looked back. Had the statue moved? No, that was not possible. He was only looking at it from a different angle. The great spread wings still hid her body from sight.

He turned back to the alley of small white buildings. The old woman had probably veered down some other street in the city of tombs and vanished.

“Miss Augusta?”

Behind him, something heavy had hit the ground. He felt the vibrations through the soles of his shoes, but he would not turn around, not for anything. And now, something in his sidelong vision moved. He would not look directly at it; he could not. He turned to Cass’s angel for reassurance.

Her pedestal was bare. He looked down the alley where the old woman had gone. Miss Augusta had returned for him. She was standing just beyond the periphery of clear vision. It must be a trick of the mist that made her seem so much smaller.

“Miss Augusta?”

A woman’s voice called to him. “Jimmy.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and his knees began to liquefy. And then the hand was gone, and he was running toward the hazy figure of Augusta at the end of the path. He stopped short, kicking up gravel, backtracking until his legs locked and he froze like an animal trapped in the fascination of an onrushing train light. It was another angel, smaller than the one which had left its pedestal. It was the statue’s missing child, and now she had wings of her own. The little girl moved toward him on heavy stone feet. He could hear the pounding on the ground as she drew closer. Her hands had blood on them, and there was blood on the rocks in her small arms.

She stopped her forward motion and slowly rose in the air. He could see her tiny feet above the ground fog. He sank to his knees. The child was drifting toward him, floating, as if she weighed nothing, though she carried a heavy burden. All those rocks.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. This was a lie. And the stone child knew it. She would have kept track of his sins.

“Cass was going to tell,” he said with his hands splayed on the air, asking the child for understanding. “She was going to tell
everyone.”
The child hovered on the air, as though listening. He covered his face with both hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She called to him in a soft small voice, “Jimmy.” His hands dropped away from his face, and he opened his eyes. She began to revolve in the air, and all the rocks flew out from her arms in a spiral, spinning off into the mist, making no sound as they fell. The stone child was whirling faster and faster as he screamed. She slowed her revolutions, then stopped, only hovering now. He brought his hands together, as if to pray.

She exploded into flight, the stone wings were in motion, beating on the air, and she was rushing at him, hitting him with her small body, her wings. She was not stone anymore, but warm, a pulsating child with a real heart beating against his chest, and then, in seconds, she was gone, flown off.

Lost feathers drifted to the earth.

He clawed at his eyes and fell forward, prostrate on the ground with his face in the gravel, small jagged bits of stones jutting into his flesh. He raised his head and looked back to the end of the alley. Cass’s angel had returned to her pedestal. From this vantage point, he could see that it was the old angel, and the wingless stone child was back in her arms once more. He began to weep over the strange reunion of Cass and Kathy.

And then he began to wail as the dog had wailed, lowering his head now kissing gravel and crooning to the earth.

“Howling mad,” said the voice of Augusta Trebec.

The thick ground fog was rolling away – more magic. The old woman’s feet were close to his head. And now there were others gathering around him. As he was slowly raising his eyes, he wondered if these people would have rocks in their hands.

When the hysterical rambling had subsided to ordinary tears, Augusta knelt down by the shivering young man. “Now, Jimmy, you come along with me. I’m gonna fix you a nice strong cup of herb tea.” She took one of his arms to pull him up, and Mallory slipped the black bandanna from her face and took the other arm. As the women walked the small man toward the path leading to Trebec House, Augusta was saying, “Everything is gonna be just fine.”

Riker guessed the old lady was lying through her teeth. He stepped out from behind the tomb and crushed one of the papier-mache stones underfoot.

Charles wore a black cloth draped over his body, looking more like a priest than a magician. He was staring at the gun in Riker’s hand with something approaching horror.

Riker holstered his revolver, as he watched the odd trio walking away. That frightened little man was the kind of suspect he always prayed for in every case with no physical evidence.

He looked at Charles. “You were right to believe in her. I was wrong.”

Charles didn’t seem to take any joy in this win. He only nodded as he pulled the black drape away from the statue of the winged child.

Riker picked up the velvet cloth. “So that’s how you made her disappear.” A second drape fell from the raised pallet. The fake fog was still escaping from the mobile platform in stray wisps. “There wasn’t enough fog tonight? You had to rent a fog machine?”

Charles shook his head. “It was only dry ice and hot water.”

When the last of the gas cleared away, Riker could see all the wheels and gears that made the angel rise and spin. He guessed that Charles had made the heavy footfalls of the stone angel’s walk. “But what was the guy raving about? All that babbling crap about the angel flying? I saw the birds fly, but I never saw the statue take off.”

Charles bent down to the small statue and gently cleaned the blood off her hands lest it stain the marble. “I don’t know what that was about.”

“Take a guess.”

“It was supposed to be a very simple illusion, one thing changing into another. When I released the birds and draped the statue, he should have seen the stone turn into a flight of doves. I didn’t expect the birds to fly straight at him like that. How could I know they were going to attack him?”

“I still don’t get it, Charles.”

“It was an accident of his own mind, a collision of illusions. The birds took the form he expected to see. He must have been very frightened. He’s half crazy now.”

Riker nodded. He was reminded of magical eyewitness testimony, the bane of every cop. If the witness heard a shot, he would swear under oath that he had seen a gun – whether it was there or not. And sometimes the gunshots were not real, either. Yet the witness was truthful.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Charles. Cass Shelley was terrified when
she
saw the stones fly.”

“Jimmy Simms was only thirteen years old when she died.”

“Killer kids get younger every day. We got one back in New York who’s only nine.”

Of course, this was no comfort to Charles, who only wanted the workings of the world to be sane and fair. He was constantly being disappointed.

“You know, Riker, Jimmy never actually said he threw the stones.” Riker smiled at this. Charles was still hanging in there, pitching a case for civilization – another illusion.
Welcome to the new world, the animal planet.

“It was a great technique,” said Riker. “I’ve spent days breaking a suspect down to a puddle, and you guys did it in under ten minutes. I really thought Mallory would drag it out more – turn those screws a little tighter. So Jimmy’s the future state’s witness in her mother’s homicide. Am I right?”