From the Corner of His Eye (38 page)

Chastened by these recent events, he vowed to stop meditating, to avoid
all
passive responses to the challenges of life. He must explore the unknown rather than flinch from it in fear. Besides, through his explorations, he would prove that the unknown was all just tapioca or applesauce, or whatever.

He must begin by learning as much as possible about ghosts, hauntings, and the vengeance of the dead.

During the remainder of 1966, only two apparently paranormal events occurred in Junior Cain’s life, the first on Wednesday, October 5.

On a culture stroll, checking out the newest work in a circuit of his favorite art galleries, Junior arrived eventually at the show windows of Galerie Coquin. Prominently displayed to passersby on the busy street was the sculpture of Wroth Griskin: two large pieces, each weighing at least five hundred pounds, and seven much smaller bronzes elevated on pedestals.

Griskin, a former convict, had served eleven years for second-degree murder before the lobbying efforts of a coalition of artists and writers had won his parole. He possessed a huge talent. No one before Griskin had ever managed to express this degree of violence and rage in the medium of bronze, and Junior had long kept the artist’s work on his short list of desired acquisitions.

In the gallery windows, eight of the nine sculptures were so disturbing that many passersby, catching sight of them, blanched and looked away and hurried on. Not everyone can be a connoisseur.

The ninth piece was not art, certainly not a work by Griskin, and could disturb no one half as much as it rattled Junior. Upon a black pedestal stood a pewter candlestick identical to the one that had cracked the skull of Thomas Vanadium and had added dimension to the cop’s previously pan-flat face.

The gray pewter appeared to be mottled with a black substance. Perhaps char. As though it had been soiled in a fire.

At the top of the candlestick, the drip pan and the socket were marked by a wine-red drizzle. The color of well-aged bloodstains.

From these ominous spatters, several fibers bristled, having stuck to the pewter when the drizzle was still wet. They appeared to be human hairs.

Fear clotted in Junior’s veins, and he stood like an impacted embolism in the busy flow of pedestrians, certain that he himself would at any moment succumb to a stroke.

He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them.

The candlestick still rested atop the pedestal.

Reminding himself that nature was merely a dumb machine, utterly devoid of mystery, and that the unknown would always prove familiar if you dared to lift its veil, Junior discovered he could move. Each of his feet seemed to weigh as much as one of Wroth Griskin’s cast bronzes, but he crossed the sidewalk and went into Galerie Coquin.

Neither customers nor staff could be found in the first of the three large rooms. Only cheaper galleries were crowded with browsers and unctuous sales personnel. In an establishment as upscale as Coquin, the hoi polloi were discouraged from gawking, while the high value and extreme desirability of the art were made evident by the staff’s almost pathological aversion to promoting the merchandise.

The second and third rooms proved to be deserted, as well, and as muffled as the cushioned spaces of a funeral home, but an office was tucked discreetly at the back of the final chamber. As Junior crossed the third room, apparently monitored by closed-circuit security cameras, a man glided out of the office to greet him.

This galerieur was tall, with silver hair, chiseled features, and the all-knowing, imperious manner of a gynecologist to royalty. He wore a well-tailored gray suit, and his gold Rolex was the very watch that Wroth Griskin might have killed for in his salad days.

“I’m interested in one of the smaller Griskins,” said Junior, managing to appear calm, although his mouth was dry with fear and his mind spun with crazy images of the maniac cop, dead and rotting but nevertheless lurching around San Francisco.

“Yes?” the silver-haired eminence replied, wrinkling his nose as though he suspected that this customer would ask if the display pedestal was included in the price.

“I’m captivated more by painting than I am by most dimensional work,” Junior explained. “Really, the only sculpture I’ve acquired is Poriferan’s.”

Industrial Woman,
which he’d purchased for a little more than nine thousand dollars, less than eighteen months ago and at another gallery, would fetch at least thirty thousand in the current market, so rapidly had Bavol Poriferan’s reputation risen.

The galerieur’s icy demeanor thawed marginally at this proof of taste and financial resources. He either smiled or grimaced at a vague but unpleasant smell—hard to tell which—and identified himself as the owner, Maxim Coquin.

“The piece that’s intrigued me,” Junior revealed, “is the one that’s rather like a c-c-candlestick. It’s quite different from the others.”

Professing befuddlement, the galerieur led the way through three rooms to the front windows, gliding across the polished maple floors as though he were on wheels.

The candlestick was gone. The pedestal on which it had stood now held a Griskin bronze so devastatingly brilliant that one quick look at it would give nightmares to nuns and assassins alike.

When Junior attempted to explain himself, Maxim Coquin summoned an expression no less dubious than that of a policeman listening to the alibi of a suspect with bloody hands. Then: “I’m quite sure that Wroth Griskin does not make candlesticks. If that’s what you’re looking for, I’d recommend the housewares department at Gump’s.”

Both angry and mortified, yet still fearful, a walking multimedia collage of emotions, Junior left the gallery.

Outside, he turned to look at the display windows. He expected to see the candlestick, supernaturally apparent only from this side of the glass, but it wasn’t there.

Throughout the autumn, Junior read book after book about ghosts, poltergeists, haunted houses, ghost ships, séances, spirit rapping, spirit manifestation, spirit writing, spirit recording, trance speaking, conjuration, exorcism, astral projection, Ouija-board revelation, and needlepoint.

He had come to believe that every well-rounded, self-improved person ought to have a craft at which he excelled, and needlepoint appealed to him more than either pottery-making or decoupage. For pottery, he would require a potter’s wheel and a cumbersome kiln; and decoupage was too messy, with all the glue and lacquer. By December, he began his first project: a small pillowcase featuring a geometric border surrounding a quote from Caesar Zedd, “Humility is for losers.”

At 3:22 in the morning, December 13, following a busy day of conducting ghost research, seeking Bartholomews in a telephone book, and working on his needlepoint, Junior awakened to singing. A single voice. No instrumental accompaniment. A woman.

Initially, lying drowsily in the sumptuous comfort of Pratesi cotton sheets with black silk piping, Junior assumed that he was in a twilight state between wakefulness and sleep, and that the singing must be a lingering fragment of a dream. Although rising and falling, the voice remained so faint that he didn’t at once identify the tune, but when he recognized “Someone to Watch over Me,” he sat up in bed and threw back the covers.

Switching on the lights as he went, Junior sought the source of the serenade. He carried the 9-mm pistol, which would have been useless against a spirit visitor; but his extensive reading about ghosts hadn’t convinced him that they were real. His faith in the effectiveness of bullets—and pewter candlesticks, for that matter—remained undiminished.

Although faint and somewhat hollow, the woman’s crooning was pure and so on-note that this a cappella rendition fell as pleasantly on the ear as any voice sweetened by an orchestra. Yet the song had a disturbing quality, as well, an eerie note of yearning, longing, a piercing sadness. For want of a better word, her voice was
haunting.

Junior stalked her, but she eluded him. Always, the song seemed to arise from the next room, but when he passed through the doorway into that space, the voice then sounded as if it came from the room that he’d just left.

Three times, the singing faded away, but twice, just when he thought that she had finished, she began to croon again. The third time, the silence lasted.

This venerable old building, as solidly constructed as a castle, was well-insulated; noises in other apartments rarely penetrated to Junior’s.
Never
before had he heard a neighbor’s voice distinctly enough to comprehend the words spoken—or, in this case, sung.

He doubted that the singer had been Victoria Bressler, dead nurse, but he believed this was the same voice he’d heard on the telephone, back on the twenty-fifth of June, when someone purporting to be Victoria had called with an urgent warning for Bartholomew.

At 3:31
A.M
., even the early-winter dawn wasn’t near, yet Junior was too awake to return to bed. Though sweet, though melancholy, never ominous, the ghostly singing had left him feeling…threatened.

He considered taking a shower and getting an early start on the day. But he kept remembering
Psycho
: Anthony Perkins dressed in women’s clothes and wielding a butcher knife.

Needlepoint provided no sanctuary. Junior’s hands trembled just badly enough to make accurate stitchery impossible.

His mood ruled out reading about poltergeists and such.

Instead, he sat in the breakfast nook with his phone books and resumed the grueling search for Bartholomew.

Find the father, kill the son.

In just nine days, Junior bedded four beautiful women: one on Christmas Eve, the next on Christmas Night, the third on New Year’s Eve, and the fourth on New Year’s Day. For the first time in his life—and on all four occasions—his joy in the act was less than complete.

Not that he failed to perform well. As always, he was a bull, a stallion, an insatiable satyr. None of his lovers complained; none had the
energy
for complaint when he’d finished with them.

Yet something was missing.

He felt hollow. Unfinished.

As beautiful as they were, none of these women satisfied him as profoundly as Naomi had satisfied him.

He wondered if The Missing Thing might be love.

With Naomi, sex had been glorious, because they were bonded on multiple levels, all deeper than the mere physical. They had been so close, so emotionally and intellectually
entwined,
that in making love to her, he’d been making love to himself; and he would never experience a greater intimacy than that.

He yearned for a new heart mate. He was wise enough to know that no amount of yearning could transform the wrong woman into the right one. Love couldn’t be demanded, planned, or manufactured. Love always came as a surprise, snuck up on you when you were least expecting it, like Anthony Perkins in a dress.

He could only wait. And hope.

Hope became easier to sustain when late 1966 and 1967 brought the biggest advance in women’s fashions since the invention of the sewing needle: the miniskirt, and then the micromini. Already, Mary Quant—of all things, a
British
designer—had conquered England and Europe with her splendid creation; now she brought America out of the dark ages of psychopathic modesty.