Lords of Salem (7 page)
What is it I feel, Sister?” asked the first nun.
“It is the same that I feel,” said the second. “The time is coming.” She made a gesture as if to cross herself, but the symbol she made was different and more complex: the cross was there, but once she had made it, she topped it with an upward-curving semicircle and drew a downward curving semicircle through its base as well. So, a cross, but not a cross. A cross perverted into something else.
The other sister made the same gesture.
They knelt together in the back pew in the deserted Saint Peter’s church, in the darkest part. The nuns were both quite old. The portion of their heads and faces not hidden by the cowls of their habits seemed as wrinkled as dried apples, almost sexless. Their hands, resting against the backs of the pews in front of them, were bony and liver spotted and nearly translucent, quavering slightly.
“The time comes at last,” said the first nun. “And we shall embrace it.”
“Yes, we shall,” said the second nun. “The promised time has come and Salem shall be reclaimed.”
After a long moment, the first began to pray, a slow chant in what seemed at first nonsense. “Nema,” she said. “Reve rof d’na won sruoy…” The other nun joined in. “Era ylorg eh-t d’na…”
Had anyone been listening, it would only slowly have dawned on them that it was not nonsense after all but some language, even if
an unfamiliar one. Someone paying very close attention might have eventually realized it was not an unfamiliar language at all but a familiar one turned on its head and running in reverse. From there it would be only a matter of time before they deciphered that what the nuns were doing was reciting the Lord’s Prayer backward.
They were interrupted by the appearance of a young priest beside them. He stood there with his hands clasped, smiling.
“Father,” said the first nun in a voice that was flat and neutral, nodding her head.
“Father,” said the second, imitating the tone of the first exactly.
“Sisters,” said the priest. “I don’t believe I’ve met either of you before. Am I mistaken? Are you newly arrived? Have you just been transferred to join us?”
“Not exactly,” said the first nun.
“We are from another… parish,” said the second nun.
“We are just passing through,” said the first. “A little traveling.”
The priest nodded. “You are most welcome,” he said. “If I can be of service to you, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.”
Both nuns nodded. The priest stood there a little longer, waiting for them to speak, then after a moment wandered away. They watched him go, following him with narrowed eyes down the aisle. Once he was out of earshot, they began to pray again, continuing their act of desecration.
“I feel him,” said the first nun.
“Who?” said the second nun. “Mather?”
“Hawthorne,” said the first. “Though he has been dead these many years, I feel him.”
“It is not he whom you feel,” said the second, “but his kin. His blood.”
The first nun nodded. “His blood still beats within her veins.”
“But the time is coming,” said the second.
“The time is coming,” the first agreed.
They traced once again the symbol over their chests, then stood and left the pew. Leaning against one another, they hobbled their way down the aisle and toward the doors of the church.
“I feel him,” whispered the first nun, angrily. “I feel him.”
“We shall have our revenge,” said the first. “And it shall be sweet.”
And then they were out of the church and in the morning sun. They stood on the steps, sniffing the air.
“There,” said the first nun. “There he is.”
“Yes,” said the second. “I can feel him. I can
smell
him.”
Halfway down the narrow, redbrick sidewalk was a woman in a faux fur coat, leading a large Labrador retriever. She had stopped to let the dog sniff a lamppost. She was looking idly around, her eyes wandering. After a moment she tugged on the leash, but the dog braced its paws. It wasn’t ready to be pulled away.
Her gaze was slowly drawn to the nuns. They stood there on the steps, motionless, their habits blowing in the wind.
“He sees us,” the first nun said.
“No,” the second nun said. “It is Hawthorne’s blood but it is not Hawthorne. It is a she. And she does not know what she sees.”
The first nun nodded. “She will not know what she sees until it is too late.”
The large African American man stood on the front steps of the apartment trying to stop himself from pacing. He was dressed in a way that made him stand out from other residents of Salem, that made him seem like a throwback to the seventies. He wore glittering white Adidas shoes, a black-ribbed T-shirt, and a white-leather suit coat. His pants were white as well, tight-fitting slacks that looked like they’d been tailored to fit him. He was in his late fifties, but still relatively fit. He took a cigar out of his coat pocket, stared at it, then put it away again. A moment later he had it out again and had bitten off the ends and was lighting it.
Might as well enjoy myself if I have to wait,
he thought, puffing on the cigar and turning it in the flame until the tip glowed evenly.
Where is she?
he wondered. Late again. He tried not to worry about Heidi. When he’d knocked on the door, nobody had answered and that’d made him a little anxious, but Steve hadn’t barked, which meant wherever she was she was out with Steve. Which meant the chances that she’d started using again and hadn’t come home the night before were slim to none. She was okay, he was pretty sure, but he couldn’t help but worry about her, because he’d seen how bad things had gotten for her last time. He didn’t ever want her to go through something like that again. But he also didn’t want to have to be the one to pull her out the next time; once was enough. He’d been happy to do it, happy to be there for her, but it’d been hard on both
of them, and the way she’d cursed him out when she realized he was going to check her into the clinic, well, that just wasn’t something easy to forget. He’d put his own job on the line convincing the station to hire her back, which was why he made a point of picking her up and getting her to work on time, of making sure she didn’t start fucking up again.
He took a long draw on the cigar. He loved the way the smoke changed the inside of his mouth, numbed it just a little but also changed the texture of it almost.
The curtains behind one of the windows on the ground floor were pulled back and he caught a quick glimpse of a woman’s face before it quickly fell again. Landlady, he told himself. What was her name? Heidi had introduced her but he’d be damned if he could remember. Probably the old hippy chick didn’t approve of him smoking cigars on her steps, but if that were the case she’d have to come out and tell him to his face. He knew that there were very few people willing to stand up to him, to Herman Jackson, and he suspected that she wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t a jerk—he’d stop smoking if she asked nicely and without being prissy—but as far as he was concerned he was outdoors with nobody else in smell range. He wasn’t bothering anybody. And if he was, they could let him know nicely or grin and bear it.
“Hey,” someone said.
He turned to see Heidi walking back toward the apartment building, leading Steve. Yeah, she was okay. He shouldn’t have worried. It made him a little ashamed that he had, a little angry at himself, but a little angry at her, too, for putting him in a position that made him feel like he had to. But no, that was stupid. She was a good kid, trying just like anyone else, and mostly doing all right.
She reached him, Steve wagging and trying to jump up on him. He pushed the dog away, but gently.
“Hey, Heidi,” he said.
“Did you pick up the new headshots?” Heidi asked.
“Headshots?” Herman said. He leaned over and scraped the coal
off his cigar and then put it back into his pocket for later. “You’re worried about headshots?” he asked. “You got any concept of what time it might be, girl?”
Heidi straightened up, puckered her lips. When she spoke again it was with a bad French accent.
“What is this time? I have no understanding of this time of which you speak.”
Herman shook his head, keeping his face flat and trying not to smile. He looked at his watch. “Well then, Frenchie LaRue,” he said, “let me put it in straight-up boots-on-the-ground all-American speak. It’s half past get your fucking ass in the car.”
Heidi gave a wicked smile, but he could tell from her eyes that she was tired and in no mood for playing around. “Let me just grab my shit,” she said.
“Well, giddyap,” said Herman. “The meter on my chariot is running.”
She could mess around, Herman thought, but when she put her mind to something she got it done in good time. It had only taken her a minute to run Steve in and clamber into his car. He hadn’t even had time to think about the half-smoked cigar in his pocket and light it again.
He flipped a U-ey, ignoring the double yellow line, something sure to scandalize Heidi’s uptight neighbors. Why she wanted to live in the heart of the historical part of Salem, hell if he knew. Once, when she was drunk, she’d talked a little about her heritage, that she was descended from one of the early Salem witch hunters. But hell, that seemed like it might be a reason
not
to want to live in Salem rather than a reason to live there. And Heidi stuck out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood—nobody else around here under fifty. Not as much as he would have, being black and being a natty dresser, but still…
The crucifix dangling from the rearview mirror was still swinging from the U-turn. It kept catching flashes of sunlight and sending them into his eyes. He reached out and steadied it.
“It always does that,” Heidi said, watching him. “You should just take it down.”
He shook his head. “I’m not taking it down,” he said. “That’s God looking out for me.”
“You know what they would have said about that in Old Salem?” she asked.
“What?” he said.
“They would have called you an idolater,” she said. “Probably they would have burned you as a witch.”
“Yeah, good times,” he said. “But I’m keeping it where it is.”
They drove in silence a moment, until Heidi, remembering, suddenly gave a little jump.
“Okay, so where the photos at?” she asked.
“Again with the photos.” He waited a minute for her to riposte, and when she didn’t he gestured over his shoulder. “Backseat.”
“And… how do they look?” she asked.
“Wrong,” said Herman.
“What do you mean, wrong?”
Herman didn’t answer, preferring to let her see for herself.
She reached over the seat and shuffled aside a pile of clothes. Underneath were several boxes. The one on top was full of books.
“Christ, you need to clean your fucking car,” said Heidi. “You are a hoarder.”
God, she knew how to push his buttons. “Don’t tell me what I need to do,” said Herman. “And I ain’t no hoarder.”
“I’m going to get you an intervention on that show for hoarders,” she said. “
Hoarding Emergency
or whatever.”
“I ain’t no hoarder,” he insisted again.
She ignored him. She pushed the box to one side, opened one of the boxes under it. It was the right box, Herman saw with a glance in the rearview mirror as she opened it. She pulled out an 8ʺ by 10ʺ promo photo and then settled back into her seat and examined it.
When they had to stop at a light, Herman snuck a glance,
curious to see if it was as bad as he remembered. “Big H Radio Team,” it read along the bottom. And there he was. Yeah, his clothes looked good, as usual, but his head didn’t look like that, did it? No, no way it could. It just wasn’t natural. Heidi looked good, though, in her tattered Ramones shirt and her torn jeans, and totally at ease as well. But he, there was this problem with his head, probably some kind of Photoshopped joke, and plus he just didn’t look relaxed. The third member of the team, Whitey, didn’t look as bad as him, but didn’t look half as good as Heidi either. He was a gangly man with long hair and a huge, bushy beard and he wore mirrored sunglasses that looked straight out of the seventies. Like he’d stolen them off an aviator. Just beaten the fuck out of an aviator and then taken his glasses. Yeah, Herman had to admit Whitey looked okay. A little creepy maybe, but still. Maybe he should have worn sunglasses, too.
“We look pretty cool,” said Heidi. “What’s so wrong?”
“My head!” said Herman, exasperated. Couldn’t she see it? “My head looks too fucking big! It’s got to be the fucking lens that asshole was using. I knew he snuck on a wide-angle lens, some kind of fishbowl thing. I know my head ain’t that big.”
“You look fine,” said Heidi. “God, you are worse than a fucking chick.”
“Fine? Fine is your polite-ass way of saying, ‘Herman, he got a big fucking beach ball head.’ I look like Charlie Brown.”
He examined himself in the mirror. No, his head wasn’t that big. No way it was that big.
Heidi put her hand on his arm, spoke in mock consolation. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re still a stud.”
“Yeah?” he said. He smiled, looked at himself in the mirror again. “Yeah, I do look good, don’t I.” She was all right, Heidi was.
Just goes to show you, you think you’ve seen everything and then they go and pull out some new horror show
, thought Cerina Hooten.
I got to get myself a new job
. She sat at her receptionist’s desk, tapping her pencil against the desk’s edge. How could she be expected to work under these conditions? Okay, musicians were eccentric, but this was too much. And couldn’t they have the decency to sit down somewhere else in the waiting room rather than taking the chairs right across from her, facing her? What happened to common courtesy? She reached up and ruffled her bushy Afro. No, no. She couldn’t be expected to type something up with them staring at her the whole time, no matter how urgent the station manager said it was. He was lucky she was even bothering to answer the phones.
She had their publicity photo on the desk and a Sharpie out. She’d thought the photo would be labeled, but it wasn’t, which meant that she’d have to talk to them and ask them who was who or else Chip, the station manager, would complain. She looked closely at the photo. They looked just as bad in that. Ugh. Hideous. Why would anyone want to dress up like someone dead? She shivered. It was just plain morbid.