Mirror (41 page)

‘How do you do?’ Martin told Miss Redd. It seemed an absurdly formal thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else. His mind was crowded with images of Boofuls in 1939, hurrying into the Hollywood Divine with Miss Redd close by his side, her black cape billowing like a thundercloud, her eyes as sharp as razors.

Miss Redd said in a faintly middle-European accent, ‘You rescued Walter from the mirror. We should be grateful.’

It was odd the way she said ‘we
should
be grateful’ instead of ‘we
are
grateful’. There was a subtle implication that they should be grateful but they weren’t; as if they didn’t feel the need to be grateful to anyone.

Martin walked up to the mirror and stood staring at his reflection. ‘You came out of the mirror, too?’

Miss Redd smiled. She was exceptionally beautiful; but Martin found her too thin to be really attractive. She was right on the edge of looking anorexic – like a starving gazelle or the liberated victim of a concentration camp.

‘I emerged from one stage of my life into another,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to forgive me for wearing your shirt. My clothes … well, my clothes became lost.’

Martin went over to the windowsill and poured two glasses of red wine without asking Miss Redd whether she wanted any. He glanced down into the yard, but Maria didn’t seem to be around. Her sunbed. was empty; her bent-back copy of Harold Robbins’
The Storyteller
was lying on the hammered-glass garden table. One of her Sno-Cones was floating in the pool. Martin handed one of the glasses of wine to Ramone and swallowed half of the other glassful himself, almost without breathing.

Miss Redd watched him without expression. Boofuls smiled and hummed ‘The Sadness of Happier Times’.

‘You’re – what? Boofuls’ nanny or something?’ Martin asked Miss Redd.

‘You could say that,’ Miss Redd replied.

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think he really needs a nanny. He seems to be doing all right for himself just the way he is.’

‘There are some things which he is unable to do for himself,’ Miss Redd answered.

‘Like what?’ Martin wanted to know. ‘He seems to have gotten along okay so far.’

Ramone said, ‘You came out of the mirror, too?’

Miss Redd smiled, but didn’t reply.

‘Well, if you came out of the mirror, you would know where Emilio is.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Redd. ‘I would.
If
I came out of the mirror.’

Martin finished his wine and set the empty glass down on the desk. ‘If you
didn’t
come out of the mirror, how did you get here? Stark naked, walking along Franklin Avenue?’

Miss Redd continued to smile. ‘Emilio is quite safe,’ she said. ‘He’s such a charming little boy, isn’t he? Charming, but rather
grave
.’

Martin said, ‘I’ve warned Boofuls about this, and now I’m going to warn you. If you so much as scratch that boy, I’m going to kill you.’

Miss Redd nodded. ‘Well, I believe you might.’ She sounded just like Greta Garbo. ‘But it wouldn’t do you any good at all. Because if you killed us, you would lose the ability to be able to bring Emilio back through the mirror. He would be trapped there forever; just as Boofuls and I were trapped.’

Ramone shook his head like a dog trying to shake a wasp out of its ear. ‘Martin,’ he said, ‘we got to get a grip on this thing. I mean these people are walking all over you. And Jesus, Martin, they’re not even
real
people!’

Miss Redd turned to Ramone and held out her hand. ‘Here,’ she said coldly. ‘Take hold of my hand.’

Ramone hesitated, but then slowly put out his own hand. Miss Redd at once gripped him tightly and dug her fingernails into the inside of his wrist. Ramone shouted out, ‘Heyy! Ow! That
hurts
!’ But Miss Redd continued to dig her fingernails into him deeper and deeper.

‘For Christ’s sake, you’re real! You’re real!’ Ramone protested. He twisted his hand free and then angrily nursed the scratches on his wrist. ‘What the hell do you think you’re trying to prove? You’re worse than that cat!’

Boofuls laughed. Then he said, ‘Miss Redd is going to take care of me now. Miss Redd will feed me and dress me and take me to the studios. You have served your purpose now, Martin, and I am grateful for what you have done. But there is nothing further for you to do.’

‘What about
Sweet Chariot
? asked Martin. ‘Supposing they want some rewrites?’

‘Miss Redd will supervise the rewrites. Your task is finished.’

‘And Emilio?’ demanded Ramone. ‘When are you going to let him go?’

‘When it suits me,’ said Boofuls.

‘Can you believe this runt?’ appealed Ramone. ‘He’s eight years old and he’s talking like he’s my father or something, You listen here, runt –’

‘Ramone,’ warned Martin. ‘Don’t. Right now, Boofuls holds all the aces.’

Boofuls covered his face with both hands. They all watched him, saying nothing, holding their breath. When he eventually took them away again, he was smiling. Then he laughed, a high peal of laughter, bright as bells. ‘You all look so
frightened
!’ he crowed. ‘You all look so terribly, terribly
scared
!’

For one unbalanced moment, Martin wondered whether Boofuls was playing them all for fools; whether he really did have power over Emilio; and whether the emaciated Miss Redd really had appeared through the mirror. But then Boofuls glanced at him quickly, and he saw the dead-certain coldness of those welding-torch eyes, and he knew that Boofuls was possessed by Satan just as surely as death sits on every man’s shoulder.

Boofuls went across to Ramone and clung on to his sleeve. ‘You shouldn’t be frightened,’ he told him. ‘You have no cause to be frightened; no cause at all; just as long as you remember how long I have been gone and why I am here; and that no man speaks against me and lives to boast about it.’

Martin could see Ramone’s anger rising up inside him. He could see his fists clenching and the veins in his neck swell.
Don’t, Ramone, for God’s sake
, he begged him in the silence of his mind.

Ramone looked across at him, and there was a look in his eyes which said,
Bullshit
, but he kept his mouth closed, and lifted his arm away from Boofuls’ grasp, and gave the nearest thing to an agreeable smile that he could manage.

‘Now,’ said Boofuls, ‘you promised me a hamburger, Martin. And we must take Miss Redd to buy some clothes. Miss Redd likes black, don’t you, Miss Redd? Black, black, black! Black cloaks! Black skirts, black silk stockings!’

Ramone came up to Martin and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I think I’ll take a rain check on the hamburger, man. Are you going to be okay?’

‘Oh, I’m going to be fine,’ said Martin. He nodded and smiled at Boofuls. ‘I’m going to be absolutely fine.’

Boofuls said, ‘Big Mac, no pickle, giant-size fries, a strawberry milkshake, and an apple pie to finish!’

‘Sure,’ Martin agreed, but very quietly. He had just noticed the single spot of blood on the floor. It was thick, arterial blood, and it was still glistening. The most terrible part about it was not the fact that it was there, but that he didn’t dare ask, in his own apartment, in daylight, what it was.

The police came to St Patrick’s at two o’clock that afternoon to tell Father Quinlan that Father Lucas was dead.

‘They found him in the basement about three hours ago. The desk clerk was so spaced out he didn’t even remember that he’d let him go down there. He was pretty badly mutilated. Some crazy person, no doubt about it. But, you know, what’s a fifty-five-year-old priest doing at the Hollywood Divine at that time of night? It’s asking for trouble, asking.’

Father Quinlan stared at the swarthy face of the detective sitting opposite and wondered how it was that such a man could be the bearer of such tragic news. He looked more like a comedian than a detective. He had a baggy face and a bulbous nose and hair that stuck up at the back like a cockatoo’s crest.

‘Do you know how?’ asked Father Quinlan.

The detective sniffed blatantly and shook his head. ‘The ME’s going over him now. But he was torn up pretty bad. That’s why I say some crazy person. And of course the basement’s teeming with rats. They tore him up, too, threw in their five cents’ worth.’

Father Quinlan nodded. He felt curiously detached, as if none of this were really happening. He could see every detail of the detective’s face with extraordinary clarity. He could see the dandruff on the collar of his tan-colored sports coat. Yet he felt as if he weren’t here at all. Not dreaming, but
absent
.

‘What we can’t understand is this,’ the detective said. ‘What was he doing down in the basement of the sleaziest roach palace in town? A priest like him?’

‘Perhaps,’ Father Quinlan began, but when the detective quickly lifted an eyebrow, he snapped back to alertness and continued, ‘perhaps he was looking for old furniture. We always need chairs and tables, you know, for our youth club activities, and our prayer meetings.’

‘That time of night?’ asked the detective, puckering up his nose.

‘It’s only a thought,’ said Father Quinlan.

The detective frowned for a moment and then said, ‘I have to remember to pick up a rib roast on my way home. My wife’ll kill me.’

‘If I think of anything,’ said Father Quinlan.

‘Oh, sure. Call me anytime you like, this number here. Ask for Hector. Just say Hector. Or ask for my partner, Fernandez.’

‘There’s one thing more,’ said Father Quinlan. ‘Did Father Lucas happen to have any kind of package on him? A package of black tissue paper?’

The detective took out his notebook, licked his thumb, and turned the pages. ‘Wallet, keys, loose change, handkerchief, that was all. No package. No package in his automobile, either.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Father Quinlan, trying to sound as if it weren’t important. ‘Maybe he left it at home.’

‘Yeah, maybe he did,’ agreed the detective.

Father Quinlan saw the detective to the door. The detective said, ‘I’m sorry I brought you such bad news. It’s all I get to bring in this business, bad news.’

Father Quinlan nodded and said, ‘Bless you all the same.’

‘Thanks, Father.’

‘And don’t forget the rib roast.’

‘You bet,’ the detective said.

Father Quinlan closed the door of his study and stood for a long time without moving, stunned and saddened and frightened, too. He had not only misdirected an officer of the law, he had, indirectly, defended Satan. He had betrayed his holy trust as a priest and brought the day of Armageddon even closer.

Yet what else could he do? The police would never believe that Father Lucas had been searching for the scattered relics of the true Satan; and even if they did, there was nothing at all they could do about it. Father Quinlan would have to get in touch with Martin Williams urgently, and warn him that the claws and the hair had gone unfound – and presumably whatever was in the second safe-deposit box had been taken, too.

He picked up the phone and called Martin’s number, but there was no reply. But Martin had left him his address on Franklin Avenue: perhaps he should drive up there and leave him a message. He had been thinking of calling Martin in any case. He wanted to see Boofuls’ mirror for himself.

Father Quinlan scribbled Martin a letter, licked an envelope, sealed it, then raked a comb through his hair, shrugged on a crumpled linen jacket, locked up his study, and went outside to the college parking lot. It was a hot brilliant afternoon; his shadow followed him across the parking lot like an obedient black dog. He climbed into his elderly Grand Prix and started the engine.

He drove slowly and carefully. Half of the car’s front bumper was hanging down and made a dull clatter as he went along. He had never been mechanically minded. Ever since he had been a young man he had been fascinated by the myths and legends of Good and Evil, the supposed reality of demons and angels. In 1954 he had been ordained to the office of exorcist, although he had only ever been called to one full-scale demonic possession – a young girl in San Juan Capistrano who had somehow managed to scorch the walls of every room in which she was locked up.

He could remember the words of the bishop’s admonition even now: ‘
Learn through your office to govern all imperfections lest the enemy may claim a share in you and some dominion over you. For truly will ye rightly control those devils who attack others, when first ye have overcome their many crafts against yourself
.’

Over the years, Father Quinlan had grown to believe in the presence of demons. Not horned and cloven-hoofed; but evil nonetheless. He had seen their influence behind the actions of quite ordinary people; he had seen their eyes looking out from behind the eyes of politicians and financiers and movie stars and people in the street.

There was a
look
which Father Quinlan had grown to recognize. Only a demon looked at a priest in that particular way. Cold and sullen and viciously hostile. But you could see the look anywhere, when you least expected it. In the eyes of a bus driver. Behind a till at the Wells Fargo Bank. From a scrubwoman, sluicing the steps of a downtown office.

Through his belief in demons, Father Quinlan had evolved his belief in Satan himself. Actually, he had always
believed
in Satan, but now he knew for certain that the prophecies in the Revelation were based on verifiable fact. Satan had been defeated by the angel Michael; but he was due to return. Not in the shape of a man, but in his real demonic form, as the dragon of all destruction.