Of Saints and Shadows (1994) (10 page)

They worked in silence for a while, scanning every scrap of paper in Janet’s files. To Meaghan’s surprise, Peter made several casual inquiries as to her interests in music and the arts. Though neither mentioned it, they both noticed a careful avoidance of any extended discussion of Janet. By the time they finished, it was after midnight and they had found nothing. As Meaghan got up to make a pot of coffee, Peter noticed a stack of files he hadn’t seen earlier.

“What are those files?”

“Oh, those are nonprofits. Mostly tax shelters.”

“We should go through them.”

“I guess I figured they wouldn’t have too many secrets to hide,” she said, and paused a moment before a goofy grin spread across her face. “Probably just the opposite, right? I guess Dr. Watson must have made some pretty stupid assumptions in the beginning, too. Right Holmes?”

“Watson made some stupid assumptions at the end as well, but he was always there to cover Holmes’s ass,” Peter said with a reassuring smile.

“And what an ass!” she said before she could stop herself. But it didn’t matter; Peter only laughed.

“Back to work.”

Ignoring the call of caffeine coming from the kitchen, she sat down beside him once again, and together they began to read each file. The manila folders were in reverse chronological order, and Peter picked up the third from the top. Something he saw there made him tense up, visibly.

“Peter,” Meaghan said loudly, and he looked up, suddenly angry. She shrank back, but the look was gone so fast she had to wonder if she’d imagined it. “I asked you if you’d found something,” she said quietly.

“Maybe,” he offered, but she could see there was much he wasn’t telling her.

“These corporations would still have to be recognized and approved by the secretary of state’s office?”

“Of course.”

“Janet took care of that stuff herself—the contracts and forms, I mean?”

“Yeah, why? Have you got something or not?”

He looked at the file, then shook his head. “I’ll let you know.” His expression was intense. “Listen, do you mind finishing up here? I just remembered some things I’ve got to take care of.”

“At midnight?” Meaghan asked.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly he looked at her so benignly that she didn’t want him to leave. He was again the art and music lover who enjoyed hot tea and friendly chatter. But she’d been exposed to a somewhat volatile side as well, and though she found him increasingly intriguing, his mood swings had left a chill in the air. She was trying to understand this man, and he did not seem willing to make it any easier.

When they said good night, he apologized for his rudeness, turned, and left. She was glad he was gone, but after a few minutes, she changed her mind. Peter Octavian was having a strange effect on her, and Meaghan found it frustrating. He was surrounded by an atmosphere of danger, which excited, even aroused her. She turned on the television set, knowing it would be useless at the moment to attempt to sleep.

Outside, the snow had stopped, and the fine white blanket was marred only by Peter Octavian’s footprints. They led from the front step around to the back of the building, where they came to an abrupt end. High above, Peter was gliding through the darkness, breathing in the night air and wondering what he would find when he reached his destination. Once there, he would certainly need the talents he and his kind were notorious for, which had made him into a singularly capable detective.

DAN BENEDICT WAS TRYING VERY HARD TO relax, leaning way back in his beloved La-Z-Boy with his feet up, arms behind his head, his old, ragged bathrobe with a belt that didn’t match pulled tight around him as he huddled down into the chair.

It wasn’t working.

He sighed as he wiggled his butt again, trying to shift himself into a more comfortable position without disturbing his bathrobe or moving his arms. On his color television was the late show, a black-and-white him that had been colorized. Dan had tuned all the color out of his set. You Just couldn’t watch Bogey in color, dammit. It was un-American.

Max was curled up on the floor at his feet. His head lay on his crossed paws, but try as he might, the big shepherd couldn’t sleep either. So there they lay, man and dog, staring intently at the action on the screen, unable to relax as sense of dread settled on them both. Max emitted a low growl for no apparent reason, and Dan silently seconded the motion.

“You may have the falcon,” the Fatman was telling Bogey on the screen, “but we most certainly have you.”

Dan scowled—this was his favorite part of the movie and yet he could not enjoy it. He and Max had watched the film more times than he could count, and until now, it had never failed to entertain him. He reached out to the table next to him, sipped his Coke, and then put the glass back down, ice clinking. He huddled further in his chair in another futile stab at comfort. There was no draft, yet he shuddered. Had he been looking at Max, he would have seen that his pet twitched as well. Of course, Dan would have passed it off as fleas.

At the next commercial, Dan realized he had been unconsciously stifling his need to urinate, and as he jumped up to head for the John, the urge hit him almost painfully. He walked stiffly down the hall so as not to disturb his bladder, flipped on the bathroom light, shut and locked the door. He knew there was no need to do so, but habit forced him. As a child he had been terrified by the thought that someone might walk in on him while he was on the toilet.

His subconscious mind had already decided that, hey, since he was in here anyway, why not get the evening sit-down over with? So he sat comfortably on the foam-rubber seat, reading the
Boston Globe.
His mind drifted in and out, half reading and half wondering whether it would be too late to call Janet’s apartment to see if Meaghan had any news. He continued combing through the
Globe’
s business section until he had forgotten the comfortable chair, Max, and
The Maltese Falcon.

And then he heard the sound of Michelob’s latest jingle wafting down the hall, snapping him back to reality. He dropped the paper, cleaned up, and was still pulling up his pants as he walked back to his chair. As he sat down Bogart came back on, and he realized he had missed fifteen minutes of the film. The dog hadn’t moved an inch, and Dan realized he was either asleep or very close to it.

Well, he thought, at least one of us can relax.

Dan had just begun to be comfortable again when the next commercial break came. It was infuriating. They always seemed to slack up the ads near the end, when you’re paying the closest attention. Now that he was comfortable, he really didn’t want to get up, but his stomach signaled to him that a snack was in order, and he had risen from his roost without thinking about it. In the kitchen, he snatched a bag of Chip-a-Roos from the cabinet above the stove, carrying them back into the living room.

As soon as he broke into the bag of chocolate chips, Max woke up. It wasn’t Dan’s plopping back into his chair that roused the animal, it was the sound of the bag crinkling open. The commercials seemed to run eternally as he consumed cookie after cookie. Finally, the film came back on and Dan reached for his Coke to wash down the junk food.

Of course, Max wanted a cookie.

As Dan tipped back his glass Max jumped up, front paws on Dan’s lap and nabbed a couple of goodies.

“Shit!” Dan yelled as Coke spilled down the front of his robe and into his lap, soaking what cookies hadn’t been salivated on by his hungry pooch.

He continued cursing down the hall to the bathroom, where he pulled off the robe, soaked it for a minute in the sink, then threw it in the hamper. Not that it was the first stain on the old robe, and he sure didn’t expect it to be the last. Still—he was pissed.

“Dammit.” This night had quickly turned into as nightmarish an experience as his day at work had been. He knew it wasn’t the dog’s fault, but he had to stifle an urge to kick his faithful canine companion right in the ass.

He’d missed more of the film, and any chance of enjoying it was shot to hell, but he swore to himself that he’d finish watching the damn movie if it killed him. There couldn’t be any further interruptions, he told himself. What else could happen? He promised himself that even if another distraction did present itself, even if Santa-fucking-Claus shimmied down the chimney, even if the house burned down around him, he would not move his ass from that chair until the last credit had rolled on
The Maltese Falcon.
That shouldn’t be too hard—there couldn’t be more than five or ten minutes left to the film. He headed back down the hallway where Bogart flickered in the dark.

And then the power went off.

So that’s what rage feels like.

“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK! Fuck.”

Dan felt destructive for a long moment. Goddamn fuses, he told himself, and headed for the kitchen to find a flashlight, but on his second step he tripped over Max. The dog jumped up and moved away from him, wary of further injury.

As Dan stepped into the kitchen Max began to bark.

It was more like a growl at first, a low snarl building until it became a loud and angry bark at the shadows. Dan was spooked. It wasn’t like Max to react so violently to such a minor event. He turned back toward the darkness of the living room and could scarcely make out Max’s quaking figure in the moonlight falling through the windows. Max was standing in the middle of the room, circling first in one direction and then in the other, barking at nothing.

Dan moved quickly into the kitchen in the dark. He wanted to get the lights back on as fast as possible, and he rifled nervously through kitchen cabinets and drawers until his hand closed upon the flashlight. His eyes were finally starting to adjust, but he would need the flashlight to find the fuse box in the basement.

He had just reached the door to the basement when the barking stopped and the howling began. An urgent, alarming howl, practically a wail, filled the house and Dan’s anger and frustration turned to fear. He stood listening, chilled as Max’s howl turned abruptly into a quiet whimper. Slowly, almost against his will, he turned and walked back toward the living room.

Somehow, even the moonlight had disappeared.

Dan’s pupils attempted to focus, to no avail. In the utter, unnatural darkness only his flashlight offered any illumination, and its light was strangely dimmed and condensed, so that it shone weakly in a very small circle as he scanned the room.

He heard sounds then, terrible, wet, slapping sounds, and he aimed the light that way. When it fell on the black-clothed back of an intruder, Dan’s heart jumped and he sucked in his breath. Before he could become angry at the intrusion, he became frightened, and though he loved his dog, for a moment Max was forgotten.

Words backed up in his throat, building up pressure like water with the hose choked off, until they finally burst from him with no thought toward his own safety.

“What the hell are you doing in my house!”

The intruder didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice, had obviously known he was there. He turned slowly, allowing Dan to see beyond him in the illumination of the flashlight, see what he’d forgotten.

Max.

“I am telling your fortune, reading your future,” the trespasser said.

The dog lay on his back, his belly slit wide open, his guts spread on the floor in the dark. The intruder ran his fingers through Max’s entrails with apparently clinical interest, yet when Dan turned the light on his face, a sickening smile told another tale. Only then did Dan see the clerical collar.

“My God, Max.” Dan could feel the tears and the fear joining together within him to create something else entirely.

“Come now, Mr. Benedict,” the priest said, wiping his hands on the carpet as he turned to face Dan. “The viscera of animals have often been used to divine one’s destiny.”

Dan snapped.

He dove toward the priest, flashlight held high as a weapon, ready to bring it crashing down on the maniac’s skull . . . but there was nothing there. Instead he fell, outstretched arms and cheek sliding in a warm, wet mess that he told himself was not what he knew it to be, knew it must be.

Tears streamed down his face as he sat up, retching, cookies and the cold Kentucky Fried Chicken he’d eaten for dinner streaming onto the carpet in another mess. Seconds passed as he caught his breath, but the tears continued. His heartbeat was much too loud in his head and the taste of vomit and the smell of Max—oh, Max—overwhelming him. He’d always thought himself prepared for an intruder, a street mugging, any threat to himself, but he’d never anticipated such insanity, such terrible cruelty.