Book of Shadows (17 page)

She rushed back, threw her arms around him and held him tight.

Bess, embarrassed and surprised, slowly, tentatively lifted both hands and gently touched her back. “I … I’ll do the best I can.”

Smiling she stepped away from him, her eyes glistening with tears, and ran from the room.

At the window, Joseph Bess looked down at the fat boy who sat on a stool in the pizza stand sipping a coke.

Me and you, pudgy,
thought the detective.
You come near her and it’ll be me and you.

T
HIS TIME THE FAT
boy was determined to be more careful.

Crouched in front of Marisa’s apartment door he slowly inserted the third lock pick in the bottom lock. Then using a thumb and forefinger he carefully turned the pick left then right, avoiding the two picks protruding from the lock. He listened for a click.

Ten days ago he’d tried to open this door using just one pick. He’d been in a hurry then, anxious to get inside before anyone saw him in the hallway. And because of his impatience he’d broken off a pick in the lock, making it impossible to open the door. When the Comforts had learned this they had been angry, an anger that the fat teenager, whose name was Gregory Vandis, had found frightening.

Along with his mother, Denise, Gregory was a member of Herod’s coven and was thoroughly convinced that the Comforts were people to be obeyed at all times. Look at what they’d done to Herod. Not to mention Mr. Shields and a few other people.

Rupert Comfort had given Gregory something important to do this evening. Nothing had better go wrong this time.

The fat teenager had followed the actress home from the television studio and waited in front of her apartment building until she’d come out again. There was no need to follow her any more, not today anyway. Gregory had something else to do and it had to be done in an empty apartment.

Despite a doorman and closed-circuit television, getting inside the actress’s building had been easy. Gregory had slipped in through the basement garage, hiding behind parked cars, making his way past the laundry room and dry cleaners, then walking up four flights of stairs. No one had answered when he pushed the actress’s bell.

And the hallway was empty. Slipping a leather case from the back pocket of his jeans, he unzipped it, selected a pick, and went to work.

Now he listened for the click.

“Freeze!”

Gregory snapped his head to the right and saw a man crouched several feet away, a two-handed grip on a gun aimed at Gregory’s head.

“Don’t even blink, “said Joseph Bess. “Just stand up and do it real slow.”

Cop. Gregory sensed it, smelled it.

The two of them had tricked him, pretending to leave the building then doubling back. They hadn’t come off the elevator. They must have taken an elevator to the floor below or above and walked one flight without making a sound. Gregory had been too busy with the locks and worrying about the Comforts to notice the cop and the actress sneaking up on him. Damn them.

Gregory’s round face turned red with hatred. They would be responsible for the Comforts’ getting angry at him again. The fat boy licked his lips, his left hand squeezing the small, unzipped leather case that held the lock picks.

The cop and the actress came closer.

Joseph Bess said, “Face the wall and spread your legs. I’ll read you your rights—”

Gregory hurled the leather case in Joseph Bess’s face.

Lock picks sped towards the detective’s eyes and he put up both hands to block the potentially deadly thin pieces of metal. Gregory charged him, driving his head into Bess’s stomach and knocking the wind out of him, shoving the little detective off balance.

Bess slammed into the wall and a strangled cry of pain came from him.
His ribs.

The gun flew from his hand, bounced off the wall, and landed on the carpeted hallway floor. Gregory dove for it.

Marisa threw herself on top of him, both hands gripping his thick wrist, preventing Gregory from bringing the gun around and shooting Joseph, now slumped at the base of the wall. The fat boy was strong, much stronger than Marisa, and he tried to shake her off. Knowing that the boy would soon win the struggle, that she and Bess would be in danger, gave Marisa a last spurt of determination.

She sank her teeth in his ear, biting deep into the flesh. Gregory screamed and twisted and then the two of them were lying on their right sides, Marisa behind the boy. Gregory lashed out with his elbow, grazing her left breast and stinging it.

And then she was on her back, Gregory face up and on top of her and she’d lost her grip on his wrist. He had the gun and she and Bess would die. Gregory’s weight on Marisa was immense, crushing her painfully, but she found his eyes with her left hand and clawed at them, feeling her nails scrape his flesh.

“Fuckin’ woman!” he screamed. “Fuckin’ woman. I’ll kill you, kill the both of you—”

Joseph Bess had staggered to his feet and was standing over Gregory and Marisa. Holding his ribs and gritting his teeth against the pain, the detective lifted his right foot and brought it down on Gregory’s balls.

The fat teenager squealed, rolled off Marisa and curled up, knees to chin. Stepping until he stood facing the boy again, Bess kicked him in the side, once, twice.

An apartment door opened, then closed quickly.

Leaning against the wall, Joseph Bess closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. “Thanks.”

Marisa sat up and fought for breath. Combing hair from her face with her fingers she said, “What for? You just saved my life.”

“We could argue that point all day. Seems to me you did all the saving.” Bess stiffened. “That little bastard really hurt me. Do me a favor.”

Bess reached behind himself and pulled handcuffs from the small of his back. “Cuff him. And hand me my piece, will you?”

Another apartment door opened. “Police,” yelled Bess. “I’m a cop. Dial nine-one-one and have them send over a squad car. Tell them an officer needs help.”

The apartment door closed.

“Maybe they’ll call and maybe they won’t,” said Bess. He took the .38 Smith & Wesson from Marisa and stuck it back in his belt holster.

He said, “Let me help you turn him over on his stomach.”

“Why? We can cuff his hands just as easily in front.”

“No we can’t. You always cuff a suspect’s hands behind him. Otherwise he’ll use the cuffs as a weapon and give you a new face.”

Marisa nodded.

When Gregory lay face down and moaning, hands cuffed behind his back, Marisa said, “I owe you an apology.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. When we were hiding back there behind the exit door, you drew your gun and I said you didn’t have to, that he was only a boy and maybe you could scare him. You looked at me as though I was some sort of idiot and drew the gun anyway. I understand now. He could have killed us both. He certainly tried.” She touched her breast gingerly.

“Half of all violent crimes are committed by kids,” said Bess. “They shoot, rape, and put your eyes out if they get a chance. This one could have been carrying a gun or a knife, for all I know. As it is, I got careless.”

“My fault.”

He shook his head. “Mine. I was just a hair too slow, a bit too relaxed.”

A door opened. “I called the police,” said a short, gray-haired woman. “Miss Heggen? Is that you? I didn’t recognize you when you were on the floor. I thought …”

She let the words trail off.

“That’s all right, Hattie,” said Marisa. “This is detective Bess.”

“I see,” said the gray-haired woman, who didn’t see at all.

She pointed to Marisa’s door. “I guess that must belong to you.” She was pointing at a brown paper bag lying in front of Marisa’s apartment.

Bess walked over to the bag, squatted slowly and picked it up.

He looked at the gray-haired lady. “Thank you, Mrs?”

“Feinmel. We live just across from Marisa.”

“I know. Marisa, let’s go inside.”

“What’s in the bag?” said Mrs. Feinmel.

“Marisa?” said Joseph Bess.

Marisa looked at Gregory. “What about him?”

“I’ll keep an eye on him from the doorway. Thank you Mrs. Feinmel.”

Bess was firm in his dismissal and Mrs. Feinmel backed into her apartment, her eyes flicking from the detective to Marisa and back to the brown paper bag.

When Mrs. Feinmel’s door had closed, Bess looked into the bag and frowned.

Marisa asked, “What is it?”

Bess bit his lip.

“Joseph?”

He closed the bag and looked away.

“Joseph, what’s in that bag? Does it concern me? Look, either you tell me or I’m going to scream. I mean I’ve had enough today. It does concern me, doesn’t it? Please!”

She snatched the bag from him and stepped back out of reach.

“Marisa don’t—”

She looked inside and her jaw dropped and the bag slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor at her feet.

The severed hand, an ugly, gray thing of incredible evil, was only inches from her and as she covered her face with her hands and wept, Joseph Bess knew that from today on his life was changed forever. He had stepped into a darkness that could destroy both him and Marisa.

She said, “He … he was going to leave it here,
here.
In my apartment?”

Bess went to her and took her in his arms, his eyes on Gregory.

I’m scared, too,
he thought.
Jesus, am I fucking scared.

The changeling, who was one of the most politically powerful men in New York, sat alone in the back of his parked limousine and sipped brandy from a thin, silver flask while watching the joggers in Central Park. It was a warm, pleasant Saturday morning and the park was closed to all traffic. However, the changeling’s license plates had been immediately recognized by passing policemen, who either ignored him or smiled and touched their caps in respect, avoiding the limousine as though it were diseased.

The changeling’s chauffeur, who also acted as his bodyguard, had left the car and now stood several feet away eating a hot dog and listening to the peddler tell him about the trouble he was having with black and Hispanic kids selling dope around him. The chauffeur listened, not because he wanted to, but because he had to stay away from the limousine until the changeling, whose true identity he still didn’t know after five years of service, signaled him to return.

A band of male and female joggers drew near and as they passed, one man lagged behind, then ran in place beside the limousine until the other joggers were far ahead. Seconds later the jogger, breathing heavily and glistening with perspiration, opened the limousine’s back door and climbed inside.

Slumping against the back seat he gulped air through his mouth and fanned himself with one hand.

“Shin splits,” he finally said, reaching down to rub his calves and ankles. “Always get ’em. Should have done some stretching before I came into the car. Muscles tighten up if you don’t.”

The changeling capped his flask and slipped it into a jacket side pocket.

He said, “I want you to contact Rupert Comfort. Tell him I want to see him as soon as possible. This business of his constantly switching hotels makes him hard to pin down.”

Cornell Castle removed a damp sweatband from his head. “Just as well. He’s not the type I’d like to have close to me all the time. The doctors are going to have to put two pins in Herod’s elbow. And no one knows when the cast will come off.”

The changeling gently stroked his own nose with a thumbnail. “Shows you what happens when you talk too much. Which brings me to Gregory. When you reach the Comforts mention that I want to discuss the matter of Gregory with them. The boy’s been in jail twenty hours and he’ll stay there until Monday, which is the earliest a judge and district attorney will be able to set bail. Fortunately for us, the courts don’t work weekends, and that may be the only reason the coven hasn’t ended up in trouble.”

Cornell Castle swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

The changeling shook his head. “That I can believe. Gregory’s young and he’s never been arrested before. It’s only a matter of time before the cops make him talk, and what do you think Gregory will talk about?”

Cornell Castle, said nothing.

“Exactly,” said the changeling. “He’ll talk about you, about Herod, and he will also talk about me. He’ll say we’re all members of a witches’ coven. The cops will snicker, but they’ll start to dig. Oh, they will. Sooner or later that hand Gregory was carrying around in a bag like some damn peanut butter and jelly sandwich will be traced to those Puerto Ricans the Comforts killed in the park.”

The changeling’s voice grew harder. “And that’s when the snickering will stop and the digging will begin in earnest. So what do we have, Cornell? We have two murdered Hispanics and a fat boy pointing the way to us. We will become accessories after the fact. And we will also become the focus of some rather sordid news-media stories about murderous occult conspiracies. Now before you bore me with your version of what’s going to happen, consider this: A seventeen-year-old boy gets caught breaking into an actress’s apartment by a police detective, whom the boy also assaults. So now in addition to B and E, your average breaking and entering, you also have a charge of resisting arrest and doing bodily harm to a cop. Not good, Cornell, not good at all.”

The changeling continued: “New York State now tries youthful offenders as adults. Gregory isn’t going to reform school. He faces prison. Don’t you think his mother knows what will happen to her son in prison once those nigger cons get their hands on his tender white ass? The odds are strong that Denise prefers Gregory out of jail rather than in, which means she just might encourage the boy to spill his guts. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Cornell Castle nodded and cleared his throat. “You want to talk to the Comforts about killing Gregory?” he said in a whisper.

The changeling leaned back in his seat, hands resting on his knees. “I can run for senator,” he said softly. “All I have to do is nod my head once and the movers and shakers will applaud and do cartwheels. They know and I know that I can run and win. I’ve been promised a war chest of ten million, three times the amount anyone else can raise. If I need more, I can get more. From senator, I can go higher.”