The Angel of Eden (4 page)

“Why do you say that?”

“You'll see soon enough.” She turned her head and gazed out the window at the buildings lining the street as if to dissuade any further questions. “I love that church,” she said, indicating a Romanesque Revival structure of gray stone. “When I used to come to Manhattan during school breaks as a teenager, it felt so free being here. My friend's parents were always traveling, so I'd stay at her place—it was just a couple of blocks away. The two of us had the apartment to ourselves. We'd often pass by this church when we went out.”

I glanced out the window. “The Swedish Lutheran. I love the bright red doors. It's an elegant building.”

“Yes. Not gaudy at all.”

I realized I had no idea where she lived. “Did you move here eventually?”

“Oh yeah. I have a nice place on the eight hundred block, Fifth Avenue.”

“Overlooking the park?”

She nodded. “Great location, close to the shops.”

Close to the shops.
As in Saks, Bergdorf's, Bulgari. “Ghostwriting must be lucrative.”

“Oh, it is. The advance for my last memoir just about covered my car insurance. I was kidding. I couldn't afford to rent a closet on Canal Street let alone a Fifth Avenue apartment. Sure wish it were otherwise. How about you?”

“Grew up here and feel the same way you do. Best place on earth.”

“You don't by any chance need a live-in domestic, do you?”

“Room and board only?”

“Deal.” Bennet laughed, but I had the sudden sense that she might be half serious. She kept up a running chatter as we drove, remarking on everything but the subject of our meeting tonight. I tried to pry the information out of her, with no success. If you ignored her in-your-face style she could actually be quite witty. Despite my frustration, I found myself enjoying her company.

Five

T
he cab pulled up in front of a stately townhouse set well back from the street. It was one of those places with a large front garden that the district was famous for. Bennet hopped out when we came to a stop, leaving me to fork over the tab.

“I'll need a ten from you to share the bill,” I said when I got out.

“Of course.” She rooted around in her leather purse. “Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to go to the bank and I'm low on change. Pay you back later?” Ignoring my frown, she grinned and reached for my hand as we went down the front walk. Bennet tapped the old-fashioned knocker on the imposing front door.

A tall woman with dusty blond hair opened the door. Her eyes were puffy and swollen and had the distant, strained look of bereavement. Bennet introduced us.

The woman, Gina, said, “Welcome. Mr. Strauss said to expect you.” She showed us where to stow our coats and then led us into a luxuriously appointed salon. Three damask couches had been
placed around a gleaming mahogany coffee table. I was surprised to find three other people already seated when we entered the room. “Isn't this Lucas Strauss's house?” I whispered to Bennet. “I thought it was supposed to be a private meeting.”

“Shush.” Bennet put her finger to her lips. “He isn't here yet. And no, it's Gina's house.” She smiled brightly at the other guests, one young man and a couple around my age. The young guy resembled Gina so much I figured he must be her son. He didn't bother to hide the bored expression on his face, clearly wishing he wasn't here. I sympathized. After we took a seat on the vacant couch, Gina made the introductions. The younger man was indeed her son, the other two her daughter and son-in-law. She offered each of us a glass of claret from a silver tray. I swirled the wine in my glass, gave Bennet a dark look, then lowered my voice. “Tell me what the hell's going on or I'm leaving.”

“Gina lost her husband a few months ago. Lucas will conduct a spiritualist demonstration. He wanted you to see it before you talk.”

“Are you saying this is some kind of
séance
?”

Bennet smiled sweetly at the couple across from us before turning and whispering fiercely in my ear, “They're not called that anymore. It's termed channeling. Wait and see.”

I considered making my excuses but Gina already seemed close to tears. Disrupting the event by leaving might upset her even more.

I glanced around the room for want of anything better to do. Two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a back garden; the bare tree branches outside still glistened from yesterday's rain. An elaborate cornice of pale gray–painted wood ran around the perimeter of the twelve-foot ceiling. A stately Italianate chandelier hung from a decorative plaster base. Facing us and set against the east wall was a piece of furniture oddly out of keeping with the elegant room: a coffin-shaped box of finished pine, about six feet high and three
feet wide, standing upright on its base, completely open in front. Inside, someone had placed a chair. As I wondered what purpose this would serve, Gina dimmed the chandelier. She turned on a floor lamp beside the coffin that cast a reddish glow and sat down beside her son.

The salon doors opened. Lucas Strauss towered in the entrance. The couple who'd been quietly chatting clammed up the minute they saw him. “Good evening,” he said, without a smile cracking his lips. He wore a white shirt and black tux for the performance— for surely that was what we were about to witness. He looked around at the assembled mourners until his eyes rested on Gina and he gave her a sympathetic nod.

As he walked past us his gaze fastened on me, so intensely it made me want to avert my eyes. Surprisingly, he took the seat inside the box. He pulled out a small white towel, reached into his pocket again, and withdrew a short knife with a cruel hooked blade. He spoke in a low baritone. A voice that commanded attention. “As you may know, I like to start my sessions with a feat of magic. It sets the tone, if you will, for what is to come. Let us begin.”

Strauss removed his tuxedo jacket, hung it carefully on a peg inside the coffin, then rolled up his left sleeve to expose the pale skin of his forearm, roped with blue veins. He beckoned to Gina. She stood up and walked over to him, rather haltingly. He grasped her forearm and slashed the knife downward.

Gina gasped. For a second I feared she'd been cut. Her son jumped to his feet but stopped when he saw that Strauss hadn't sliced her flesh, only the button fastening her cuff. Strauss held the button up between two long fingers for everyone to see and nodded at Gina.

Without a word the illusionist waited until all eyes were upon him. To our astonishment, he put the button in his mouth and
swallowed it. He didn't bat an eyelash, just sat for a moment or two, coughed, and pressed his hand to his chest. Then he draped the towel on his left thigh and with his right hand drew the knife's edge across the skin above his wrist.

Gina's daughter shrieked. Her husband put his arm around her and hugged her. The knife clattered to the floor as Strauss clamped his hand onto the sizable cut. Blood welled out through the spaces between his fingers. I'd been expecting some silly trick. This seemed only too real.

Finally he wrapped the towel around his wrist and applied pressure to the cut. He smiled. You could have heard a pin drop.

After a minute or so Strauss unwrapped the bloodstained towel and began probing the cut with his fingers. I'm not squeamish but I could barely stand to watch. The others covered their mouths with their hands and turned their eyes away. He manipulated the edges of the wound, eased something out, and then held it up, dark with blood in the lamplight.

The button from Gina's shirt.

Six

B
lood drained from Bennet's face and I felt her body grow slack against mine. I put my arm around her. The whole thing had to be fake, yet I couldn't figure out how he'd pulled it off. The blood certainly looked convincing. Strauss was no run-of-the-mill magician pulling doves out of hats. Presumably his spectacular feat was engineered to soften up the patrons, make them more inclined to believe in the spirit that would no doubt put in an appearance.

Gina brought Strauss a bandage and a glass of water, holding them out to him with trembling hands. He wrapped his wrist thoroughly, rolled his sleeve down, and put his jacket back on. He took a quick sip and thanked her.

It seemed to be a cue. Gina placed a tape recorder on the coffee table, turned it on, then flipped another switch on a CD player. One of those trance-inducing Gregorian chants—although it sounded more Eastern in flavor—filled the room. Strauss rested both arms on his thighs, sat back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

Nothing happened for a few minutes. The chanting had an odd, unnerving effect. Much as I knew it was all a hoax, the sound made me uneasy, as if the music had actually invaded my body, shaking up the natural order of things.

A slight tremor passed through Strauss's frame. The chanting grew softer then stopped completely. He lifted one hand off his leg; his fingers quivered. A hazy, whitish light seemed to coalesce around his head. Gina let out a short, sharp sob.

This wasn't the hokey séance of B movies—patrons gathered around a table, hands hovering over an Ouija board—but the basic elements were the same, complete with grieving widow in such a vulnerable state that she'd believe anything. I wondered how much she'd paid for tonight's charade.

The white light appeared to solidify and migrate to Strauss's neck. It had the repugnant look of a bodily organ, a larynx, as if the medium's throat had opened to reveal his interior anatomy. Over the drone of the music, which had started again imperceptibly, I heard sounds of static and something else—a plaintive murmuring coming from the apparition. Strauss's eyes fluttered open. His gaze was vacant.

Gina began to moan. This went on for about two minutes until, abruptly, the light vanished. The son comforted his mother who was crying softly now. The daughter looked shell shocked while the son-in-law rolled his eyes and grimaced. Strauss remained with his eyes closed for another minute or so, shuddered, and came out of his “trance.” He'd put on a good show. He looked pale and weakened, as if producing the spirit had drained all his reserves.

He rose and sat on the divan beside Gina, bending to fiddle with some of the buttons on the recorder.

“Let's see what your husband wants, Gina.” Strauss rewound the tape to the beginning and pressed play. We all leaned in closer.

At first we could hear only static over the background chanting. Strauss played with the buttons again. The murmurings now sounded like real words, although they were still too fuzzy to make out. A sentence seemed to be repeated over and over again.

Gina cast a worried glance at Strauss. “What's Frank trying to tell me?”

Strauss raised his eyes to her. “Your husband says, ‘I will return to the house from which I came.'” Gina covered her face with her hands.

“This is sheer foolishness,” her son-in-law barked.

Strauss put his hand up to silence him. “‘I will return to the house from which I came.' Do you know where that quote comes from?” He looked at each of us in turn. No one responded.

“Luke 11:24–26.” He recited the complete passage:

When the unclean spirit has gone out of a person, it passes through waterless places seeking rest, and finding none it says, ‘I will return to the house from which I came.' And when it comes, it finds the house swept and put in order. Then it goes and brings seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they enter and dwell there. And the last state of that person is worse than the first.

Strauss's eyes came to rest on mine, as if the words should have some special meaning for me alone. Then his gaze returned to Gina. “Your husband is warning you. His soul is in torment. Release him. Let him go so he may battle his demons and find peace. Otherwise his spirit will bring injury and untold evil to your household.”

Seven