Bloodcircle

Chapter 7

RAIN PELTING AGAINST my sodden coat.
Light.
A hand on my wrist.
Mitch, are they--
My God, Elma, get back in the car. Fear in his voice.
Footsteps. A door slams shut.
The man keeps saying my God over and over again before he finally backs away and leaves.
His voice raises in a shout, then a curse.
The wet rush and roar as a car drives quickly past.
Rain.
Wind.
Another car. The road under me announces its approach.
He shouts again. This time it stops. Light pierces my sightless eyes.
Voices.
get to a phone Trent place, just up the road police first, it's too late for More lights, more voices. Questions.
An eternity of rain and wind.
thought something was wrong so we stopped Johnnie Banks, don't know who the other fella Hands probe my pockets.
out of town. Must be his car behind Johnnie's The light gets stronger. It beats on me like the rain. Hands turn my body. Rain strikes my face.
cracked open like an egg Want to scream. Can't.
multiple blows with a blunt instrument, both of 'em. That's as much as I can tell musta been a robbery, but who Hands on my body, lifting me.
The rain stops. Full daylight. Blinding, burning, killing daylight.
Want to scream. Want to scream.
They drop a blanket on me. The rough fabric covers my face. Grunting and swaying, they carry my body out of the wind.
The blanket diffuses the light a little.
Can't move or talk.
A car rumbles under me.
Hands and movement. Hands tugging, pulling at me, at my clothes. No way to tell them to stop.
Searing white light cuts into my brain. Cold air on my bare skin. Icy water sluices over me. Nose and mouth clog with it. They turn my head.
The water drains away.
Hands probe my broken skull.
Can't scream.
we'd like to respect it, but in the case of a homicide, we have to have the doctor Arguments drift over me. One voice is vaguely familiar.
Someone closes my light-blind eyes. Red and black patches drift under the lids.
notify his family working for me, it's my job to The voices fade. They throw a heavy sheet on me. Out of sight. Out of mind.
The sun works free of the clouds. It beats silently against the covering.
Someone lifts the sheet. The sun flashes over me like a furnace.
Something is shoved under me, firmly pushed under the small of my back.
It's the peace of the grave.
Out. Out. Out.
Sweet night.
A voice. A question.
And pain. Far too much pain.
"hear me? Jack?"
My head feels like a bomb crater. If I lie very, very still, it might not get worse.
The voice whispers anxiously.
I remember the rain and the road and yes, I can hear you, so shut up.
A hand touches my bare shoulder. He tries shaking me awake. It moves my head. I scream. It comes out as little more than a bubbling exhalation.
"Jack?"
Dear God, stop the pain.
"Can you hear me?"
More bubbles. The taste of mud.
"Jack?"
A series of small coughs. Someone whimpers.
The questions stop. He carefully turns my head to the left. It eases the pressure on the cracked and broken plates of bone. He's as gentle as possible.
It's too much.
Out.
A clock ticking. A heart beating. Both are nearby.
"Jack?"
The pain had subsided a fraction. This was heaven by comparison.
"Can you hear me?"
Leave me alone.
"Can you understand me?"
Yeah, now go away for a few weeks.
"Please answer me, Jack."
I inhaled to speak, but couldn't get the mouth to work.
"What's my name?"
If you don't know, you're in worse trouble than I am.
"Answer me."
Inhalation. "Charl"
A long sigh of relief. Not from me. He'd been afraid. Of what?
"Do you know what happened to you?"
"Roadrain."
"Yes, you were driving."
And then I stopped. An accident?
"You found the taxi," he prompted.
John Henry Banks. Johnnie Banks. Slumped over, mumbling nonsense. His head smashed inno more, I don't want to think.
"Do you know who did it?"
God, was that me asking Banks or Escott asking me? I really couldn't tell.
"Did you see them?"
"Hurt, I hurt."
"I know. Do you need blood?"
I needed something, like an aspirin the size of a boxcar. "Try."
He put a thin rubber tube to my lips like a straw. I drew the stuff in.
It was no longer warm from being in the animal, but still wonderful. The blood spread through me with its promise of life and healing, and then I didn't think about anything until it was gone.
"Better?" he asked, his voice faint.
"A little."
He pulled the tube away and ran some water, cleaning up. He liked to have things clean and neat. The water stopped.
"Can you open your eyes?"
Why not? The darkness seeped away for an instant. Escott's worried face hovered close to my own and was gone.
"Did you see anything?" he asked.
"Yeah. Fine."
F-fine. The last thing Banks had said and then--
"Try it again."
I did. They stayed open a few seconds longer. "Okay?"
"Excellent. They're a nice healthy red."
The white-hot hammer and anvil on the side of my skull wasn't pounding quite so hard.
"Think you'll be able to travel soon?"
He had to be out of his mind. I didn't want to move for a month.
"I have to get you out of here before morning."
You'd better have a damn good reason. "No. Rest."
"Yes, at least for now. Do you know who did it?"
That question again. "Banks knew. They get me?"
"You were struck from behind. The doctor found wood splinters in your scalp."
Multiple blows from a blunt instrument. The phrase repeated through my brain like an echo from a dream. Wood. Deadly, deadly wood. No wonder I was so helpless. "How bad?"
"You've a hell of a fracture, they hit you several times. I was worried you might not be--did you see them at all?"
"No."
I noticed the general darkness, or rather the absence of artificial light for the first time. He was also keeping his voice low, almost to a whisper. Faint outside illumination came from a high, uncurtained window. The dimness turned his skin ghost white and simplified his features.
As I drew air to speak, the smell crashed in: formaldehyde mixed with the sweetness of old death. A chill shuddered all through me that had nothing to do with the cold air.
"Where?"
"I'm afraid we're at the local funeral parlor," he explained, as though embarrassed by the fact. "It doubles as the coroner's examination room in the case of questionable deaths or homicides."
"Deaths?"
"I'll go into details when you've rested. You're much better than you were, much better than I'd hoped. After that fresh blood has had a chance to work in you we'll see about getting you out."
"Out?"
"My position with the local authorities is anything but cordial, and I've no wish to be arrested for body snatching. It will be much easier for both of us if the body in question is able to move out under its own power."
The meaning and import began to sink in. Instead of a bed, I was on a high metal table wearing only an old sheet. "I'm dead--I mean, more so than usual?"
"As far as the law is concerned, yes."
I had a nightmare flash in my head of a sealed coffin with muddy earth being heaped on top.
"Not yet." He'd stopped me from moving. "We've time-almost the whole night, if you need it." He found a chair and sat down to wait.
Well, if he was in no hurry, neither was I. I rested and felt my battered head ache and listened to the clock tick. For something to do, I counted the ticks, getting up to thirty before losing track. This went on for as many times as I had fingers since I curled one up whenever I lost the count. When I'd twice made fists, I tried a little movement. My arms worked, the legs responded, but the head wasn't ready to coordinate anything more complicated than that.
The clock ticked and Escott breathed, and one by one, I curled my fingers. It was something I used to do to trick myself to sleep on bad nights. Sleep would have been a better way to pass the time, but I no longer really slept. I missed it.
After an hour, 1 managed to get my legs off the table and was trying to push myself upright. My head was impossibly heavy. Escott got up to help.
"Shoulders only," I told him.
"Right."
Supporting the base of my neck, he helped boost me to a sitting position. I wobbled dizzily like a baby, but didn't fall. The sheet slipped down a little and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
"Christ, don't they ever wash this stuff?"
He took my complaining as a good sign. "I've some fresh clothes for you.
The ones you were found in are a bit of a write-off."
"My wallet?"
"The police have your personal effects." He produced a sack, pulling out some pants, a clean shirt, and some slippers.
"My shoes?" I'd brought only one pair.
"They're locked in that room over there." He nodded at a closed door.
"How'd you get in?"
"Through a rear window with a glass cutter," he said casually.
The dizziness from sitting up gradually passed. I felt the back of my head with supreme care--even my hair hurt. It was still fiery and tender, but the hammer and anvil had finally stopped pounding.
"What'd they do to me here?" I was remembering the not-so-gentle probing hands on my scalp.
"You were given a preliminary exam on the scene and pronounced dead, then they brought you here for-- ' He stopped.
"Jesus, Charles, an autopsy?"
He could only nod, looking as queasy as I felt.
The doctor'd make a fast Y-incision and scatter pieces of me over the counters in jars full of preservative. Dear God.
My arms wrapped tightly around my chest and stomach in reaction.
"What stopped them?"
"I did. I said I had to notify your family first, and then I told them you were a Christian Scientist."
My jaw dropped of its own accord, as it usually does when I don't understand something. "Huh?"
"I said they were like orthodox Jews in that their religion absolutely forbade autopsies."
"Does it?"
He suddenly smiled. "Actually, I haven't the least idea, but it worked for the time being, and that's all that matters."
"Why didn't you say I was an orthodox Jew?"
"I could not because you were out driving round after sunset on a Friday, the beginning of their Sabbath; something a practicing Jew would have avoided." He offered me the shirt.
I slowly dragged it on. It was clean and crisp with starch, but I still felt soiled. I wanted a scalding hot tub and a long vacation--in that order. He steadied me as I slid off the table to pull the pants up over my rump.
"We still staying at the inn?"
"Officially, I am. We'll just have to sneak you in somehow."
"They think--"
"You're dead. Yes, I've received much sympathy, at least in some quarters."
"What d'ya mean?"
"The police have told me not to leave town for the moment. They're probably strapped for suspects. It was fortunate for me that I was down in the lobby listening to the radio with some of the other guests during the critical time the crime took place or I would be in a very awkward position."
"Why should they suspect you?"
"Why not? Many people are murdered by their friends."
"And Banks?"
"I'm a stranger in town and Mr. Banks mentioned us to a few of his drinking cronies." His head went down and he leaned tiredly against a counter. "I should have been more careful. All my questions concerning the Franchers and that fireI blundered badly and poor Banks paid for it."
"It might not even be connected to us."
"Can you believe that?"
I didn't answer that one. "You couldn't have known what would happen."
He shook his head, not really listening. "I am very much to blame for this, Jack. The police are not far off in their suspicions. The investigating officer is no fool, he knows I'm not telling him everything."
"And you can't, can you?"
"Not so that I would be believed and not without solid evidence. If Barrett is behind this, we need proof, and if we obtain proof, how may he be brought to justice?"
"If?"
"I am as yet uncertain of his guilt."
"After all this? Why?"
"I shall be glad to tell you, but elsewhere, if you please. Preferably at the inn so I can establish an alibi for part of this night. When they come in tomorrow and miss you, I shall certainly have to face some questioning. My strong objections to the autopsy will not have been forgotten in so short a time."
"What'll you do?"
"My best performance of moral outrage--after they inform me of the abduction of my poor friend's remains."
"Couldn't I just show up and say it was all a mistake and claim catalepsy or something?"
He shot me a look.
"No, I guess not."
"Do you feel ready to go?"
"After I get my shoes back."
"Perhaps you shouldn't. They're bound to notice."
"You think they'll worry about a pair of shoes when the whole body takes a walk?"
He couldn't argue with that one and nodded.
If I took things slowly, I could move. At the locked door, I leaned against it and seeped right through without even trying hard, which was a surprise. It took a lot more effort and concentration to solidify, though. Dematerialized, there was no discomfort, but I was reluctant to stay that way out of a sneaking fear of not being able to come back again. My head was tender inside and out and I wasn't planning to do anything fancy for a while.
The adjoining room was an office with wooden cabinets and functional furniture. My muddy, wrinkled clothes were scattered over a long table along with Banks's blood-spattered garments. Feeling sick and sad, I made myself look at them and remembered him.
I grabbed up my shoes, took off the evidence tag, and slipped them on.
When I returned to the other room, Escott was just putting away a length of rubber tubing and a quart-size milk bottle.
"Is that what blood comes in these days?" I asked.
"It does when I collect it."
"How'd you get it this time?"
"I looked for and found a likely farm late this afternoon. If you were to recover--and I'm very glad you have--it seemed logical to provide for it. Blood appears to be the universal panacea for all your ills, and I wanted to be prepared."
"Thanks."
He shrugged it off, not one for gushing gratitude. It only embarrassed him.
"What'd you tell the farmer, that you were making blood sausage?"
"No, but that is a good suggestion. I said I was collecting blood samples from some of the area livestock."
"Didn't he think it kind of strange?"
"Yes, but fortunately the fellow was a Democrat, and that helped. I said I was a veterinarian working for the NRA and our branch of it was researching blood ailments in cattle. We needed samples for testing and offered monetary compensation for each pint collected."
"Sounds crazy to me."
"He must have thought so as well, but as they say, money talks. I got the samples."
"I'm glad."
"Well, you did buy me dinner the other night" He turned back to the table I'd spent the day on and swept up a small dark packet and shoved it into his bag.
"What's that?"
"A sample of your home soil. I managed to sneak it in under you when no one was looking."
"You think of everything."
"Not always," he muttered, and I knew he was mulling over Banks's death.
He climbed onto a counter next to the wall and pushed open the window above it. The way was clear and he wriggled through. I wasn't up to such exertions and did my usual vanishing act, reappearing at his side, but staggering a little. I'd had to fight to come back again, and it was draining. He caught my arm and led me away.
"It's a bit of a walk," he said. "They impounded the car as evidence."
"How far?"
"About a half mile. Can you make it?"
"I'll have to." I kept my groans to myself. I hurt, but was recovering incredibly fast. I'd been damned lucky.
We didn't talk and I concentrated on putting one foot in front of another. The air was clean and cool, inviting me to indulge in a bout of breathing. It quickly flushed the taste of the mortuary from my lungs.
Escott followed a less direct route to the Glenbriar Inn. taking a back street running parallel to the main road. It was a longer, more discreet walk, but after five minutes, witnesses to his night raid were the least of our worries.
We were about to cross an intersection when I chanced to look up. I yanked Escott back, maybe a little too hard despite my current state. He nearly lost his feet as I dragged him into the thin cover of some trees.
He choked off his protest and followed my example of crouching behind the thickest trunks.
"What is it?" he hissed.
I pointed. One block over, waiting for a stoplight to change, was Emily Francher's white Studebaker. Inside it was Jonathan Barrett, looking impatient. The signal turned green and he plowed ahead in the direction we'd just come from.
Escott had seen the car, but his eyes hadn't picked up on the occupant.
I filled him in.
"He's headed for the funeral parlor," he said.
"Probably to finish off what he started last night."
"I think we're safe enough for the moment."
"Yeah, and I'm going to keep it that way. Let's go back to the inn and get your clothes and my trunk." I moved, trying to go faster than before.
He caught up easily. "Are you suggesting we do a skip?" The American slang jarred with his accent.
"Just for tonight. You can come back in the morning and square things up then."
"Would it not be better to simply square things up with Barrett tonight? We do need to talk with him."
"Like the Titanic talked with the iceberg? No, thanks, I'm not up to it."
He had more to say, but I didn't feel like an argument and urged him to hurry. We made the rest of the walk in ten minutes, but it nearly did me in. My headache was almost as bud as before, and I was so dizzy that Escott had to hold me up. It was in vain, though; the Studebaker had returned and growled to a stop on the street in front. Barrett got out and trotted up the steps of the inn. We watched and waited, but he never came out.
"He'll be up in the room," I said. "He'll be there the rest of the night."
"And you are in no condition to confront him. We can leave the luggage for the time being and shelter elsewhere. I've no objections to roughing it for one night."
"Roughing it?"
He took charge and helped me away to a small park close to the inn. We sank onto a stone bench in a dense group of trees and stared at nothing much for a time. It was too cool for crickets, but other night creatures moved around us; busy with hunting, feeding, and mating--busy with survival.
Escott was thoughtful. "If he asks for me at the front desk and they find I am not in my room"
"You can fix it tomorrow."
"I wasn't thinking of the bill. When they open the parlor in the morning and find themselves one short, they'll come looking for me for an explanation. I was planning on having at least a partial alibi for my evening by spending it in the lobby again. Barrett has effectively prevented that."
"Then we get you another. Show me one of those watering holes you went to the other day."
"Are you really up to another walk?"
"It comes in cycles. Just keep it slow and stay out of sight of our window if you can."
He could. My head was not so dizzy now, but I'd soon want a place to stop and completely rest.
"Hand me that packet of earth," I said. He retrieved it from the bag and I shoved it inside my shirt and buttoned up again. It may have been a delusion, but I seemed to feel better having it next to my skin. "What's clinking in there?" I referred to the bag.
"Milk bottles, a large syringe, glass cutter, tubing, gloves--"
"Syringe?"
"For drawing blood. I found it at a local feed store. Some of the fanners do their own veterinary work."
"I thought you were squeamish."
"I am, very."
"So how'd you do that? Draw off the blood, I mean."
"My actor's training came in very handy. For an hour I pretended I was a vet and it worked. Be assured that I was quite ill after I'd finished and had the time to think about it."
Glenbriar was very close to the sound with a neat little bay and a sampling of bars and similar vice shops for weekend sailors. Escott picked a tavern called The Harpoon and led the way inside.
It was half for tourists, half for locals, with fake nets and stuffed fish on the walls, along with some other nautical junk. Escott bought a double something at the bar and carried it to the distant booth I'd picked out.
"Nothing for me?" I joked.
"This is as much as I wish to imbibe tonight," he stated. "There's little sense in both of us having a bad head." He sipped at the stuff--it was probably gin--and made a quick sweep of the other patrons.
They looked like regulars, eyeing us once and returning to their own conversations. The bartender leaned on one elbow to listen to a man grouse about his wife.
"Real live joint."
"Better than the one you just left," he pointed out. "Would you care to tell me what occurred to you last night?"
I told him about the wrong road, the heavy rain, and how 1 found the cab. Shutting my eyes, I put myself there again and tried to repeat all of Banks's last words. "That's when I was hit. I must have gotten there right after it happened. Barrett saw my showing up as a piece of luck for him and he used it."
"Why are you so certain it was Barrett?"
"He knew to use wood, it had to be him. He also knew you were nosing around town and maybe found out that we'd questioned Banks"I read his face. "All right, why are you certain he's clear?"
"I'll grant that he is the likely suspect and he is tall-Banks would see him as tall at any rate--but the forensic evidence would indicate otherwise."
"Indicate what?"
"You and Banks had your skulls cracked by several heavy blows; I saw both of you today while the doctor was having his first close look. I don't believe Barrett did it because the blows were not heavy enough."
"They did the job."
"On Banks, yes, but not on you."
"I'm different from Banks."
"Exactly, and Barrett of all people is aware of that difference and would have allowed for it. Had he actually been wielding the murder weapon, he would have completely pulped your head to make absolutely certain you'd never get up again."
"I damn near didn't, anyway. If they'd done an autopsyhe might have been counting on them to finish the job." My shoulders bunched up and my stomach felt like caving in again. "Besides, he might have held himself back to keep it from looking too brutal."
"A single murder in this quiet pocket of the world is considered quite brutal enough, let alone a double one. In for a penny, in for a pound, you know."
"What's your point, Charles?"
"My point is that whoever tried to kill you was unaware of your special condition."
That hauled me up short. "Come again?"
He blinked. "I'd forgotten, you don't know the official theory on this."
"What's the official theory?"
"That Banks picked up a fare who made him stop, bashed in his head, then robbed him. You arrived on the scene while the killer was still there and were attacked in turn."
"A good Samaritan who got walloped himself?"
"Something like that. I believe the killer heard you speaking to Banks, or trying to, feared you'd get a clue to their identity, and decided to do for you as well."
"And they didn't know what I am?"
"Apparently."
"Which means it could have been a real robbery."
"I consider that to be a very small possibility, and so would the police if they had all the facts of our own investigation. We know Banks drove a woman from the Francher estate to Port Jefferson. Within twenty-four hours of giving us this information he is murdered. I believe the woman wanted him silenced, sought him out, and killed him."
I felt very tired. "Which means Emily Francher--"
"Or Laura."
"But Laura was only fourteen or fifteen back then."
"Yes, with some growing to do," he said meaningfully, only I wasn't up to catching on to it. "Banks said change and lull. If you speculate a bit on filling in the blanks, he might have been trying to say, 'She's changed, gotten or grown tall. She lied.' "
I shook my head, not the smartest thing to do. "What's her motive?"
"As far as Banks is concerned, she killed him to shut him up. She didn't want him to identify the person he took to Port Jefferson."
"Barrett could have hypnotized either woman into killing for him."
"That's a possibility. Our lack of data is most frustrating. If you've no wish to confront Barrett, then we must use this time to speak with the two women to find out what happened five years ago."
"I'll tell you what happened: Maureen got in that cab, went to Port Jefferson, and then to parts unknown. We show up way too late, ask some questions, and then some creep just happens to kill Banks and nearly gets me. We're trying to make this thing more complicated than it really is."
He drank his drink, listening until I'd run down and was out of nonsense. "Do you wish to drop this and go home?"
"I don't knowyes. I think so."
He pushed the glass aside, got out his pipe, and spent some time lighting it. He puffed and played with the match stubs with an absent finger. "I see."
But he didn't, and I started up another protest, which he cut off with a raised hand.
"I see that you're tired, upset, and frightened."
I glared at him.
"You've had too much coming at you in too short a time. Just because your physical nature has drastically altered is no reason to think your emotional nature shares the same advantages."
Advantages. Is that how he saw it? Confined to the night, avoiding mirrors, always having to plan out the next feeding, worrying that someone might get too curious about the big trunk in the cornerThe whole business stunk and I was stuck with it, maybe forever.
"I'm just letting you know that I'm aware of how it must be for you right now. I'm also letting you know that if you do decide to go home, I won't be coming along just yet."
"And try to take on Barrett yourself? Maybe get killed? Is this some kind of blackmail to keep me here?"
"Not at all. What you decide for yourself is all right with me, and no hard feelings. My own decision is to stay. I can't leave anyway at this point. It might be open to misinterpretation by the police."
A smile tugged at my mouth. "Like charging you with body snatching?"
"I certainly hope not, but it is a possibility. They'll have no real evidence against me, of course, but I'll have to remain until they say otherwise. They could make a lot of trouble for me, and I've no desire to lose my license."
His investigator's license wasn't the only thing that kept him going, though. He had the same kind of curiosity that often got me into trouble. In the last week, a lot of it had been burned out of me and I was having trouble handling it in another person. Answering questions solved problems for him; for me it only seemed to make new ones. The emotional cost was distressingly high.
"You know if you stay you could get yourself killed. Barrett can do it without even trying."
He nodded a little, his gray eyes yellow in this light. Of all people, he knew exactly what he was up against, and it still didn't seem to bother him.
My breath exploded out in a sigh. "All right. I'll admit I'm scared. I don't like what we're doing and what might come out of it, but we both know that only a real bastard would run out now, and I'm no bastard."
He put down the pipe, maybe a little relieved after all.
"But," I added, "I've finally figured out that you are, when you want to be."
His eyes flicked up in surprise and went totally blank for a long second. I thought my joke had fallen flat until an abrupt bark of laughter burst from him. Heads turned our way from the bar and he stifled it quickly and returned to his pipe.
"So what's next?" I asked.
"Next I think you should--" He froze again, this time looking past me at the door.
I was careful not to turn around. "What is it?"
With a minimum of movement, he shoved the bag with the bottle, tubing, and other junk across the table into my hands. "They can't see you yet, so you can safely disappear for a bit. Nemesis is approaching and you might be recognized."
I managed to vanish a second before someone large stopped at our booth.
"Good evening, officer," said Escott in an even, untroubled tone.
"Would you come with us?" It wasn't a question.
"Why? Is there something wrong?"
"Just come along, sir."
"I would like to know why."
A silence. The rest of the bar, as far as I could tell from my muffled hearing, was quiet. "We got some questions to ask."
Escott made a knocking sound as he emptied his pipe. "Can you not ask them here? I don't understand."
A second man drifted up next to the first, both looming over Escott.
They weren't taking any chances. "We'll fill you in at the station. Come on."
There was some movement and more puzzled protest from Escott. I hoped he wasn't overplaying his innocent-citizen act as they led him out.
I followed, clinging to one of the cops until we got into their car. He sat in the back with Escott. Eventually he shivered and complained about the cold, so I shifted over to the empty front passenger seat.
Escott made another attempt to get information from them and subsided with obvious disgust. The rest of our short trip was made in silence.
After stopping, I lingered in the car long enough to materialize for a quick look as they marched Escott inside. The station was tiny. The front windows disclosed a one-room office with a desk, phones, and files. Through a wide heavy door in the back wall were the cells. The ones I could see were empty.
We were in Glenbriar's municipal district. Conveniently across from the jail was the courthouse and next to that an ancient structure claiming to be the city hall. Down at the far end of the street, I abruptly recognized the Glenbriar Funeral Parlor.
All its lights were on, blazing away like New Year's.
Oops.