Brides Of The Impaler (12 page)

A figure? A
nun?

He jerked up and nearly yelled as he switched on the light.
God Almighty
!

Then he shook his head at himself.

The shadow was nothing but that from a piece of cresting on the outside windowsill.

I am not in a good way tonight
, the priest admitted.

He pulled on a robe, trudged to an armoire and began to withdraw a bottle of Medoc.
I shouldn’t do this, but
…He took a long pull of the bitter red Bordeaux, then let out a stifled breath.

He switched the light back off, then lit a candle.
Back to
this again
, he thought, bringing the binoculars to his eyes. The annex house stood sedate, frosted in the phosphoric street light. One of the lights continued to buzz from bright to dim. Down the street, he thought he spied several lanky figures turn into the alley.

He turned the binoculars back to the house, zooming in. A dim light shone between the slats of the kitchen louvers but that was all. Then, higher, his heart tensed a moment when he thought he saw a wan face in a second-story window, but when he zoomed even closer…

No. It must’ve been the curtain
…

He put the binoculars down, at least in part disgusted with himself. What was he looking for anyway? And how much of this might really be geared in some deeper and more desperate channel of his psyche? Celibate priest, came the grim admission.
Old, atrophied, like fruit turning brown
on the vine
.

Yes, the image depressed him. But the question remained, like a crow looking down from a wire.
Was I really
searching for clues? Or was I hoping to see Cristina Nichols’s
body in the nude?

“Give me strength…”

He kept it dark; he
liked
it dark. Perhaps it was because he could see less of himself, and the world and all the life in it.
Who knows?

All he could ever think to do was answer his calling.

He considered going downstairs to the main chancel,
but more and more he felt alienated in it.
No congregation
for years. I’m the house sitter for the church, too old and too eccentric
for clerical duties
. It infuriated him sometimes, for he knew he could still say a spectacular Mass.
They don’t
WANT me anymore, so they merely KEEP me
.

It was all right by him.

He did know that
God
still wanted him, flaws and all.

He knelt at the small prayer bench in his room, beseeching the meager altar on which sat a simple crucifix given to him in Bucharest by a priest from the Holy Office. Lately, Rollin prayed here more than anywhere else, alone.

Before the crucifix’s olive-wood base, he took up the chain and pendant. He kissed it as he would a Cross.

The emblem stared back at him, medieval in its scary crudity: a dead dragon strangled by its own tail, a great red cross branded on its back.

Rollin stared at the ancient totem for many minutes, while fingering the ring on his hand with the same insignia. Both read below the crest, O QUAM MAGNIFICUM, O DOMNUL.

Then he put the pendant around his neck and began to pray…

“
O quam magnificum, o domnul
…”

Sunlight from the windows cut across her eyes like a guillotine blade.
Oh my God
…When Cristina tried to rise from the basement floor, the flare of her life’s worst headache sent her right back down on her back. She looked around in mental chaos as aching vision showed her the dank, cluttered basement.
What did I
…

Then she remembered, the twisted memories interlacing with her hangover. The celebration with Bruno last night, her drunkenness, then passing out down here of all places. And the dream…

She remained on her back, nude and shivering.
The
same dream as always…but with new details
…God.

A dead man on a stone slab? A strange decanter of some kind?
And those women
…Not just the nun this time, but other strange, faceless women.

Cristina gulped when she remembered what the women were doing to her…

Jeez, what would Britt say about that? Latent lesbian tendencies
carrying over from the Goldfarb house?
It was just a dream—made more odd, no doubt, from all the alcohol she’d drunk.

She recalled the disturbing intonation:
Singele lui
traieste
. But why should it actually disturb her?
Just meaningless
gibberish from a dream
. It couldn’t be another language since she didn’t know any.

An alarm blared in her head.
What time is it? And
…
where’s Paul?
She groaned, dragging herself up off the dust-and grit-caked floor.
He’ll think I’m really out of my head if he
finds out I passed out NUDE in the friggin’ BASEMENT!
She was about to head up, but then the floor snagged her vision.

That patchwork
, she remembered now.

She peered down. Yes, an oblong patch of new cement set into the stonework of the floor. How odd, but…In the better light she saw…something…

Down on one knee she examined the corner of the patch more closely. It looked like a seal of some kind pressed into the cement. She expected perhaps a date or service information from the contractor who’d done the work but instead…

A dragon
?

Or a serpent of some kind, within a circle around which were etched the words: O QUAM MAGNIFICUM, O DOMNUL.
Latin
, she supposed. It must relate to the house’s previous use by the Catholic Church. But it was the seal itself that bothered her most—the dragon. The crude artwork seemed to depict the dragon as dead, its own tail wrapped around its neck.

Then another, louder, alarm screamed in her head. As she’d been leaning to inspect the cement, her breasts edged into the peripheries of her vision.

Cristina stood up in half-shock and strode straight to the window where the most light was.

What on earth did I do to myself!

It looked as though her breasts and belly had been used as a graffiti canvas. Primitive black, green, and red lines encircled each breast, while more wavy lines of the same colors—the backdrop of her dream—streaked up and down her stomach.

Her own conclusion left her appalled.
I was so drunk last
night, I DREW on myself?

She did recall her hand landing on something that felt
like a fat pen.
This has to be magic marker
…She went back to the cement but couldn’t find the object.

But the worst consideration slammed home.
If Paul sees
me like this he’ll want me to go to a shrink
! Suddenly her nudity had her feeling utterly vulnerable. And there was nothing down here she could cover herself with. She crept up the stairs, listening, then she peeked out the door when she got to the top.

Oh my God
!

She could hear Paul’s voice in the kitchen.

“—unfuckin’ believable, Jess. Yes, yes, I know it’s ten o’clock, and I know we’ve got to fax that arbitration rebuttal out to Massaccesi’s people by noon. I haven’t been this hungover in
ages
, man…”

What am I going to do?
Cristina fretted. She glanced down in more disbelief at her streaked breasts.

“I don’t even know where Cristina is,” Paul was saying. “She was pretty lit last night too; I guess she went out to get orange juice or something. We had sort of a celebration party at D’Amato’s with the guy who makes her dolls. Yeah, the guy named Bruno. I thought he was all hot air until he picked up the check. The fuckin’ guy ordered not one but two bottles of Krug, six bills a pop, plus brandy, plus all kinds of fancy appetizers. Bet he dropped over two grand. Funny thing is, Cristina kept right up with us and, man, she
never
drinks like that. She must be one hurtin’ puppy right now, wherever she is…”

She had no choice but to take a chance. If Paul was facing the kitchen entry she’d be all right, but if not…

He’ll see me. He’ll see his nut-
job girlfriend with magic
marker all over her boobs
…

She stepped wide into the hall, turned, and zipped right into the laundry room. When she looked, Paul’s back was to her.

At least a trifling relief. She pulled a robe out of the dryer and put it on, wrapping it tight. Then…
Here goes
.

She shuffled into the kitchen.

Paul stood in his boxers, his hair sticking up. He smiled below bloodshot eyes when he saw her.

“Oh, here she is. Anyway, sorry, Jess. My fuckup. Hold down the fort till I get there.” Then he hung up. He walked over and hugged Cristina, gave her a peck on the cheek. “I hope you’re not as hungover as I am,” he bid.

“I’m sure I am,” she said. Her head pounded with each word, along with the embarrassment of what she’d secretly done to herself. “I hurt
all over
.”

“God bless Bruno. But he must be going through the same thing so at least we’re not the only ones suffering.” Bewildered, Paul shook his head. “I can’t believe I slept right through the alarm.”

Cristina sheepishly pursed her lips. “And I can’t believe I slept in the basement.”

Paul almost spat out a sip of coffee. “You
what
?
”

She kept the neck of the robe tightly clasped.
God, I
hope he doesn’t see
. “Kid you not. I was so smashed last night, I decided to go in the basement for some crazy reason. And I passed out.”

“That’s some shit-face,” Paul laughed. “I thought you went out to the store.”

“Nope. Your nutty fiancée slept off her drunk on the basement floor. I’m
never
drinking alcohol again.”

“I just might second that motion. But it was a fun night, with Bruno and celebrating your new figure.”

The Noxious Nun
, she thought for no reason at all. “I’d cook you breakfast, honey, but I still feel so lousy—”

“Forget it. I’m over an hour late as it is.” He kissed her again. “I’ve got to jump in the shower, dress, and get my tail to the office. Jess isn’t exactly thrilled. Drink some water to rehydrate yourself and get some more sleep. But, in the bed,
not
the basement.”

She stroked his cheek, then offered a pained smile. “You look hot in those boxers, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure. My eyes look like road maps—”

So do my boobs
…“I have to go lie down. But have a good day at work. I’ll have my act together when you get home, I promise.”

He winked. “Good. Give me a chance to redeem myself after…you know…”

“I wasn’t much in working order either, honey,” she laughed and went to the bedroom.
He didn’t notice. What a
stroke of luck
. But she still felt asinine.
Some girlfriend
…She hid under the bedcovers and feigned sleep as Paul showered, dressed, and left. Then she rushed to the bathroom.

The mirror’s crystalline clarity made it even worse. The colored lines encircling her breasts and streaking her stomach seemed even thicker, brighter now.
Why on earth
did I do this to myself
! She jumped into the shower, head still thumping, and scrubbed hard with a washcloth and soap, then moaned aloud when she got back out and re-examined herself. The magic marker had barely faded.

Cristina was nearly in tears when she called Britt…

“You’ve
got
to be kidding!” Britt exclaimed.

Cristina reluctantly opened her robe, showing the marks. “I don’t know what to do. If Paul sees this…”

Britt sat at the kitchen table, flabbergasted. She wore dark Seven jeans, which fit her like tights, a red faux shearling vest, and clear strap platforms. “And you say rubbing alcohol and Lava soap didn’t work?”

“Didn’t even come close to getting it all off.”

Britt opened a paper bag she’d brought, removed a bottle of nail-polish remover. “I remember someone telling me this once. It should work.”

They went to the bathroom. Cristina blushed as Britt carefully blotted the fluid on her breasts with a cloth, then rubbed.

“You’re in luck. It’s working.”

“You’re a godsend!” Cristina exclaimed.

“And
you’re
a space cadet. Honestly, Cristina. It’s not like you to get drunk at all, but you must’ve been
pie-
eyed
to do this.”

“I know. I can’t explain it.”

Britt looked up from her rubbing. “Is there something you’re not telling me, little sister?”

“No, I’m not doing drugs, and I’m not hiding an alcohol problem.”

Britt shook her head, reapplying more of the remover. “You better not be. Paul would’ve shit if he saw this. And you hassle
him
about drinking.”

“Pretty hypocritical, huh?” Cristina admitted. She looked to the mirror with relief when she saw the magic marker was coming off. “And he actually wasn’t bad last night.
I
was the loose screw.”

“And you passed out in the basement? Did I get that right?”

Cristina nodded, ashamed. “And I had the dream again—”

“The nude nun…”

“Yeah, but it was a lot worse. More detail, and…”

Britt looked up again, reading her. “And
what?
”

“I don’t know, but more and more I think the dream is some kind of flashback effect from the Goldfarbs.”

Britt stopped rubbing and gave Cristina the eye. “Stop using that as an excuse. The stuff the Goldfarbs drugged us with
wasn’t
hallucinatory. This has nothing to do with the Goldfarbs. It’s just a bad dream, and it was made worse by your getting crocked out of your gourd!”

Cristina stared at the wall through the recollection. “But…there was other stuff in the dream, and it really bothered me. Other—well—people.”

“Yeah?”

“It was lesbian stuff,” Cristina finally said. “A bunch of women…touching me and…other stuff.”

“And let me guess. It turned you on.”

“Sort of.”

Britt sighed, frustrated. “Cristina, every woman on earth has dreams like that sometimes. It’s just subconscious mishmash. It means nothing. And everybody gets drunk on occasion and passes out.”

“Yeah, but they don’t pass out and draw on themselves with indelible markers. I just don’t understand any of it. It’s starting to scare me.”

“For God’s sake,” Britt said. She was finished. The marks were gone, leaving Cristina’s skin pink from the rubbing. Britt looked her right in the eye. “Listen. I know what you’re getting at—I’m a shrink, remember? A shrink for screwed-up women. You think you’re having some kind of psychological trauma that’s being triggered by the shitty stuff that happened to us in the past. What, you think you’re a latent lesbian because of what goddamn Helga Goldfarb did to us, and made us do to each other? That’s ridiculous; we’ve been through this a million times. You’re overreacting, that’s all—like you always do. Wasn’t it yesterday you told me you felt better than you ever have and that your sex life was off the scales? But now you’re acting like that pensive worrywart that you were in the old days, all because of a recurring dream.”

Cristina thought about it. “I guess you’re right, but—”

“No buts. I am right.” Britt narrowed her eyes in some contemplation. “So where exactly did you draw on yourself? Your studio?”

“No. The basement.”

Britt winced. “So you purposely brought magic markers down to the basement, in the middle of the night, to draw on yourself?”

“Uh…Well, no. I think the magic markers were already down there. The place is full of junk. And I remember touching something that felt like a pen.”

Britt grabbed Cristina’s hand and yanked. “Come on. Show me this ridiculous basement.”

Cristina took her down. They wended around old boxes until they came to the oblong cement patchwork.

“Right there’s where I passed out.” Cristina pointed.

“What the hell is that? It looks newer than the rest.”

“I figured a pipe broke so that’s where they dug; then they patched it. I remember falling down there, and my hand landed on the pen.”

Britt looked around the entire area. “No pens here now. So you picked them up this morning?”

“No.”

Britt’s frown deepened; she kept looking at the cement patch. “Kind of creepy. That’s not…a
grave
, is it?”

“It can’t be. Paul would’ve known from the deed.”

“Still. It’s creepy. It’s no wonder you had the nightmare down here.” She chuckled darkly. “A nun with fangs, a bowl full of blood.”

“And this time there was a man lying on a slab, too.”

Britt looked again to the oblong patch but said nothing.

“Oh, and there’s an insignia down there, on the corner.”

Britt stooped. “Latin, it looks like and—what is that? A turtle?”

“Looks like a dragon, or a lizard.”

Britt kept shaking her head. “A dragon strangled by its own tail. The hits just keep on comin’, Cristina. Let’s go back up. You must’ve put the magic markers away and don’t remember.”

I don’t think so
, Cristina answered in thought. Back upstairs, Britt turned away from the kitchen, to the mirror-backed bar.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” Cristina asked.

“After cleaning magic marker off your boobs, then listening to your lesbian nun dream, and then seeing the creepy grave-looking thing in the basement? No. Paul won’t mind if I take a nip of this Louis XIII, will he?”