City of Heretics (17 page)

“Okay, Crowe. But eventually you’re gonna have to cut me some slack. I can’t keep—“

Crowe flipped the phone shut.

He hadn’t been in his apartment in about ten days. There was no mail. Harriston stood just outside his door again, smoking, and when he saw Crowe coming up the steps he said, “Well, hey there, Crowe, long time no see.”

Crowe nodded at him and kept moving toward his door. Harriston said, “What the hell happened to you, son?  You get in a fight or something?”

“Yeah,” Crowe said. “I’ll tell you all about it another time, Harriston. I’m beat. I need some sleep.”

“Sure, sure. Some sleep. Damn, Crowe, you sure do get yourself in some crazy shit.”

Crowe unlocked his door, started to go in, when Harriston said, “Say, I reckon you’d wanna know, you had a visitor a couple-three days back. Said he was a cop.”

Crowe looked at him. “Wills?”

Harriston nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Detective Wills.”

“I talked to him.”

“Okay. But, uh… listen, we don’t need any trouble in this building, you know?  I mean, cops coming by?  Tenants showing up looking like they been trampled by bulls?  That’s just—“

“No trouble,” Crowe said. “It’s all a great big misunderstanding. Everything’s already straightened out.”

“Yeah. Except, you know, with your police record and all—“

Crowe went in his flat and shut the door.

The garbage can was starting to smell bad with apple cores and orange peels. Crowe ignored it, and stumbled into the bathroom.

A hot shower took the edge off his pain but brought the fuzziness to the surface. He changed out his bandages and dropped into bed naked.

But as tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep. He lay there, looking up at the dark ceiling, hearing the noise of traffic outside, the ticking of the clock by the bed, the sounds of the building straining against the earth.

Jezzie Vitower and Patricia Welling, in the same photograph. The Society of Christ the Fisher. Peter Murke.

He was too tired, too tired to make sense of any of it. He was no goddamn detective. When he needed to know something, he beat it out of the person who can tell him. But that wasn’t going to work this time; the sources who could tell him anything were either dead or missing.

Or not even real. Like the Ghost Cat. It could tell him something, he thought, if it actually existed.

But that was his exhausted brain, scrambling around in his head and grasping at phantoms.

He eventually started to drift off, and his half-awake thoughts turned to Dallas. They were dark thoughts, full of flesh and sweat and heat, and they kept him from falling asleep completely.

He got up and made some coffee.

He sat at the window and drank coffee and thought about how he needed to stop thinking. It was one in the morning. He had another cup of coffee, got up, got dressed, left the apartment.

He drove to Dallas’s house.

“Crowe,” she said, blearily. “What are you doing here?  It’s one-thirty in the morning.”

He looked at his watch and shrugged.

“What… what are you doing here?” she said again.

“I don’t know.”

She opened the door and let him in, peeked outside to see if any neighbors were around, and closed it behind her. She wore over-sized men’s pajamas. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks.

“You shouldn’t be here. Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m not drunk.”

“It’s one-thirty in the morning.”

“We’ve established that. Chester still at Dr. Maggie’s?”

“Yes.”

“What about the boy?”

“His name’s Tom, and he’s asleep. What, did you think he’d be up this time of night?”

“No.”

She stood there looking at him, and finally sighed and said, “You wanna drink?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have any vodka. Only whisky. But it’s good whiskey.”

“Fine.”

She frowned at him and went into the kitchen. He sat on the sofa. The living room was tasteful and only slightly bohemian. The furniture was standard tan and black, the walls a muted lime green. There were knick-knacks in gleaming silver, a few art deco type pieces, and a slim curving lamp that lit the whole room. It smelled very delicately of Dallas, as if she’d scented the place lightly with her own perfume.

She came back in carrying a bottle and two tumbler glasses. “It’s been in the fridge,” she said. “You don’t need ice.”  She sat down next to him and poured drinks.

He tossed his back, grabbed the bottle and refilled his glass. She sipped hers, and said, “So. I reckon I should say Happy Birthday.”

“What?”

“Today’s your birthday, isn’t it?  Don’t tell me you didn’t know. You’re fifty today, Crowe. That’s a big deal, right?”

He shook his head. Was it his birthday already?  And more importantly, who gave a shit?

He said, “Okay. Thanks.”

She said, “I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s fine.”

“A card or something would’ve been nice, though, huh?  Maybe sometime today I’ll pop down to the Hallmark and—“

“Dallas,” he said. “Shut up.”

She frowned. “Right,” she said. “You never liked it when I made a big deal about your birthday. I forgot.”  Then, “Chester isn’t home yet, but if anyone saw you here there’d be huge trouble.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“But you came anyway.”

“Why not?  You took the chance of coming to my place a couple weeks ago.”

She said, “Well, you got me there. It couldn’t be helped, though. I really needed your help.”

“So what if I need
your
help?  What if that’s why I’m here?”

“My help?  With what?”

He looked away from her and took a drink. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Look. Obviously, you’re having a bad time right now. I don’t think—“

“Scratch that. I don’t need help. I just came to give you this.”  He reached into his coat and pulled out some of the cash he had left over from Vitower. It was about two grand. He shoved half of it in her hand.

She looked at it blankly, and said, “How much is this?”

“Enough to get you out of Memphis. You go somewhere, we’ll work out a way for you to contact me, and I’ll meet up with you.”

“Meet up with me?  Crowe, why?”

He hated that she asked that. He took another long drink and said, “Why do you think, goddamnit?  To… to give you more money.”

Her hand dropped to her lap, still clutching the wad of cash. Very quietly, she said, “I shouldn’t have come to you in the first place. It was stupid of me.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“You… you obviously still have feelings for me.”

He stood up. “You’re crazy. I don’t have feelings for you. I hate your guts.”

She looked up at him. “Is that right?  Then why are you helping me?”

He set his teeth and snarled, “That’s a goddamn good question,” and started for the door.

Halfway across the living room, she caught up with him, put a hand on his arm, and he turned to look at her, ready to put his fist across her face or shove her away or something, he didn’t know. But when his eyes met hers, something else happened and he grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her to him.

She didn’t stop him from kissing her, but she didn’t kiss back either. He tried to pretend he didn’t notice. He kissed her harder, moving his hand up and under her pajama top and squeezing her breast.

She was breathing hard and her eyes were closed, but with his mouth pressed against hers she managed to say, “Crowe, no. No.”

He stepped back from her, and she looked up at him. She was breathless and her face was flushed. Her voice, though, was steady and controlled. She said, “That’s a mistake. I’m sorry, but it’s a mistake.”

He didn’t say anything.

“What we had, Crowe… it’s gone.”  Then, “No, that’s a lie. It’s not gone. But it should be. We were weak then, that’s what we were. But it’s different now.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m… well, the things I told you about the other day?  I’ve been reconsidering them.”

“Reconsidering.”

“Yeah. I mean… I don’t know. Maybe leaving Chester isn’t such a good idea.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She said, “It’s Tom. He needs a father. And Chester has been talking lately about—“

“About giving it all up. Changing his ways.”

“Yeah.”

“And you believe that?”

“I feel like I should at least… I don’t know, give him the chance to do that. He’s not a bad man, really.”

He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter what sort of man Chester was; in another week, maybe less, he was going to kill him, so it didn’t matter. But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Right, Dallas. Give him a chance, sure.”

“You’re clearly exhausted,” she said. “Why don’t you sleep here tonight?  On the sofa. We can talk more in the morning.”

“No thanks. I’ll get going.”

“Please?  We’ll have a couple more drinks, and then you can get some sleep, and everything will seem clearer in the morning. Okay?”

He sighed. “Okay,” he said.

It was still dark when he opened his eyes, the only light streaming in dimly from a security light outside in the building’s parking lot. He was sprawled out on the sofa, a throw blanket draped over him and his shoes off. The boy was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, staring at him.

Crowe looked at him and the boy cocked his head. “Hello,” he said.

Thin, pale like his mother. In the darkness Crowe couldn’t tell what color his eyes were. His disheveled hair was light, maybe dirty blond or brown. He seemed to be glowing.

The boy said again, “Hello. Who are you?”

“Nobody,” Crowe said.

“You’re somebody.”

“Okay.”

Crowe sat up woozily. He was still drunk. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. I got up to get a drink of water and I saw you. Are you a friend of my mom’s?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “My dad’s at the doctor’s house. Are you here to do dad stuff until he gets back?”

“No. What?  No. Go away.”

He frowned. “This is my house, I don’t have to go away.”  Then, “You smell like alky-hol.”

Crowe rubbed his temples, thought about getting up and leaving, but the idea of moving at that moment was too daunting. Instead, he lay back down.

“Are you an alky-holic?” he said.

“No. I hardly ever drink,” Crowe said, and then wondered why he bothered explaining it. He didn’t want to see this kid. He didn’t want to talk to him, drunk or otherwise.

“My name’s Tommy. Tom. I was named after a famous American. What’s your name?”

“Crowe.”

The boy smiled. “Crow, like the bird? Crows eat dead stuff off the road. Why do you have a bandage on your face?  Did you hurt yourself?”

“You need to go back to bed. Your mom would be mad if she knew you were up.”

“No she wouldn’t. My mom doesn’t get mad about stupid stuff like that.”

“Kid,” Crowe said. “Go away.”

“But—“

“Go away!”

The boy jumped, surprised, and looked at him. For a second Crowe thought he was going to burst into tears, but instead he shrugged. “Fine. Be a jerk, see if I care.”  He stood up and walked with as much dignity as a seven-year-old could back to his room.

Crowe had a hard time getting back to sleep after that. He kept seeing the boy’s white face, glowing in the soft light. Eventually, though, he slept.

It couldn’t have been more than three hours later he sat up, head pounding and muscles screaming.

The money he’d given Dallas was tucked in one of his shoes. The bottle was almost empty on the table, and he realized that he drank most of it; he didn’t remember Dallas having more than two drinks.

Stupid. His tolerance for booze wasn’t up for that sort of challenge.

He threw a couple of pain pills down his throat, forgetting all about his resolve to stay clear-headed, and in the next room he could hear activity—the sounds of the household coming awake. Through the bedroom wall, he heard Dallas saying, “Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” and the muted giggling of the boy.

He couldn’t see him again. He stood up quickly, grabbed his overcoat, and headed for the door.

Fast food for breakfast, a greasy sausage and egg combo, and as soon as he finished it he was in the restaurant’s bathroom, throwing it back up. He needed some goddamn aspirin and another ten hours of sleep.

His place was too far away, so he got back in the Jag and headed for Faith’s, in Midtown. It would be hard, explaining what he was doing back, but he needed a place to be for at least a couple of hours.

There was no answer when he knocked. She usually worked until two in the morning, was in bed by three, and slept until ten-thirty or eleven. She was a light sleeper, so he knocked again, a little louder.

Still no answer. He tried the door, and it was unlocked.

That wasn’t like her at all. Checking to make sure the place was locked up before she went to bed bordered on being a compulsion with her.

He went in and said, “Faith?”

Nothing. He made his way through the living room, saying again, “Faith?  It’s me.”

The living room looked normal, nothing disturbed, no signs of visitors, legitimate or otherwise.

Except for one thing: a shoe-print on the carpet, just outside the bathroom. A fairly large print, edged in dark red.

He’d remembered his revolver this time, and his hand went into the coat pocket and rested on the butt.

The bedroom door was open, as usual. He went in and stopped just inside the doorway.

Faith was in bed.

Most
of her was, anyway.

The bed was soaked with blood and the carpet around it stained a dark ugly red. She’d been opened up from throat to pelvis, and the gaping hole of her torso was like a giant red mouth, half-open. It smelled like an abattoir.

Pieces of her had been arranged on the bed next to her. Some other pieces were on the floor at the foot of the bed, like bedroom slippers. They were organs, but Crowe couldn’t tell which ones.

He stood there for a few seconds. And then he went back to the front door, made sure it was locked. He did a quick sweep of the apartment, checking behind the sofa and in the hall closet and anywhere else someone could hide. He looked in the bathroom, being careful not to step on the bloody shoe print. Then he went back in the bedroom and, not looking at the thing on the bed, checked the closet there.