Cold Judgment (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

Father Marx sighed wearily as he collapsed the folding chairs that lined the church basement and stacked them against the wall. The parish basketball games were great fun for the boys, but they left him exhausted. Actually, he wasn't even sure which side had won. He had been too busy thinking about Doug. And Jerry.

Even though he kidded around about religion with his friends, Father Marx truly believed in the wisdom of the church. He played the role of the modern and enlightened man of God because his superiors expected it of him. The church was losing its grip, so a parish priest was expected to be a good PR man.
Relate to everybody
was his credo. Be what they want. Promise them anything, but give them Catholicism. He was the wise father confessor to the old guard, a buddy to the kids, and a good-natured cynic with his friends and fellow priests. Father Marx played so many roles that sometimes he wondered who he really was.

Father Marx hadn't thought deeply about religious issues for years. He was too busy recruiting new parishioners, raising money for building additions, and organizing youth groups. People didn't like to see their priests somber or thoughtful. They liked a joke, an easy answer, or a friendly pat on the back. The old religion was gone. No modern priests burned the midnight oil, reading heavy books on doctrine or anguishing over a tricky question of morality. Father Marx hadn't experienced a sleepless night since he'd left the rigors of the seminary.

Now all that had changed. In his despair over Doug and Jerry, Father Marx fell back on his deepest beliefs. He had spent long hours on his knees beseeching God in Doug's behalf, even though he suspected his prayers were futile. The church was very clear on the subject of suicide. A human life was sacred and to destroy it was a mortal sin. But was Doug's death a suicide? That was a moral question of another magnitude. One could argue that Doug had been an unwilling victim of circumstance, a true innocent who had not been in control of his own mind when he'd crashed the plane. If so, there was hope that God would take mercy on his soul.

Jerry's eternal fate was another concern. If Jerry had deliberately driven Doug to suicide, he would be a murderer in the eyes of God. But if Jerry had harbored no ill intent, God would absolve him. Jerry had tried to live a decent life. Father Marx knew how valiantly he had fought against his perversion. Would God take his struggle into account and balance it against the evil of Jerry's unholy lust?

The sound of sweeping had been going on for some time. Father Marx roused himself and turned to see Paul Littletree pushing the heavy broom across the floor. The boy was small for his eleven years and there was a perpetual frightened look in his eyes. Paul lived in the borderline area surrounding Loring Park. Rent was cheap and the once-stately apartments were filled with drunks and addicts. It was a terrible place to raise a child, but Paul's mother could barely afford the rent on her third-floor efficiency apartment. Moving to a more desirable neighborhood was out of the question.

Paul's mother had left the Red Lake Reservation when he was a baby. She was a fiercely proud woman who refused to accept charity. A recent state program had trained her to operate a power sewing machine. Now she worked the night shift at Munsingwear. Since there was no one to see that Paul got home safely, Father Marx always made some excuse to walk him home on basketball nights.

“Would you like some company on your way home?” Father Marx smiled at the boy. “It's about time for my evening walk.”

“Oh, that'd be swell, Father!” Paul carried the broom to the closet and put it away carefully. He picked up his threadbare coat and slipped into it. Father Marx noticed that the sleeves were too short.

“No mittens, Paul?”

Paul jammed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “Naw. I let my mom wear 'em. These pockets are nice and warm.”

Father Marx pulled out the pair of gloves he had bought and handed them to Paul. “Try these on for size. They were a present from Sister Theresa and they're much too small for me.”

Paul slipped on the fur-lined gloves and grinned. The frightened expression almost disappeared from his face.

“Geez, Father! They're great! Are you sure you don't want 'em?”

“No sense in keeping a pair of gloves that don't fit. You'll be doing me a favor if you wear them, Paul. I wouldn't want Sister Theresa to think her gift went to waste.”

The boy turned up his collar as they left the church. Father Marx saw him shiver. The wind hit them with an icy blast and they hugged the buildings as they walked west on Hennepin. A snowplow rumbled past them in the opposite direction, blue lights flashing. It was a miserable night for a walk.

They turned on the corner of Thirteenth and headed toward Harmon. Father Marx leaned into the wind and pulled his fur hat down over his ears. The blowing snow drove needles of cold against his cheeks. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, trying to shield Paul with his body. The boy needed a warm parka with a hood. That would be his next big project.

Paul shivered again as they neared Loring Park. Father Marx wasn't sure if it was from the cold or from fear. The boy was wary, and he had good reason to be. This was a dangerous part of town.

Tonight the park was deserted and peaceful. Snow covered the frozen lake and the swans had been moved for the winter. No one was out in the vast unprotected area, but danger still lurked in the bordering apartment buildings. The freezing cold drove the crime inside. The drunks and addicts had moved to a warmer arena. Some were lucky enough to afford apartments, and the rest made do with hallways and stairwells. Father Marx was alert as he followed Paul into his apartment building.

The small lobby was dark. The bulb had burned out. Father Marx doubted that anyone would replace it. Metal mailboxes lined one wall, their hinges sprung and rusting. Paul pushed open the door to the stairwell and stepped over a man who was sleeping in the corner. There was an empty wine bottle in his hand.

The stairs creaked as they climbed. Someone had dropped a garbage bag, and beer cans and coffee grounds littered the steps. There was the odor of decay and old cooking smells. In the summer the stench would be unbearable. Father Marx was grateful when they reached the third floor.

“Thanks for walking me home, Father.” Paul took out his key and unlocked the door. He switched on the light and Father Marx glanced inside. There was only one room. A kitchen table with two chairs sat at one end of the space and a cot at the other. The couch in the middle pulled out to make a second bed. Paul's mother kept the apartment immaculate. It was in sharp contrast to the filth of the hallway. “I'll wait until I hear you lock the door.” Father Marx reached out and made the sign of the cross over Paul's head. “Bless you, my son.”

He stood in the dark hallway and waited until he heard the lock snap into place. When Paul threw the dead bolt, Father Marx sighed with relief. Mrs. Littletree had scraped together the money for a good lock. It was the best investment she could have made in her son's future.

There was a loud party in one of the apartments at the end of the hall. Father Marx heard shrill laughter and the tinny blast of a cheap stereo. As he walked down the faded, filthy carpeting, he heard a door fly open. The music was suddenly louder. He turned and saw a woman step out. She was dressed in bright red satin.

“Lemme alone!” She pushed her companion back inside. “I gotta get some air.”

The door closed behind her with a slam, muffling the music. The woman leaned against the wall and reached down inside her low-cut dress to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“Hey, sweetie! Gotta match?”

It took Father Marx a moment to realize she was talking to him. He shook his head and turned to leave, but she weaved down the hall toward him. She was obviously drunk.

“Watsa matter? Did the party bore ya?”

Father Marx knew he should leave, but he stood there impassively, watching her approach. Her dress slipped down lower with every step until one huge breast slipped free.

“Oops!” She gave a raucous laugh and grabbed at it. “It's a free show tonight.”

She grinned at him, adjusted her dress, and stuffed it back in again. “Where ya been, sweetie? We coulda had some fun.”

Father Marx turned to leave, but she grabbed at his arm. Her soft body ground against him.

“Come back inside with me. We'll have a real good time.”

“I'm a priest.” Father Marx's voice was hard. “Go back to your friends now. I have to leave.”

“Ah, come on!” She licked her lipstick-smeared lips and fluttered long fake eyelashes. “You got desires, ain't ya? I never did a priest before. It'd be a real kick!”

He wanted to push her away roughly. Turn and run down the stairs. Flee to the sanctuary of the church. But he couldn't seem to move as she reached for him. Her fingers slid under his coat, searching. Then she gave a triumphant laugh.

“Ya don't even have to pay me, sweetie. I ain't felt nothin' this big all night.”

He saw her face through a red haze of rage. The mouth slack, lips parted in a grotesque parody of delight. Her fingers groped and clutched, pinching at the heat of him, sharp knowing claws that repulsed even as they drew him down to his lust-filled nightmare.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”

His voice was a bellow of denial, and he pushed her back with all his might.

Her painted face was a mask of injured reproach as she staggered against the opposite wall and crumpled to the dingy carpet. Then she laughed and pulled up her dress.

“Ya like it rough, sweetie? I'll letcha hit me a couple of times.”

The voice of the Lord was loud in his ears. “Punish this harlot for her sinful ways.” The voice commanded obedience, but Father Marx resisted.

He turned and ran, pursued by her laughter. Down the stairs, out the door, into the freezing night.

Bile rose in his throat, bitter and scalding. He retched in the street. Dark spots of gall spattered against the pure white snow. The voice of the Lord was a delusion. A false prophet. A product of his sickness, as Dr. Elias had told him.

At last he straightened and walked back the way he had come. His head was bowed and he did not feel the cold. There were no answers in the silent streets, no divine voices to guide him in the blowing wind. Dr. Elias was right. He had almost given way to temptation. He knew he was weak. Not worthy of the office he held.

It was past eleven when he unlocked the door to the church. His body was stiff from the cold. He longed to crawl into his narrow bed and ease his pain, but his soul was too troubled for sleep.

Father Marx genuflected before the altar. He raised his eyes to the statue of the Blessed Virgin and knelt at the prayer rail. Her plaster face was impassive. Did she approve of his action tonight? Would the Holy Mother bless him for his restraint?

The sacristy was so silent he imagined he could hear the Sacred Heart beating. Votive candles flickered dimly at the Blessed Virgin's feet. The dark shadows they cast were moving, reaching out to him with blind, searching fingers.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.”

The statue was changing. Father Marx shuddered as the face of the prostitute appeared, layered over the divine features like a demonic projection. He saw the red-smeared lips, the long false eyelashes that veiled knowing eyes. Her painted body was shifting. Robes parted to reveal rosy, voluptuous flesh. Then she was moving, leaning toward him in obscene delight.

He reached back and grasped the heavy silver cross. Raised it high above his head. His arms were strong now, trembling with his holy duty. The wrath with which a vengeful God had smote the Philistines was strong in him, His servant.

It was a battle cry, hoarse and powerful. He smashed the cross, like a sword, against her sinful flesh.

He struck again. And again. Righteous blows against evil. The statue toppled, then crumpled, until it lay in silent ruin at his feet.

Father Marx sobbed with exertion. Great gulps of air filled his lungs and he dropped to his knees in the rubble, hiding his face in his hands.

He knelt there for hours, lips moving in silent supplication. He prayed until the Blessed Virgin released him and lifted him up from his madness.

CHAPTER 10

“Hi! This is Greg Davenport. I'm sorry I'm not home right now but . . . oh, no!”

Greg made a face and started at the beginning again. The user guide said never to say you weren't home. It was an open invitation to burglars. He flicked the switch to record and started again.

“Greg Davenport is unable to come to the phone at this moment, but he'd appreciate it if you'd leave your name and number at the sound of the tone.”

Why on earth had he done that whole spiel in the third person? It made him sound like a stuffy English butler. Perhaps he should try to be funny.

“Oh, boy, did you call at the wrong time! Whatever made you think I'd be home at this hour? Well, don't feel bad . . . you're the seventh person who's made the same mistake tonight. Just leave your—”

The tone cut him off and Greg swore. He had already wasted fifteen minutes with this stupid machine and he had to get to the studio. He'd just leave that number and the hell with it.

“This is Greg. I'm at the studio. Call me at 555-6347.”

Ten seconds of silence passed before the beep. Greg didn't care. He switched the machine to the answer mode and slammed the door behind him. He was late and there was a lot of work to do tonight.

It was snowing again and the streets were icy. The Jag skidded as Greg swung out of the driveway. Towering snowbanks flanked Eighth Street. They had just finished plowing. At least the streets were clear.

Greg turned right on Hiawatha and put some Scott Joplin music on the car stereo. The “Maple Leaf Rag” was playing as he cut over to take West River Parkway. Huge old homes lined the wide street that ran parallel to the Mississippi River. The people who lived in this area had money.

A green sign for Minnehaha Park came up on his right. Greg slowed the car and turned in at the second set of gates. He took his remote sensor from the glove box and pressed it. The metal gates slid open. He drove through and entered his father's estate.

For years Greg could not bear to drive past the place. The burned-out shell of the old mansion haunted his dreams. With Dr. Elias's help he had conquered his guilt, and last year he had converted the old carriage house into a modern sound studio. It was the sole building on two acres of prime riverfront land.

Greg used his key to disarm the security system. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, smiling as he switched on the lights. His new studio had state-of-the-art technology. It was the envy of everyone in the field.

A beautiful Steinway grand commanded a place of honor in the main room. Greg sometimes preferred to work in the old-fashioned way, plunking out melodies and transcribing them by hand in musical notation. This made him an oddity among his peers. With the recent advances in microchip design, most modern songwriters worked on synthesizers.

Greg turned on the lights in the soundproof control booth and sat down in the swivel chair behind the computer console. He accessed a file and checked the score on Kid Xeno's new number. There was a problem with the intro.

Sound filled the room and Greg listened intently. A few minor changes in instrumentation would help. He punched out the codes and listened again. Yes, that was better. Then he stopped and laughed aloud. What would poor Beethoven say if he could see this setup?

 

 

Dr. Elias drew on his pipe and shivered. He could feel the chill of the grave in his bones. The thermostat was set at a constant seventy-six degrees, but tonight Dr. Elias had pushed it up higher. He needed the comfort of a warm room.

The disease was progressing normally, although
normal
was a poor choice of words. There was nothing normal about what was happening to his body.

He had logged the symptoms as they'd appeared: shortness of breath, tremors in the extremities. The pain had grown from an occasional sharp stab to a slow, steady twisting. His appetite had decreased and his weight loss totaled eleven and a quarter pounds. His cheekbones protruded sharply from the thin, jaundiced flesh of his face. He barely recognized himself in the mirror.

There were psychological symptoms as well, the same alienation that accompanied psychosis. He felt separated from the people out there beyond his windows. They lived their complacent lives, thinking seldom, if ever, about their own mortality. They were spared the knowledge of when death would happen, where, and precisely how. They could pretend it would never happen to them. It was easy to avoid the subject. It wasn't the sort of thing one brought up at the corner bar or in polite conversation at the dinner table. Death was a great, terrible secret that only happened to other people.

He smoked his father's meerschaum carefully, holding it by the amber stem. The smoke wreathed his head and floated up toward the ceiling. Death had come suddenly for his father, at the hands of the Fascists. It would come slowly for him.

The topic of death was popular with speculative minds. No theory could be proven erroneous. Dr. Elias leaned back in his chair and tried to remember what was written on the subject.

Freud believed that it was impossible to imagine one's own death. Karl Menninger agreed. But neither of them went as far as Goethe, who proposed that this very inability was proof of immortality.

Dr. Elias smiled. Immortality appealed to him lately. Jung raised the subject when he proposed archetypes, the unconscious inheritance from ancestors. Loosely interpreted, it was a form of reincarnation.

Reincarnation had always amused Dr. Elias. A person's soul, or psychic energy, was thought to recycle at death to live again in a new body. Supposedly this had been happening since the beginning of time. No one seemed capable of explaining the population increases. How could there be enough souls to go around? Were they divided, perhaps? Or were some people simply born without souls?

His pipe was finished. Dr. Elias tapped it out and replaced it in its cushioned leather case. He was weary of thinking about death. It did not matter which theory was correct. Death would come, and recognizing its nature would not change its effect.

The evening paper thumped against his door. Dr. Elias went to retrieve it. He had paid his subscription a year in advance. The irony made him smile. Would the paper still be delivered, even after his obituary was published in it? Or would a refund check be issued, one that would never be cashed?

Dr. Elias poured himself a small snifter of Courvoisier and settled down in his favorite chair to read. The item was so small, he almost missed it. Firemen had been called to Greg's apartment last night. It had been a small fire, easily contained. The item was of little interest to the average reader, but to Dr. Elias it was crucial. Greg was breaking down. His duty was clear.

There was no one home at Greg's apartment. Dr. Elias listened to the recording and hung up without leaving his name. There was no reason to leave a message. Greg would never hear it.

 

 

Greg was working on a new song when he heard the noise. It was a small sound, no more than a slight scratching. It came from his music library, where he housed his collection of old published sheet music. It was the largest of its kind in the Midwest, over eighty thousand titles, indexed and numbered. Occasionally music historians from the university asked to use his library for reference work.

He hated to stop in the middle of his work, but Greg knew he had to investigate. If there were rodents in the walls, a few weeks of chewing could ruin his entire inventory.

Greg walked down the hall and listened at the doorway. The library was quiet. It must have been an animal outside, a rabbit or a dog scratching against the exterior wall. He'd order some traps tomorrow and set them behind the stacks, just to be on the safe side.

He went back to the piano and tried to pick up the flow again, but it was no use. After ten minutes of frustration he closed the piano. His concentration was broken. It was impossible to compose with one ear while he listened for every little sound with the other.

The wind had picked up and the old carriage house creaked and groaned. Windows rattled and snow pelted against the roof. Another winter storm was due to hit the Midwest before morning.

Greg picked up his jacket and slipped it on. There was a draft in the studio. It was even colder in the narrow hallway, and he swore impatiently when he found the door ajar. The wind must have pushed it open.

The lights dimmed briefly as he slammed it shut. Greg's heart pounded in fear and then he recovered and laughed at himself. The howling wind outside would make anyone jumpy. Perhaps he should call that college girl and give her a tour of the studio. At least he'd have company if the power lines were down.

Her card was in his wallet. Shelly Graham. He'd make a point of remembering her name this time.

Greg dialed the number and waited five rings. She picked it up on the sixth. She was just going out the door, a family party for her mother's birthday. It wouldn't last long. She could meet him at his studio by eleven.

It was amazing how much better he felt. Greg glanced at his watch. She would be here in less than two hours. That gave him time to write a little song for her, the real thing this time. He'd use her full name at least twice in the chorus. And he'd never play it for anyone else.

He had just finished the first verse when he heard it again, the stealthy scratching in the library. Greg ignored the sound, working instead on completing Shelly's song. He was in a generous mood. The mice could feast until tomorrow.

The last note faded away and Greg grinned. It was perfect. Shelly Graham would like her song. He added a title and centered the sheets on the music rack.

“Shelly?” Greg turned on the bench as he heard the outside door open and close. She was very early.

“In here, Shelly!” he called out. There was no answer.

Greg frowned and got to his feet. Had he imagined the sound of the door? Now the studio was perfectly quiet.

He checked the control booth. No one was there. The hallway was deserted and the tiny bathroom, empty. Then he smelled the smoke. Greg raced to the library and pulled open the door.

The room was in flames. Loose sheet music burned brightly, fanned by gusts of wind from the open window. Thick black smoke rolled up from the cataloged bundles, and one by one the smoldering piles burst into flaming torches. Bound stacks broke open and scattered in the wind, fluttering and rising like bright, searing bats.

Greg coughed as the smoke filled his lungs. “Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree” whipped past his face. The picture of the Andrews Sisters on the cover was blackened and charred. Lifetimes of words and music were annihilated as they fueled the insatiable flames.

His shocked mind shouted out commands.
Shut the door to the library! Run outside! Call the fire department!
But his paralyzed body would not obey him. The fire held him captive, hypnotizing him with its destructive beauty.

Now the flames reached out for him, demanding their sacrifice. The room was an inferno, a furnace of blazing orange and yellow. A mighty blast of heat seared his face and Greg crumpled to the floor. The very element he had loved and courted had betrayed him. His last thought was of the girl and how she would never hear her song.

 

 

The fireplace was blazing cheerily in his living room when Dr. Elias came home. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and stood with his back to the flames. Gradually the heat took the stiffness from his body and he could move despite the pain. Fire was a comforting thing, a necessary element in the survival of the race. It was unfortunate that Greg had been forced to experience directly the destruction it could cause.

After the task was done, he had lingered in the freezing storm until sirens wailed in the distance. It was his duty to stand guard until it was finished. When the first flashing red lights had appeared at the crest of the hill, he left. He did not remember the details of the ride home. His mind was fogged with cold and pain.

Dr. Elias picked up the syringe he had prepared. The fact that he had proceeded without it was a testament to his courage. It would be so easy to increase the dosage, to ignore his final responsibilities and sink into the false security of a drug-induced euphoria. But he had resisted the easy way out. He had tested the strength of his convictions and he had triumphed. Dr. Elias smiled as he plunged the needle into his vein. His father would be proud of him.

Now it was late and there was one more task to complete. Dr. Elias walked down the hallway, flexing his fingers until they were limber enough to hold the brush. He unlocked the door to his studio and faced the group portrait, smiling a little as he saw how well it was taking shape. Doug was finished. He had captured the radiant innocence in his eyes. And Jerry. There was a serenity about him now that he had not had in life.

Dr. Elias picked up his brush. Greg had been haunted by the guilt he'd carried. He would not paint him that way. Now Greg was at peace and his face would reflect the calm acceptance of his fate.

His brushstrokes were the only sounds in the room as he applied paint to the canvas. Greg's lips seemed to whisper words of thanks as he painted them. His eyes were clear and unafraid. Dr. Elias smiled as he put down the brush.

It was finished. Dr. Elias stood back and nodded. Three were terminated now, and the world was safe from them. Five more patients to cure and his work would be completed.