Skull Session (39 page)

49

Y
OU SOUND RATHER TAKEN ABACK," Vivien said. "Of course I will need to review the progress you've made so far before proceeding to the next phase. And of course I ought to take another look at my lonely fortress before deciding if I have the . . . endurance . . . to live there again."

"I expected you would come east sooner or later. I just want to be sure it's all in order when you arrive."

"I have perfect faith in you. And you needn't worry about my well-being. I'll rent a car and reserve a hotel room in the city. I'll be no trouble at all."

Paul sat on the motel bed with the phone while Lia splashed in the tub, poaching herself in water hotter than Paul could have believed possible. They'd splurged on a night in a nearby motel as a respite from the chaos of Highwood.

Yes, his discomfort level had risen abruptly when Vivien casually informed him that she would be flying east in just over a week. The work was behind schedule—he'd really have to haul ass to abide by his end of the contract. There was Mo's investigation to think of too, which he'd concealed from her. And Dempsey's working at the lodge, which he hadn't yet mentioned.

"I do enjoy our conversations, nephew," Vivien was saying. "And do you know, I believe you do also. Quite against your will, I'm sure, but nonetheless. . . . " She trailed off, letting him see it for himself.

It was true, if hard to admit. Paul couldn't decide just how talking to Vivien fit into the scheme of his life. He still distrusted her, still disliked her contempt for her inferiors—a category that seemed to include almost everyone—but nevertheless he couldn't deny the paradoxical need to talk with her, the pleasure it had begun to give him.

Maybe it was just the sheer intellectual stimulus. In the course of a fifteen-minute telephone call, they had discussed the repairs at High-wood and then digressed to Festinger's dissonance theory, then gone on to Aristotle's
heart
versus Plato's
mind
as the defining characteristic of human beings. Vivien had talked about the usefulness of other "quaint" terms, such as the German
Gemut,
meaning a person's nature,
Seek,
the psyche or soul, and
Geist,
the spirit or ghost, and was pleased when Paul responded with the parallels between those concepts and the ancient Egyptian
ba
and
ka.
No question: His mind was more awake. He was able to enjoy the interplay of ideas more, follow the branching of thoughts better, than at any time he could remember. Vivien's obvious emotional investment in such ideas, her hushed, urgent tone of voice, gave their conversations a curiously intimate quality.

"I am curious to hear about your son," she was saying. "Have you had the opportunity to look into those . . . issues I suggested last time we spoke?"

"As far as the blood tests go, he hasn't had another seizure, so we haven't done any new diagnostics. I did figure out that, yes, there is a correspondence between his seizures and minor illnesses. Less than a one-to-one parallel, but a clear general pattern. It's a good point."

"Have you any idea why that would be the case?" Her interest level had intensified and was beginning to feel intrusive.

"Sure. The episodes are stressful. Exhausting for Mark. He'd naturally be more prone to infections."

Vivien cackled. "Yes," she said, "that sounds like a very sensible conclusion."

Her condescension irritated him. And as they talked her sardonic amusement seemed to grow until, abruptly, he'd had enough. "Vivien, not to change the subject, but I've got a question for you. Tell me about KKK. Tell me how it bears on what happened here."

"Aha. Doing some detective work among my papers, apparently." There was acid in her voice.

"We're sorting them, as you requested. I'm curious about two old photos that showed some damage up here, and the graffiti. I know about the Philippine secret society."

"Good heavens! You
have
been doing your research!" Then her voice changed again, darkening with anger. "And what about my concern for privacy? Have you ever considered that your detective games are an intrusion that I don't care for?"

"You're dodging me."

That brought her back. She laughed again. "Oh, Paulie. Oh, my! Who's got the klieg lights and truncheons now? You are so much more assertive lately! Well, I don't see any harm in a revelation or two, especially since it is not at all as interesting as you apparently have fantasized. Royce, of course. He had such a flair for the dramatic as a boy. I'm certain he'd read every last swashbuckling tale of Oriental pirates and cults and oddities then in print. Or perhaps he got the idea from his vicious httle friend, Peter Rizal. The son of a Filipino family nearby. I've always maintained it was dear Peter who gave Royce the idea to do in those St. Bernards in that particularly . . . gruesome way."

She snorted indignantly. "That boy was positively
steeped
in every sort of nonsense from his ancestral islands: secret societies, native superstitions, the injured self-righteousness of the victims of colonialism—"

"What happened in the library?"

Vivien chuckled again. "My dear son's idea of a prank, Paulie—tear apart the library, leave the blood-chilling signature of the Katipunan. > Presumably I was supposed to be terrified—some vengeance due the Hoffmanns, I imagine, catching up at last. However, in his enthusiasm, Royce quite forgot that I would recognize his handwriting."

"Who did the damage this time? Was it Royce?"

"You asked me that once before. I take it you have entirely discarded my answer then—the ghosts?"

They were sparring again, and Paul was suddenly impatient with it.

"Do you really mean
Geist?
Or perhaps you mean
Gemut,
or
Seek?"

"Lovely," she said sincerely. "Quite lovely, nephew, truly. An elegant challenge and provocation. You are changing, aren't you? Does this mean you are doing something different with your medication?

You remind me more and more of your father."

"You're evading me. I asked ifyou thought your son had done this. Is that why you don't want the police in? Are you protecting him?"

"My son," she said. Her voice had gone flat—unyielding, filled with world-weariness. "No, I assure you I am not protecting Royce. But you appear to have been giving this a great deal of thought, Paulie."

"You've asked me many questions about
my
son. I thought I'd reciprocate."

"And it's a fascinating topic. Perhaps we'll have the opportunity to continue this conversation when we see each other."

She'd deflected him again, but he was tiring of their fencing. "I will hold you to that, Vivien."

"Now, I will be arriving early on Saturday, the seventeenth, staying at a hotel in Manhattan. I intend to rent a car and see you that afternoon. You needn't worry about transporting me. I'm sure you'll have other things to occupy you."

"Yes." Eight days. Not long enough to get everything done. Yet in so many ways not soon enough, either.

She chuckled. "And if you have any other fantastic theories to grill me about, you can wait until I arrive."

"I'll make a list," he said dryly.

"Paulie." Her voice had changed again, husky and full of insinuation. "Our recent . . .
association
has come to mean more to me than you could possibly know. I am so looking forward to seeing you again."

Right,
Paul thought as he hung up the phone. Amazingly, he believed she meant it—that in her loneliness and isolation and strangeness these thorny conversations meant a lot to her. Maybe he was more like Ben than he knew.

Over the granite spine of theridgebeneath the big trees, ducking, beneath a huge
fallen trunk that leans against a boulder. Then the crows rise up like ashes,
making just a tingle of being afraid, but going on because an explorer doesn't let
himself be afraid, he's always more curious than afraid, Father says.

Farther down, deep in the folded woods: The dog hears it first, the strange
noise, the knife-sharpening noise. Then the shadowy ledge of rock, and something
moving on the other side.

Then seeing them, the pink shapes. The tree jerks like something dying,
helpless. The man's pink-brown back, arching, and the black triangle between the
woman's legs and the jerking way she moves. How wrong their naked skin is in
the woods, how out of place and shocking, and the red parts, and the dirt on their
skin. And the fast in-out rough noise.

The dog bolts, running tuck-tailed away. Starting to turn, tripping over the
thing on the ground and getting up and thefear strikes like lightning, painfulfear,
too afraid to look, afraid to look back, and knowing you're not supposed to see or
tell ever, and running away, and then the pain of skinned hands and shins and
the tangled woods snatching.

"Paul!" Lia shook him, drops of moisture falling onto his face from her hair. "Paul! Wake up!"

He sat up, lost. "What's the matter?"

"
You
are! You were moaning and thrashing around. Are you okay?" Lia had come out of her bath and stood before him naked, hair tangled and dark from the water.

"I guess I fell asleep," Paul said lamely.

After the images of his memory, or dream, the sight of Lia was like a life preserver in a stormy ocean. He put his arms around her waist and drew her to him, inhaling her smell with gratitude. She massaged his head, tugging at his hair. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could explain. Gradually, the terror began to evaporate.

The memory was clearer now. His ability to recall images and hold them in his mind's eye was far better. Maybe it was the circuits reawakening, he thought, his neurochemistry changing. Maybe it was just being at Highwood, the saturation of his mind with images from the past.

Or maybe he was going crazy.

Lia held him at arm's length, looking searchingly into his eyes. "Your turn for the tub," she said at last. "It'll make you feel better. You've been under a lot of stress."

She smoothed his hair, still nailing him with her eyes—a look of wary concern, almost of accusation.

50

M
O MADE A POINT of taking a seat far back in the bleachers. The White Plains High School gym echoed with the voices of five hundred excited kids and parents. For this event, the basketball backboards had been cranked up, light green mats laid over the court floor. Mo had grudgingly paid five dollars at the entrance of the gym, doing his bit to benefit the school's sports teams. It was Saturday morning, but he thought of himself as very definitely on duty.

On Friday he'd gone on to the Lewisboro town hall and gotten lucky looking through the property records. Very lucky. Another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. One more and he could go to Lia and Paul with a pretty complete picture.

On cue, a team of men and women bounded into the center of the gym, taking wide-legged stances in neat rows. All had bare feet and were dressed in baggy black or white martial-arts outfits, belted at the waist with black belts. As the audience quieted, they began their warm-up exercises, thrusting mean-looking punches, left-right, perfectly synchronized. Their explosions of breath with each punch shook the big room. Mo looked for Rizal and found him in the first row, throwing truly nasty jabs, enjoying himself.

Pizal had put up posters for the demonstration at the barracks and had talked it up. Mo had overheard a couple of the younger troopers talking about Rizal's various black belts. Apparently he was to be one of the stars of this show.

The showmaster was a portly man in a black martial-arts suit and incongruous brown oxfords, maybe the principal of the school, who dragged a microphone with him as he turned to the bleachers and back again to the fighters, reading from a sheet of paper. The audience had a real treat in store for them today, courtesy of the Southern New York State Martial Arts Association, which had assembled this production to benefit high school sports and to enhance awareness and appreciation of the martial arts. The audience could look forward to dazzling displays of karate, savate, judo, tae kwon do, tai chi, by various regional and national champions. To top it off, they'd be among the first in the United States to witness some more esoteric forms: ba chi, the top-secret fighting art from China, some secret ninja killing arts, and displays of the incredible fighting techniques of the warrior monks of Shaolin monastery in China. Big-time gratitude and rounds of applause were in order for the various martial-arts clubs, diverse financial sponsors, and of course the terrific kids of White Plains Central High.

After the warm-ups came bouts between combatants in various disciplines. Down on the mats, a Japanese man leapt with both feet at the head of his opponent, his body fully five feet off the ground, only to be swept down by a scything circular kick. Yet he landed well, somersaulted, and delivered a vicious kick of his own as he came upright. It was incredible what the human body was capable of, Mo thought. The audience screamed its appreciation.

Rizal came on against a bigger, blond guy. The bastard was good, Mo admitted. Too fast. Like a snake. A couple of times when Rizal made contact, the other guy was genuinely hurt, giving Rizal a look like,
Hey,
this is a demonstration, pull the contact.
When the other guy opened up a little himself, scoring a hard hit to Pazal's temple, Rizal was all over him instantly. When it was over, the blond fighter's smile looked forced.

Then the hand-to-hand phase came to an end and the more exotic demonstrations began. Which apparently would feature Rizal, who stood at the sidelines, now stripped to the waist, tying on a black headband. The master of ceremonies announced a demonstration of ninjitsu, and a man dressed theatrically in black, complete with black tabis and black face mask, came out with nunchuks whistling around him, the two short sticks a blur at the end of their chain. After the nunchuks, he demonstrated hand-to-hand with short and long spears, whirling and jabbing, and ended by pitching shuriken, the ninja's six pointed steel throwing stars. He held the first one aloft to show the audience his two-fingered grip on the palm-size star. Then with a series of flicks he sent one after another in flat streaks to a man-shaped cutout propped against the wall.

Then it was Pdzal's turn. He came out bare-chested, the overhead lights cutting the muscles of his torso into sharp shadows. He raised his hands above his head, relishing the crowd's approval, flexing a bit. He didn't weigh over 155, Mo guessed, but he had zero body fat. The perfectly delineated muscles of his chest and striated shoulders looked as if they'd been carved with a chisel.
His whole body's a weapon,
Mo thought,
he's tried to make himself into metal. Man of steel. Superman?
Rizal made a show of preparing for his next feat by taking sharp, convulsive breaths that puffed his cheeks as the air burst from his mouth.

Pdzal had apparently specialized in some classic karate showmanship, breaking first two-inch wooden planks, and then stacks of two, three, and four concrete blocks, with sharp blows from the edge of his hands. His focus was fiendish.

You've got my attention, Pete,
Mo thought.

"Next," the MC announced, "Trooper Rizal will demonstrate some of the techniques of the legendary monks of Shaolin monastery. Over the centuries, these reclusive monks have developed fighting skills unknown anywhere else in the world. The Shaolin tradition includes the discipline of turning common household items into lethal weapons. As Trooper Pdzal will show you."

Rizal's helpers brought out various pieces of furniture: a table, a chair, a squat wooden footstool, an iron frying pan, a short garden spade. Rizal began with the spade, sending it spinning around his bare waist, twirling it like a baton, under his armpits and over his shoulders, between his legs. Incredible reflexes, Mo thought. Unbelievable hand speed. The muscles of his chest looked as if they were made of cut crystal.

Pdzal showed off some elaborate moves with the chair, then took a break from the furniture for some Shaolin hand-to-hand fighting.

The announcer gave a spiel about the miraculous powers of the Shaolin monks. "This next technique has never before been mastered outside the ancient walls of Shaolin," he said. "I need to request your silence to allow Trooper Rizal to concentrate fully. He is actually risking serious injury to demonstrate for you the incredible mental and physical state required for this astonishing defensive technique." The audience leaned forward.
Why not some snare drums while we're at it,
Mo thought. He had to assume Rizal had written the script.

Rizal stood, legs slightly spread, jaw clenched. The Japanese fighter came out, bowed, and abruptly delivered a hard upward kick to Rizal's crotch. The force of the kick lifted Rizal off the ground, yet he retained his posture, landed taut and ready. The crowd gasped. The Japanese guy repeated the kick five or six times, Rizal turning so that the whole crowd could get an optimum view. People were shaking their heads, amazed.

"Don't, I repeat,
do not
try this one at home, ladies and gentlemen," the MC quipped.

Rizal's final act was with the stool, which he whirled around him in a blur, spun at shin height, over his head, using both hands and arms to wield it in a dazzling variety of swipes, jabs, spins. At last he brought it out of an overhead spin and unexpectedly brought it down on the wooden table with a crash that forced a collective gasp from the crowd.

The table buckled and broke in half, scattering splinters across the gym floor.

Mo got up to leave. He'd gotten what he'd come for. Anyway, he thought, you didn't want to get caught in the crush in the parking lot. Watching Rizal eat up the applause was enough to give you gas. On the bright side, it had been an engrossing spectacle, and he'd avoided thinking about Heather Mason or pining after Lia for fully ten, fifteen minutes at a stretch. Definitely worth five bucks.

Half an hour later, Mo sat in his car outside the Burger King, finishing off a Whopper and fries, thinking. Rizal could be an answer to Paul's concern about the
how
of it. He certainly knew how to bust up furniture. And probably, if you used that stuff on a human body, if you really had a lot of pressure to let off, anger to vent, you could probably manage a lot of bone fractures, or dismember somebody.

His mind recoiled from the idea:
Rizal's a State Police trooper!
On the other hand, Rizal seemed pretty well capable of anything. The next question, the one that would help him unravel the case, was
why?
There were obviously some deep motives at work, and while Rizal was lethal as a pit viper, he didn't seem to have anything to gain from the destruction of Highwood. And he wasn't smart enough to concoct anything complex—if he had any real brains, he wouldn't have tipped his hand by overtly threatening Paul. Therefore the motives and the brains were elsewhere. Which was where Royce came in. Put Royce and Rizal together, buddies since childhood—

Mo looked up from his fries to see Rizal walking toward him, dressed now in black Levi's and a black leather jacket. He was grinning, the big star after his show, probably still pumped up on adrenaline. Mo rolled down his window.

"I was driving home when I thought I saw a pile of shit in a car, " Rizal said. "I couldn't believe my eyes, so I stopped to verify."

"YQU were right. Anything else I can do for you?"

"You were at the show just now. I never imagined you were such a big fan. Like it?"

"It was amazing, I have to admit," Mo said. "I especially liked the one where the guy kicked you in the balls."

Still flushed with the thrill of performing, Rizal took an instant to hear it right. His face changed from a smug smile to a quick frown and back to the smile in less than a second. "Takes balls of steel," he said. "Balls of brass, Ford."

It wasn't a bad recovery. Mo nodded, trying to look first impressed, then a little concerned. "That, or no balls at all, I suppose."

Rizal's face took it with a flash of anger. Then he shook his head sadly. "Very funny, asshole. You are a regular Jerry Lewis, so help me. Or at least one ofJerry's Kids. You know what I think? I think you'd be a pushover in a fight, Ford, I think you'd piss your pants. That's something maybe you should think about—what you would do if somebody who knew what he was doing came at you."

Mo dutifully thought about it, letting his face take on a troubled expression. "Like that Japanese guy? Like you? Shit," he said, shrugging, "I guess I'd have to shoot him."

He looked at Rizal deadpan, kept his eyes on Rizal's snake eyes. You could always see a move coming in the eyes. He put another french fry in his mouth.