Smoke and Mirrors (16 page)

"Oh, no," Nick exclaimed. "No, that's too far out."

"What are you talking about?"

"Too far out," Nick repeated. "But . . . that's how he died, you know. Edward Marshall, Rosemary's husband. An accident. He was cleaning his gun."

5

When Nick slowed
to turn into the driveway the gate stood wide open and one of the dogs—the older of the pair—lay in the middle of the road.

"Damn it," Nick exploded, coming to a crashing halt. "Who opened that gate? Samson—Samson! If he's been hit—"

"He's just resting," Erin said with relief, as the old dog got lazily to his feet and ambled toward them.

"Sure, right on the road. Really intelligent animals. ..." He got out of the car. "Inside, Samson. Move it, you furry moron. I suppose that stupid Tiny is halfway to Richmond by now."

His shout produced a crashing in the underbrush across the road, and then Tiny himself, delighted to find a friend. He hurled himself at Nick; after considerable discussion and exercise Nick got him inside the gate, the car inside the gate, and the gate closed.

"Somebody must have come after we left," he said as they proceeded along the drive at a cautious crawl, while both dogs hurled themselves merrily at the wheels.

"More reporters?" Erin asked.

"I doubt it. My profession isn't noted for its manners, but trespass is against the law. There's only one person I can think of who would barge in without an invitation and not bother to close the gate. . . . Yep. That's his car."

Presumably he knew; Erin recognized the Mercedes insignia, but the sober dark-blue vehicle looked very much like the one that belonged to Kay.

Philips Laurence's arrival must have preceded their own by
only a few minutes. He was still on his feet and in full verbal spate when they walked into the room.

"... saw it on the evening news. Naturally I hurried right over. Why didn't you call me?"

"It would have been a waste of time, wouldn't it?" Rosemary said "You just said you were at the races this afternoon. Thank you Nick, Erin—put the cartons on the table and we'll help ourselves."

Reminded of their presence, and his manners, Laurence turned his peculiar smile on Erin. "Ah, the ingenue. You performed charmingly, my dear. Hello, Nick."

Nick's brusque response did nothing to lighten the atmosphere, which was stiff with interwoven currents of hostility. Joe's scowl would have soured milk, and Jeff, his head bent over his work, fairly radiated dislike. There was no sound or movement from Will's corner.

"I'll get plates and silverware," Erin said, and retreated to the kitchen.

When she came back, Laurence had arranged himself before the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel. He looked like an advertisement from
Country Life
or
The Pink Sheet.
His coat was not pink, but it had been cut by a master tailor; riding breeches and polished boots, scarf and narrow gold stockpin completed an ensemble which should have looked affected, but which did not. He wore it with such splendid self-confidence that he could have walked down the meanest streets of Washington at midnight and not appeared improperly dressed.

Laurence was talking again—or perhaps he was still talking.. . . crack down on these blasphemous local cults. One can't
permit such things to go unpunished. You remember the case in
Maryland when a group of young degenerates disinterred the body
of a child and used its—"

Never mind, Philips," Rosemary said, her face twisting in disgust.

Yeah, for God's sake, " Joe exclaimed. "You trying to spoil my appetite? Sorry we can't ask you to stay, we only ordered for seven—not knowing you were about to honor us with a visit." Laurence responded to this demonstration of bad manners
with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile; Kay roused herself to make the proper response.

"I'm sure there's plenty, if you would care to join us, Philips. Chinese food, you know; they always send so much. . . . I'm not especially hungry."

"I am," said Joe.

His rudeness was wasted effort; Laurence simply ignored him and went on lecturing. Not only did he dominate the conversation, but he wielded his chopsticks with a skill that infuriated Nick; the latter's attempts to imitate it only succeeded in flipping sticky wads of food all over the room. Laurence was maddeningly tolerant, even when a blob of rice landed on his immaculate knee. "You're trying too hard, young fellow. One's grasp must be delicate and flexible, responsive to the slightest muscular effort. ..."

Laurence's admirers considered him a modern Renaissance man, astonishingly well versed in all subjects. His enemies, who were legion, insisted that the information he spouted so glibly had been fed to him by a cadre of aides and had been memorized instead of assimilated. That evening he treated his listeners to a lecture on the subject of superstition. They were too tired or too courteous or—in Erin's case, too morbidly fascinated—to interrupt him.

"Some claim that these blasphemous ceremonies go back to prehistoric times, and that the masked, horned god became the Black Goat of the Sabbat, the incarnate god of evil. I remember seeing at Lascaux—"

This was too much for Will, who roused himself long enough to murmur, "What a memory you've got, Philips. The caves were closed to visitors in 1963."

"To the ordinary tourist, yes, " Laurence replied smoothly. "M. Benedict, the curator, was kind enough to show me around in 1986."

Erin, who was watching Will, saw his lips shape a word that looked like "Liar, " preceded by a colorful adjective; but he chose not to speak aloud, and Laurence went on.

"As I was saying . . . Whatever the origins—and I myself refuse to dignify these perversions by the name of religion—as satanism exists today it is evil, pure and simple." He smiled gently
at Erin. "The word disturbs you, doesn't it? It isn't the fault of your generation that words such as good and evil, right and wrong make you more uncomfortable than the easy obscenities. In this case you can blame it on your elders and be entirely correct. The so-called science of psychiatry—an oxymoron if ever there was one—has attempted to deny the reality of spiritual sin—"

"Bullshit," Nick said suddenly. "We're afraid of words like good and evil because they're too subjective. Hitler thought the Jews were evil. Torquemada burned heretics alive in the name of God. The witch-hunters of Salem believed they were serving the
good—"

"Ah, yes, the classic examples," Laurence said. "My young friend, you are heading blindly into a logical impasse. Do you consider the rape of children a morally neutral activity?"

"Of course not," Nick said. "But—"

"Do you believe that a few years in a comfortable mental institution is fitting punishment for a man who molests infants?"

"Hell, no; burn him alive," Joe shouted. "Are you running for Pope, Laurence, or are you just trying to be disgusting?"

Philips passed his hand over his waving, suspiciously brown hair. "I'm sorry if I offend the faint of heart, but it appears to me you may have a very practical need to consider these matters. They are disgusting; I couldn't agree more. Are you too squeamish to consider them dispassionately and arrive at the inevitable conclusion?"

"No, I guess I'm just too stupid," Joe said. "What conclusion, professor?"

"That someone with a corrupt soul—call it a sick mind, if that makes you feel better—has selected Rosemary as the object of his hatred. The desecration of her husband's grave, the poppet in the knitting bag—"

"The what?" Kay exclaimed.

Such a charming word for that malignant object," Laurence said. You may be more familiar with it in its classical manifestation, an image of wax or clay which is used in homeopathic magic to inflict harm on the person it represents. A variety of materials can be used, of course; certain North American Indian tribes simply sketched the outline of the human figure in sand or ashes and
then stabbed it, thereby, they believed, injuring the body of the enemy. You'll find a full discussion in
The Golden Bough."

"Oh no, I won't," said Joe, heaving himself out of his chair. "Is there any more mo shu pork?" He kept up a loud monologue as he rummaged among the white paper containers. "If nobody else wants this egg roll, I may as well finish it. ... Kay, don't you have a doctor's appointment tomorrow? Who's going to drive you? Somebody ate all the chow mein. . . . You ought to get some sleep, Rosemary, we've got a breakfast meeting tomorrow."

Laurence laughed.
"Sufficit,
Joe. You've made your point. Good night, Rosemary. I wanted to discuss something with you, but it's obvious I won't be allowed to carry on a sensible conversation this evening. Young Nick—Jeff—Kay, my dear lady, you do look exhausted—my apologies. ..."

He stopped in front of Erin and stood looking down at her. Then he placed the palm of his hand on her cheek and tilted her head back so that he was looking deep into her eyes. It was a gesture as offensively intimate as an embrace, and it was much more painful than it appeared; his fingers pressed into her skin and his thumb dug into the sensitive spot at the juncture of throat and chin. "A
bientot,"
he said, and sauntered out of the room.

Erin raised her hands to her flaming cheeks. She didn't believe for a moment that Laurence's gesture had been sensual, or even affectionate; his eyes had been as cold as pebbles and he wasn't the sort of man who would make such a blatant approach. What his reason might have been she could not imagine; but it wasn't long before she found out.

Joe's voice was ominously calm. "Who told him about the goddamn doll?"

Erin's breath caught. There had only been seven of them present that evening, the inner circle and one outsider—herself. Laurence's gesture of intimacy had been deliberately designed to suggest that there was a bond between them, and she knew she looked as guilty as a murderer caught with the smoking gun in his hand.

The room was so still, Rosemary's soft voice echoed like a shout. "I did."

She opened the box on the table and took out a cigarette. It
was the first time Erin had seen her smoke; deliberately she struck a match, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. "I did. Is there any reason why I shouldn't have?"

"Well, for one thing it apparently prompted that asinine lecture we just sat through," Joe grumbled. "What the hell made you
do it?"

Rosemary exhaled a cloud of smoke that veiled her face like fog. "I just happened to mention it in the course of conversation. It was a meaningless, mildly amusing story, nothing more."

"Amusing?" Joe repeated incredulously.

"That's right," Kay said. "Leave Rosemary alone, Joe, she's had a horrible day."

For a moment no one spoke. Then Nick said, "I'll go down and close the gate. His lordship won't bother."

"Never mind, I'll do it on my way out. " Joe got heavily to his feet. "Coming, Jeff?"

"Ready when you are." Jeff gathered his papers and put them in his briefcase.

Rosemary's confession had restored Erin to favor. Joe threw her a friendly " Night, kid, " and Jeff smiled. Rosemary and Kay left the room together, the former remarking, "I'll help Kay get into her jammies, Erin; you've done more than your share today."

Erin caught Nick's eye. He shook his head; after the two women had left, he said in a low voice, "That was a tactful request for privacy. I guess they have some things to talk about."

"So do I," Erin said.

Nick began piling dirty plates and empty cartons onto a tray, his back to her. "Why did he do that?" she demanded. "You didn't believe—"

Just stirring up trouble," Nick answered, without turning around. "Typical Laurence tactic. Divide and conquer."

"It worked, didn't it? You did believe I was the one who told him. That I'm a spy, an informer—" "Now listen, Erin—"

You did." Erin picked up the loaded tray and started toward the kitchen. "All of you believed it. If Rosemary hadn't spoken up—"

Goddamn it!" Nick ran after her. She slammed the tray down
on the kitchen table; the towers of empty food cartons tottered and spilled. "You're getting egg foo yung all over the floor," Nick exclaimed.

"So, too bad. I'll clean it up. That's what I'm here for, washing dishes and being the scapegoat."

Nick rolled his eyes, took a deep, quivering breath and began to count. ". . . nine, ten. Okay. Would you just listen to me for a minute? How about a friendly cup of coffee?"

"I have to clean up this mess."

"I'll clean it up. Sit down! I mean,
please
sit down."

She sat with folded arms, glowering, while he picked up the spilled cartons and made coffee. Then he took the chair across from her at the table.

"This way of life isn't easy to understand," he began, "but you'd better try, because things are going to get worse before they get better. Everybody is short on sleep, uptight, on the defensive. Right now Rosemary's chances of winning this race are anyone's guess. She's still behind in the polls, but she's moving up; and in these last crucial weeks some unexpected incident could make all the difference—even a careless statement, by Rosemary or Buzz.

"Buzz knows he's in trouble. He'd give what's left of his mean little soul to get something on Rosemary. The media people are always looking for a scoop, and dirt makes more interesting reading than positive news. You could pick up a nice piece of change from a number of sources if you had inside information on campaign strategy, or damaging information. "

"Is there anything like that to be found?" Erin asked coldly.