The Violet Hour (35 page)
Authors: Richard Montanari
A dark that made the warehouse look like daylight.
60
Amelia stared at the huge expanse of the room, through the space where the canvas wall had hung. Time became an abstract thing. Waiting, waiting. Maddie. Please, God. Nicky, come on.
Roger still sat in his wheelchair: shackled, naked, unconscious. Amelia looked but could not see if his chest moved, if he was breathing. She wanted to hate him for this, for the horror of this night. But she could not, not now. The sickness of her grief would not allow it.
She looked at the floor. Strauss was still out, too, face-down on the floor, his hands handcuffed behind his back, his white jumpsuit slashed with blood.
The music had stopped again. From somewhere nearby Amelia heard . . . crying?
Was somebody
crying
?
crying
?
Before she could pinpoint the sound, she saw Strauss stirring. He rolled over onto his back, his face contorting in pain, the blood already drying on his white jumpsuit in wide brown streaks along the lapels. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times, tried to focus.
Amelia noticed that he now looked more like the picture in the yearbook. G. D. Woltz. Nicky had broken his jaw and unwittingly undone what must have been a very long and painful operation.
Strauss sat up, his hands still cuffed behind his back. He shook his head side to side. His eyes were red and damp, glassy. His nose was a flat, purplish mass of crushed cartilage and mucus. He looked at Amelia. ‘Wherisee?’ he asked, slurring his words together.
‘Gone,’ Amelia said. ‘He went and got the police, you sick son of a bitch.’
Strauss laughed, but it was a mirthless noise. He grimaced in pain.
Then the sound again. Crying.
Where
. . .
. . .
Strauss seemed not to hear it. He began to rock side to side, and eventually got up onto his knees. Even though he was handcuffed, the fact that he was moving filled Amelia with a fear she had just begun to relinquish. ‘Nicky!’ she yelled at the top of her lungs. ‘Nicky!’
Strauss struggled to his feet, backed over to the desk, reached into the drawer, and removed a set of handcuff keys. Within moments, he was free.
No, Amelia thought. This can’t be happening.
Strauss shook the feeling back into his arms, grabbed the full hypodermic needle off the desk.
And stumbled toward her.
‘Sympathy for the Devil’ again. Loud.
Amelia sat on the bed, on top of Nicky’s jacket. Her hands were free, her legs were free. She looked to her right. Roger’s head was now propped up with a cervical collar. His eyes were slightly opened.
Before Amelia could move, Strauss stepped around the remaining canvas wall. ‘Walk over to the window,’ he said to Amelia, obviously with a great deal of pain.
Amelia obeyed, crossing the room, leaning back against the sill of the one unbroken window that overlooked Fifty-first Street.
Strauss had washed the blood from his face, had made an attempt to rinse it out of his jacket. He reached into his pocket and removed a packet of glossy paper. He opened it, dipped in with a sharp fingernail, and took a furious snort in his mangled nose. Then another. Then another. He crumpled it, tossed it to the side, and faced Amelia. He turned up the music.
‘Now it’s my turn,’ he said. ‘
My
turn to be the pirate.’
My
turn to be the pirate.’
He walked toward her, unbuckling his belt.
But what Amelia did made him stop in his tracks.
She began to hike up her skirt, slowly, slowly, not taking her eyes from his. She unbuttoned her blouse, let it slide down over her shoulders. She spread her legs slightly.
Confusion in Strauss’s eyes. Pained, stoned confusion. Then acceptance. Acceptance of
her
acceptance of the inevitability of the situation. Strauss glanced over at Roger, then reached out to her. She opened her arms to him. He stepped closer, between her legs.
her
acceptance of the inevitability of the situation. Strauss glanced over at Roger, then reached out to her. She opened her arms to him. He stepped closer, between her legs.
Amelia kissed him, and the revulsion flowed through her like sewage in her veins. She felt his growing erection against her thigh. She reached down, unzipped his zipper.
‘Gillian,’ she said directly into his ear.
‘Julia,’ he replied, and closed his eyes.
When he opened them, instead of staring into Amelia’s eyes, he found that he was staring at the nozzle of a small can of pepper spray.
Amelia sprayed.
Strauss shrieked in agony, tearing at his eyes, flailing his arms like a madman, trying desperately to find his bearings, his face now a deep blue from the dye in the spray. He stopped, opened his eyes wide with his fingers, found Amelia in the morass of his vision. He dug his feet into the rug and ran at her, propelled by twenty years of hatred, twenty years of sorrow, twenty years of anger.
But, as he had so many years ago, the pirate would best Gillian Strauss one last time.
Amelia dove to the ground as Strauss tripped over the pirate mannequin on the floor, lost his balance, and raged past her. His head burst through the glass, and the sound was a shotgun blast over the music. Amelia scrambled to her feet and turned around to see Strauss stuck halfway through the opening, a thick shard of filthy glass emerging from his back. It had gone clean through him. And for the time being, he could not move.
Or so she thought.
Amelia ran to the desk and grabbed the gun, astounded at how heavy it was. She gathered the last of her strength, pointed it at Strauss’s back, pulled back the hammer as she had seen in a million cop shows.
Strauss was still for a moment, then threw back his head and howled in pain as he forced his body straight, snapping the glass off at the frame. He turned, slowly, and faced Amelia, his eyes a red mass of burning flesh now, his small intestine a slithery pink cord on the glass protruding from his abdomen.
‘Julia,’ he managed. He tried to approach her, but he stumbled backwards, leaned against the sill. ‘Why, Julia . . .?’
But she wasn’t Julia. She was Amelia St John and the monster in front of her had taken her little girl. It was Maddie who steadied her hand.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun roared and tumbled from her grip, but not before slamming a nine-millimeter hollow-point bullet into Gillian Strauss’s chest. At this close range, the impact finished the job that inertia had not, carrying him through the window and out into the autumn night, down to the cold pavement a hundred feet below.
Amelia turned, disoriented. She located the record player, then struck out at it, plunging the room into a sudden deafening silence. She fell into the desk chair, consumed now by the vast expanse of blackness that was the warehouse, consumed by exhaustion, by the electricity of her sorrow.
Again she heard the crying. Louder now. Amelia tried to calm herself, tried to slow her breathing, tried to pin-point the sound . . .
Who was crying? And where was it—
Under the bed.
It was coming from under the bed.
Amelia got down on her knees, and when she felt the coarse texture of the material, when she felt the weight of the second burlap bag, her heart stammered. She pulled the bag out, rejoicing in its heft, and untied the top. When she saw the cheap wig, the suede fringes of the Pocahontas costume, everything poured forth at once.
‘Mom?’ Maddie asked, sleepy and obviously disoriented, thoroughly miserable, but alive, God. Alive. ‘Where’s my candy?’
Amelia pulled her daughter from the bag and held her close, so close.
A thousand charities owed, now.
A million prayers to be given voice.
Amelia covered Roger with a blanket from the bed, found a slow, steady pulse. She located Strauss’s lair on the other side of the warehouse, called 911.
Back in the dorm room, Maddie at her side, she stepped over to the window, just as the wail of the sirens rose in the distance. She looked down, at the sidewalk on East Fifty-first Street, at the grim composition she would see every day for the rest of her life.
White jumpsuit. Gray concrete. Red ribbons of blood. A still life in madness, she thought.
She glanced up at the purple bruise of sky above the city of Cleveland.
Safe now, Maddie-bear.
Safe
.
.
61
The clerk at Cleveland Costume was in her early twenties, pale and brunette, full lips, hips to match. She was the same one who had rented him the costume. He was hoping she would be there. ‘Hi,’ she said as he stepped through the door.
‘Hi,’ he replied. He noticed that she fluffed her hair. That was a good sign. ‘How are you?’
‘Just fine, thanks,’ she said. She took the plastic garment bag from him, along with the bag that held the boots. ‘And did we have a good time on Halloween?’
‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘I buckled a few swashes, I guess.’
The girl laughed. ‘You don’t sound so sure.’
‘Well, it was a crazy night round my way. A little more excitement than we’re used to.’
‘Hope nothing bad happened.’
‘Well, I’m afraid some bad things did. But everyone near and dear to me came out of it just fine. That’s the good news.’
‘Maybe you should go for something a little less provocative next year. Something like a clown or a vampire.’
‘No. I don’t think so. This costume will be fine.’
‘Okay,’ she said as she handed his deposit back. ‘It’ll be here waiting for you.’
‘Terrific,’ Garth Randolph said with a smile. ‘Let’s just hope I’m the same size.’
‘Oh, I have a feeling you will be.’
‘Because I’d really hate to break with tradition,’ Garth said, walking to the door.
‘What do you mean?’
He turned, winked at her. ‘I’ve always been the pirate.’
62
The healing race came to an end at Christmas. The dose of PCP that Gillian Strauss had given Roger should have been fatal, and Roger had lingered in a coma for three days, but eventually, slowly, he came out of it. He claimed not to remember a thing from that night, only that he had taken a cab to Edgefield Road, paid, and before he had taken three steps, had been chloroformed from behind. He also claimed to have returned to 100 percent of his previous form, but everyone knew it wasn’t true. Whenever a word wouldn’t come to him, whenever he found that he was repeating himself for the third time in a single conversation, his eyes met Amelia’s and her heart broke. There was probably nothing wrong with his mind, but if he thought there was, there might as well have been.
Shelley Roth’s name was never mentioned again.
The tragedy, of course, the heartbreak of that terrible night, was Paige. A day didn’t go by without her crossing Amelia’s mind, her heart. Mutual friends had rallied around Amelia, but they all knew that she and Paige had been close, and that nothing was going to replace her. The police learned that Gillian Strauss owned a few acres out on Sperry Road. It didn’t take them long to find the shallow graves. They also found Geoffrey Coldicott’s mother.
After Paige’s funeral, Roger insisted that they buy the bookstore and try to make a go of it.
The name of the store, of course, remained.
Dag Randolph stood behind his picture window, the one through which his twelve-year-old son Garth had once chipped a brand-new Titleist, the one beneath which he had once seduced his young, shy wife, Martha, the only time in their forty-two-year marriage they had ever made love outside of their maple four-poster bed, a night now four decades deep in Dag Randolph’s memory, yet still so vivid, so new in his heart.
The snow was relentless, his mood relentlessly grave. As it had every day for weeks, Dag Randolph’s lunch sat untouched on the TV tray.
His wife and daughter had long since stopped trying to roust him from his funk. They sat in the kitchen, a cooling pot of coffee between them.
‘And still not a word about that night?’ Amelia asked softly.
‘Nothing,’ Martha whispered. ‘It’s like it never happened.’ Martha leaned backward, looked into the living room, then leaned close to her daughter. ‘He thinks he let everybody down, you know. Madeleine especially. I can’t even mention Maddie’s name without him tearing up and leaving the room. I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know . . .’
Dag Randolph had been taken out of the equation early that night. The police found him unconscious in the azaleas in the Cameron backyard, another victim of chloroform. The only thing broken was the man’s pride in his role as grandfather-protector, as patriarch of a small but needy Randolph clan.
‘And what about Garth?’ Amelia asked.
Martha just stared, absently. ‘Gone again, I suppose.’
Amelia was worried about her family. What was happening to them? Would they ever recover from this madness? Would they ever be the same?
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