Shade of Pale (11 page)

O'Connor tried to whisper, his own booming voice far too overwhelming for this room, “They're so delicate, I'd be afraid to touch one.”

“They are delicate, and quite fragile,” she said slowly. “Come with me.”

She led him through the cramped little house, into the kitchen. “Sit down, Padraic O'Connor.”

He did. She sat across from him at the kitchen table and removed her glasses. There were a few minutes of silence that O'Connor chose not to break, while the old woman studied him.

“You resemble your father,” she said at last.

“Did you know him well?”

“Of course I knew him well,” she answered quickly, annoyed that he would ask such a stupid question. “Are you thick?”

Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “I know he taught you the secret ways, the ways of the ancients. That's how it's passed on, from father to son.”

“Mrs. Willis, I—”

“Silence!” she barked. Her voice resembled a crow's, O'Connor thought, dry and hateful. He folded his hands and sat like an obedient child.

Mrs. Willis shook her finger. “In my family, after all my brothers were killed, my father gave me the knowledge in the hopes that I could someday pass it on. He knew I had the second sight, and I could see the destinies of people, and he knew that when the time came I would just see who to pass it to.

“Now there's none left but you, Padraic, a distant nephew, but that's the best I can do. I'm too old, and besides, I am a woman. A woman cannot do what needs to be done; only a man can perform that task.”

O'Connor stared at her, feeling the gooseflesh crawl up his back. For the first time since he'd left Ireland, Padraic was having second thoughts. The enormity of what he was about to do suddenly blossomed in front of him as if the mist cleared to reveal a mountain.

He was used to being in charge of a situation, to being the decision maker. But here, sitting across from the century-old lady and hearing her talk, he got the feeling that he was involved with something beyond his control, something as vague and ethereal as smoke.

She leaned forward and touched his temples with dry, leathery fingers; their eyes met. O'Connor wanted to pull away but didn't. There was too much at stake He stared into the yellowy, red-veined orbs in her wrinkled face and clenched his teeth. Her left eye twitched; her face seem to sag even more.

“She's here,” the old woman whispered. “She's right here in New York. I can see her in your future.”

O'Connor shuddered. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find words to express himself. The old woman tightened her grip, pushing in on the sides of his head.

“Now is the time,” she hissed. “Strike while you can.”

He found himself nodding at her, agreeing.

The old woman squinted. “You remember what your father told you?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“All of it? Every word?”

“Yes.”

Her hands fell from his temples, and O'Connor felt relief.

“Good. In the Book of Kells there's a coded page that gives instructions for the ceremony. I have a copy of that page and a translation. You'll need to learn the incantations.”

“You have a translation from the Book of Kells? But … Who did it?”

She laughed a short, humorless cough and released his arm. “I did. Who do you think? Gaelic, in the ancient form, is very difficult to decipher—the old ones were a tricky lot—but I have it all right here.”

She removed an envelope from her sweater and slid it across the table at him. He took it and held it reverently in his over size fingers.

“The Book of Kells is mostly untranslated, you know. No one has seen these pages but me … and now you.”

“OK,” O'Connor said. “Supposing I know how to take care of the Banshee, how am I going to find her?”

Mrs. Willis smiled for the first time, showing her cracked and yellowed teeth. “Fate will lead you to her. It's all about intertwining lines of fate and destiny. That's the way it always has been and always will be. If fate has chosen you to be the one, then you will find her.”

“Where do I begin?”

Mrs. Willis further wrinkled her already incredibly wrinkled face. She wagged a brown-spotted, bony finger in his direction. “Are you sure your father taught you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know. Begin by clearing everything out of your mind. Start by doing nothing.”

O'Connor smiled. “Nothing, eh?”

The old lady took a slow, deep breath, as if the gravity of her words pushed her down.

“Everything will be revealed in its own time. When the answers come, they will appear to be a series of unlikely coincidences, but beware. There are no coincidences.”

“Damn confusing, if you ask me.”

“All I want you to do right now is get everything ready. Can you do that?”

O'Connor nodded.

“Good. Now I just hope fate has chosen the right man for the job.” The old woman crossed herself and muttered something.

O'Connor waited for her to speak again. She closed her eyes and seemed to go into a trance for a few long seconds.

“She will strike again soon; even now she stalks her next victim. Your job is to track her down by finding that person. Look for a sign. If you are truly chosen, a sign will come to you.”

O'Connor's face remained impassive. “Can you tell me anything about who that victim will be?”

The old lady sighed. “I can't be sure.… I … I think it's someone close by.”

“In this neighborhood?”

Her eyes clouded. She ignored the question and whispered, “It's somebody who is … two people, I think.”

“Two people,” he repeated.

“That's all I can say.”

O'Connor waited for more, but none came.

“This is the way it has to be,” she said at last, and stood.

Feeling clumsy and alien, he let her lead him to the door. She moved slowly, too slowly for O'Connor. Watching her fumble with the locks was maddening. At last she swung the door open and light flooded in. As he took a step, her cold, dry hand pulled at his sleeve.

“The doctor,” she whispered. “Follow the doctor. And the cop. He's special; their destinies are intertwined with yours.”

O'Connor stepped out into the sunlight. He heard the door close behind him and sighed. The old lady's words came back to him, as he committed them to memory.

“…
they will appear to be a series of unlikely coincidences, but beware. There are no coincidences.
”

Scrupski's Metalworks and Die Casting was in New Jersey, and O'Connor had a devil of a time finding it in his rented Jeep Cherokee.

The place was big, noisy, and filthy. Harley Spinks was the foreman in charge of custom molds.

In Harley's office, O'Connor went over the specifications of a casting he wanted to have done.

“How many pieces do you want total?” Harley asked.

“Just the one,” O'Connor replied.

Spinks laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Well, this is a rather strange request, mister. We usually do poured metal casting in multiple pieces, for industrial use. One piece? Hell, I don't know. The cost is in making the mold, you know.”

“I need the highest grade steel you've got.”

O'Connor showed Harley the plans, spreading them out on his desk.

Harley studied the paper and shook his head. “I can save you a lot of money and aggravation by making this in two parts.”

“It has to be one piece, cast exactly as shown.”

Harley lit a cigarette and rocked back in his chair. “We make precision machine parts here. I don't understand what the hell this thing is.”

“It's art.”

Harley nodded. “Oh, I see. Art? Christ, man, this is gonna cost you an arm and a leg.”

“I've got the money. Can you do it?”

Harley squinted at the plans. “The specs are a bitch. These are metric, right?”

O'Connor nodded. “I need it polished, too.”

“After it's been cast and cooled, we'll have to do another machining. Hell, this will be more trouble than it's worth.”

“I'll pay the going rate, in cash, and a bonus if it's done in seven days.”

Harley smiled. “Well, like they say, money talks; bullshit walks. That's gonna have to be in advance, of course. I'd hate to get stuck with a piece like this.”

“Of course.”

“I should be more suspicious, but since business has been down, I won't ask questions. There's nothing illegal about making precision machine parts. The government won't allow us to make anything dangerous or illegal, like bomb parts or weapons, you understand.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Spinks, that this is a perfectly legal thing.”

Harley looked back down at the plans again. “Well, I guess we can do this. Damned if I know what it's for.”

“I told you, it's art.”

“Yeah, right. Art.”

“Remember, a bonus for seven days.”

Harley filled out the custom order form, O'Connor signed it using his alias, “Charlie O'Malley,” and they shook on it. He paid cash. “A done deal?” O'Connor asked.

“A done deal. Pick it up at the end of the week.”

After O'Connor left, Spinks studied the drawing and wondered what the hell he was going to make.

It looked like a large cylinder, about twenty inches across. There was a ridge for brackets around each end. The customer wanted the thing to be polished both inside and out.

O'Connor drove back into the city. He followed hand-written directions to a shop in Greenwich Village with the curious, yet descriptive, name the Bone Room. The tiny store had a rather specialized clientele; it sold only bones, from animal to human.

There was a display case full of skulls, some human, and another with various skeletal appendages—paws, claws, wings, tails, hands, and feet. Against one wall stood a collection of complete skeletons, all real. A sign over the door said as much. The Bone Room prided itself on having only the finest legal bones money could buy.

The atmosphere was bizarre. Having all those skulls grinning at you would have given some people the creeps, but not O'Connor. He wondered if he knew any of those poor souls who constituted the former owners of those human frames, now displayed like so much produce.

He browsed for a few minutes, examining a rattlesnake skull and the complete mounted skeleton of a wolf.

“May I help you?” asked a cadaverous man wearing a bow tie and too much cologne. His face was as gaunt and colorless as the skulls he sold. He wore a white lab coat that gave him the vague appearance of being some kind of medical technician.

“Yes. I'm looking for a certain type of human bone.”

The salesman nodded, and O'Connor could see the top of his head. A few greasy gray strands of hair stuck to his scalp like spaghetti. “We have an extensive inventory of human bones, all perfectly legal and processed. May I ask what bone it is you're looking for?”

O'Connor smiled. He would make an effort to remember everything, so he could tell the story of this place later, to his friends at the pub. He stopped smiling when he realized that both Dolan and the pub were gone.

O'Connor didn't really know the name of the bone he wanted, not having a background in anatomy. The only exposure to bones Padraic O'Connor ever had was breaking them. At that he was an expert. “Well, I think it's a leg bone, about this long.” O'Connor spoke with his deep Irish brogue. He held his hands up, indicating about twenty inches in length. The gaunt man in the lab coat nodded.

“I see. It looks like what you want is a femur, judging by the size you've indicated. Tell me, sir, what do want it for? I mean, what purpose do you have in mind?”

O'Connor was surprised by the question; usually people in New York took your money and asked nothing. He hadn't given it much thought, but O'Connor was a pro at dealing with people and answering difficult questions. He could think on his feet. “It's a gift,” he said simply.

The gaunt man smiled. O'Connor could see that the answer made complete sense to him. He led O'Connor to the end of the counter and brought out a box containing an assortment of different-sized femurs. “We have some beautiful specimens here that would make lovely gifts.”

O'Connor picked up a few of the larger bones, feeling the weight on his hand, testing the solidness of them. He smacked each one against the palm of his hand.

The gaunt man raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure you'll find these femurs to be of exceptional quality. We sell no chipped or cracked merchandise here.”

“Yes, I see. These are just fine.” He selected two and put them off to the side. The gaunt man waited patiently. Apparently bone buyers were a picky lot, O'Connor decided. The man had to have unlimited tolerance for eccentric people with time to burn. O'Connor's choice took only a few minutes, lightning-fast in the world of bone sales.

“An excellent selection,” the salesman said. “Will that be cash or charge?”

“Cash.”

“Will that be all today? Could I show you something else? Maybe something in a metacarpal? A nice tibia?”

O'Connor shook his head, aware that he was smiling again. He realized that he was enjoying himself immensely and made a mental note to come back here someday and buy more. A grinning skull would look good on his mantel, leering at his guests.

“I could gift wrap these if you wish.”

“Just a box will suffice.” He handed over the money, surprised at how pricey bones could be. Of course, only in New York could you find such a shop, certainly not in Northern Ireland. The only bones there were shattered by gunfire and moldering in the ground, not like these perfect bleached-out beauties.

The gaunt man wrapped the femurs and placed them in a long cardboard box that looked like it might have been used for flowers. He handed it to O'Connor and smiled. “I hope you'll think of us for all your bone needs. Thank you and come again.”