Book of Shadows (27 page)

“Ah, Cornell. I must sit him down for a little talk. Soon.”

“Don’t bother. He won’t be talking back.”

Bofil said nothing.

Michaels said, “When the Comforts finished asking their questions, they told me to pass the word along. The word is you’re a dead man. They only have two days to recover the book and return to their village and they don’t want to waste that time in a war with the coven. The only person they have a problem with is you. The rest of us will be all right, providing we don’t get in the Comforts’ way.”

Bofil snorted. “Translation: If none of you helps me.”

Michaels pounded on the phone door with his fist. “Bofil, you did a lot of things without consulting the coven. Let’s face it: You blew it, and blew it good. The Comforts want that book and they don’t care who they’ve got to hurt to get it. You know and I know what they’ve got at stake. You should have thought about that before you began treating the Comforts like schmucks.”

“So it’s on me now, is it? And all of a sudden everyone’s ready to start taking orders again. England cracks the whip and you jump. They say squat and shit and you don’t even bother to ask what color. Well, friend, I’m not ready to lie down and die just yet. Like the man said, the opera ain’t over till the fat lady sings. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind telling me about Cornell? Or is he off somewhere showing the Comforts the latest disco steps?”

Doctor Michaels turned around in the phone booth and looked down the street. There were fire engines and squad cars and a crowd in front of his apartment building.

He said, “There’s a fire going on. It started in my office. They … the Comforts took me back upstairs and made me watch. They asked Cornell some questions and then …”

Michaels swallowed, then blinked tears from his eyes. “They made me watch. They cut his throat so he couldn’t yell and they found a broom and one of my rocking chairs that had a cane bottom and they pulled all the straw out of them and sprinkled the straw over Cornell. Then they set fire to the straw and I had to stand there while the flames—”

Bofil’s voice was small. “The Wickerwork Man.”

Michaels said, “They wanted me to watch so I could tell you that this is what they’re going to do to you and anybody else who gets in their way.”

He began to sob.

Bofil said, “Have you talked to the rest of the coven?”

“The Comforts made me promise I’d call everybody. I … I had no choice.”

“Did you talk to them? Did you warn them against me?”

Dr. Michaels sniffled and stared at a policeman who was walking toward the telephone booth, waving his arms as he shooed people away from the area. In front of Michaels’ apartment building firemen on a parked fire truck ran a ladder up into the air and into dense black smoke swirling from a window. A siren wailed and the crowds grew thicker.

Bofil shouted. “Did you—”

The cop waved Michaels away from the phone booth.

“I’ve got to go,” he said to Bofil. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Bofil heard a click, followed by the droning of the dial tone in his ear.

S
HORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT MARISA
awoke from a troubled sleep to find Gina standing at the foot of the bed and staring at her.

The child stood rigid, silhouetted against pale moonlight coming through the window behind her. Sensing Gina had been there for some time, Marisa was about to ask why when Gina said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

And then she was gone, leaving Marisa alone in the bedroom.

Marisa and Gina weren’t getting along. The tension between them, unspoken and controlled, had been there ever since Joseph Bess had told Gina and Edith Gupta that Marisa would be staying in the apartment for a couple of days. He had brought people home before in connection with his work—a witness, an informant, other policemen. Marisa, however, seemed to be the only guest Gina had a hard time accepting.

The actress took Gina’s coolness in stride, remembering that the child was at that age where she looked upon all women as her competitors for her father’s affections. Marisa herself had gone through this phase, temporarily hating her mother because mother and father shared secrets and a bedroom. Fortunately most daughters outgrew that particular hostility, and Marisa felt Gina would, too.

Meanwhile, since the two were under the same roof, a truce was called for. Tomorrow, Sunday, Marisa was going to treat everyone to brunch in the Village. There were plenty of good restaurants to choose from in its narrow, winding streets. Both Edith Gupta and Joseph Bess were delighted with the idea. Edith had gotten so excited that she’d taken a taxi to her own apartment and brought back her best dress and pair of shoes.

“If you have any objections to a woman paying,” Marisa said to Bess, “I don’t want to hear them.”

“I never argue with a lady holding a credit card,” replied the detective.

Gina said nothing. After glaring at Marisa, she ran to her room and slammed the door behind her. Throwing herself on the bed, she resumed drawing animals and trees in a loose-leaf notebook, using a pen that left thick, purple strokes. Bess went after her and the two talked quietly behind the closed door; when the detective came out he said that Gina wasn’t feeling well but was looking forward to brunch tomorrow.

Marisa knew he was lying, but she said nothing. She would do her best to reach the child, but if Gina insisted on being a pain in the ass, Marisa was going to ignore her. And while Gina had her problems, Marisa’s sympathy had its limits. Besides, a child didn’t need much of an excuse to be a tyrant—which was one reason Marisa didn’t want children.

She noticed Bess didn’t tell Gina or Edith why Marisa was staying with him. He simply mentioned that Marisa was having some trouble and it would all be cleared up in a few days. No one asked what kind of trouble or who was causing it. Marisa guessed that Gina and Edith assumed “the trouble” was criminally connected, a common occurrence in the life of a man whose job too often found him in bad company. What’s more, Bess was used to being close-mouthed, which also made it easy for him not to explain his actions.

Marisa and Gina shared Gina’s room, which had twin beds. Edith Gupta, whose absences from her husband didn’t seem to disturb either one of them, slept on the living-room couch. Joseph Bess had a bedroom to himself. The large rent-controlled apartment was on the top floor of an eight-story building just off Sixth Avenue. Getting an apartment like that had involved more than luck.

“It involved bribery,” said Bess.

“Oh?” said Marisa.

“Two thousand dollars to a theatrical producer who used to live here and who was leaving for Hollywood to finally sell out after years of artistic integrity on Broadway.”

“In that case, I approve. I’ve tried integrity myself. It’s a great way to lose weight.”

As for the
Book of Shadows,
Bess had decided to keep that a secret as well. The book, still in a shopping bag, was placed on a shelf in his clothes closet and covered by an old overcoat. Marisa knew where it was, but she and the detective agreed that it was best to keep quiet about the book around Edith and Gina: It made no sense to worry them about Druids and covens. And who would believe Marisa’s story? That was her problem; only Bess believed her.

Returning from the bathroom, Gina climbed into bed and turned her back to Marisa, who lay awake watching the child. Gina was a bright girl, pleasant when she wanted to be, but also given to fits of moodiness and periods of noncommunication. Marisa attributed the dark side of the child’s nature to the sexual abuse she’d suffered three years ago in the school basement. Perhaps the memory of that horror made Gina cling to her father for protection. Bess was under constant pressure to make up for it.

But deep inside, the detective knew he could never erase the scars his daughter bore, and this knowledge often made him as moody as Gina.

Now that Marisa was awake, she had worries of her own. Should she tell anybody, including her agent, that she was staying with Joseph Bess for a few days? Actors lived for the ring of a telephone; it could mean a job. Ninety percent of an actor’s time was spent looking for work. A mere ten percent was spent acting. To ask Marisa or any actor to avoid talking to agents was like asking rabbits not to breed.

Marisa would have to telephone Jules. She dismissed the thought that he might be a changeling or a witch. She’d been with him six years and he was good old Jules, a shrewd, calm man who was an expert chef, had a dry sense of humor, and preferred cocker spaniels to people. Nor could she suspect the actors and production people she worked with on
World and Forever.
While most actors weren’t wrapped too tight to begin with, it was hard to imagine any of the ones she knew chanting bare-assed around a boiling cauldron.

But anything was possible. Anyone could be a changeling, and anyone could be a witch. A few weeks ago would Marisa have imagined herself naked in her apartment wielding a knife and fighting for her life? Would she have imagined Nat and Ellie Shields murdered? Would she have imagined herself stalked by people from a barbaric past, who were very much alive and in tune with that past?

Would she have imagined that she faced being burned alive because of a book?

Marisa looked over at Gina, who was either asleep or pretending to be. In either case it was best to leave her alone. Tomorrow Marisa would turn on the charm and simply dazzle the snaggle-toothed little dear. There were other thoughts preventing Marisa from sleeping, thoughts that had to do with Cornell Castle and Alison Sales. Something had occurred or been said in Marisa’s apartment when those two were there, and it was important that she remember. But she couldn’t. For the life of her she couldn’t.

On Monday Joseph Bess would have to file his report on the murder attempt and the assault and Marisa would have to answer more questions. Maybe the questions would jog her memory. It was the detective’s feeling that whoever was after the
Book of Shadows
would be making a move soon. He guessed that if the book was important enough to trigger a power struggle between the coven and the Druids, it was important enough to invite more trouble. The name of the politician-changeling was somewhere in its pages and that alone meant the person holding the book was in danger.

Thank God Bess was armed. He also knew the neighborhood beat cops and had asked them to keep an eye on his building. He was, he said, expecting trouble from some crazies involved in one of his cases. The only description he had was of a stocky, white-haired man and a tall woman with thick glasses.

A uniformed patrolman had rung the bell Saturday night and spoken to Bess, promising to have someone else check in Sunday morning. Marisa should have slept better knowing all of this, but she hadn’t. The danger she usually faced was unreal and on stage or in front of a television camera. Reality had never interested her, and the possibility of her death was something she had long ago pushed far back into her mind. Now suddenly she had to confront dying and it wasn’t pleasant.
If I could find the author of this script,
she thought,
I’d have him do a rewrite.

Eventually she fell asleep and dreamed dreams that made her wake up more than once with her heart pounding. Each time she looked over at Gina without quite knowing why, only to find the child quietly sleeping, her back still to Marisa.

The next time Marisa awakened, the sun was in her eyes and she smelled fresh coffee. Somewhere in the apartment Edith Gupta laughed and in another apartment a tenant was practicing vocal scales badly and enthusiastically. Gina’s bed was empty.

And then the door opened and a smiling Gina entered carrying a glass of orange juice on a tray. “I made this for you,” she said. “I took out all the seeds.”

“Thank you,” said Marisa. “I absolutely hate seeds.”

Gina’s smile grew wider.
Stroking,
thought Marisa.
The kid needs stroking just like the rest of us.

The sun was warm on Marisa’s bed and across her legs and when she reached out to touch Gina’s long blond hair, the child gently and lovingly caressed Marisa’s hand.

Marisa sipped the orange juice and closed her eyes with pleasure. It was going to be a good day after all.

After hanging up the phone, Anthony Paul Bofil took his pencil and crossed the last name off his list. He flopped back in the huge black leather chair and folded his hands in his lap. He’d just finished canceling all of his appointments for the next forty-eight hours. Some he’d canceled himself, the rest he’d left to his staff to handle. Bofil was staying in New York for the next two or three days because New York was where he could best defend his life.

It was approaching noon on a sun-filled Sunday and he’d been on the phone for almost two hours. There was no need now for him to leave his Sutton Place coop, where he felt safe from the Comforts or anyone else. The building security was excellent, with closed circuit television, electric eyes, burglar alarms, and round-the-clock doormen.

As for the duplex itself, there were only two doors in or out. The apartment had an expensive silent alarm system and the doors, commissioned by Bofil’s law firm, were solid oak with a steel plate embedded in each one. In addition to Ronald, his chauffeur-bodyguard, Bofil had hired another bodyguard and both men, armed, were to stay inside the apartment with him. Like Ronald, the second bodyguard was also a former cop who had been dismissed from the force for criminal activity. Bofil found such men efficient in matters of violence and less likely to draw the line at dirty tricks than an honest citizen would be.

The two bodyguards had worked out a system of standing watch that allowed one man a few hours’ sleep while the other stayed awake. Most of the time, however, both men were awake.

But the one asleep at night slept fully clothed in the bedroom next to Bofil’s, his gun under the pillow with the safety off. The bedroom door remained open at all times.

All Bofil had told his bodyguards was that he was having some difficulty with people he’d run up against in politics and that there might be some shooting. The men would be required to guard him for the next three days. After that the trouble should be over.