Nocturnes (4 page)

As you fall to sleep
now,

Remember to
dream.

The night is not as
long

As at first it
seems.

The daylight needs its rest as
well.

So use these hours between the
suns

To laugh and sing in a sweet-dream
spell.

Love finds its courage

In the shadows and
shade,

Where it meets the
monsters

That our selves have
made.

But I will be
here

When you’ve journeyed
through.

(From the loving
womb,

To the powerless
tomb)

My candle burns all night for
you.”

They applauded furiously, offering her imaginary garlands and awards. A hasty crown was fashioned from a napkin and placed upon her head. Isaac burned with love. She walked quickly to his end of the table and sat next to him. He kissed her
ear.

“Have I mentioned that I love
you?”

She looked into the fountain-brightness of his eyes.

“Oh, Isaac. You tell me in all the words you speak and in all the things you do. And you give me such
courage.”

She squeezed his hand hard. The two of them sat there, but somewhere else, as the Warsaw night played out around
them.

There were more drinks and more stories, and the talk gradually turned from the lightness of lullabies to the heavy rhythms of Germany and
Hitler.

Karl had gotten a little drunk, and was speaking with too much fervor, too much false bravado, as though he would rally all of Poland to his words.

“Hitler’s eyes rattle around in his head like the roulette balls at the casino. Where will they land? Italy? Austria…Poland? Not Poland, my friends. Poland will fight! But Austria will roll over like a kicked dog. That is where the little madman will go to expand his beloved Bavaria.”

“Poland may well put up some resistance. But it won’t be for or about you, dear Karl.” Patrik joined in after not saying two words to anyone except Judith all night. “You are not a Pol to the Pols. You are a bargaining chip. To be used if the madman becomes bored with the stakes and wants to play a different kind of
game.”

Karl’s eyes shifted nervously about the group, seeking some support. Patrik was the understated voice of brutal truth, and Karl still preferred the comfort of
lies.

“Game? You speak of games. But I am a Pol. My family helped build this city. We are, all of us, Pols together. And we will stand shoulder to shoulder against Hitler’s
ambitions.”

Patrik stood and gathered his things and the hand of Judith, then looked at Karl as he passed from the group. “You are a Jew, Karl. You will believe what you must so that you can sleep at night. But don’t sleep too soundly, brother. The wolves are on the
prowl.”

Patrick and Judith departed as Karl turned his pleas on the remaining clique. Lessa grabbed at Isaac’s arm, layers of panic in her
eyes.

“Take me home, Isaac. I’ve heard all of this over and over again. It’s everywhere we
go.”

Isaac had seen this fear in her before. He knew better than to try to assuage it in the middle of someone else’s discourse on the subject. He rounded up their things and they slipped out, unnoticed by all except
Josef.

He put his arms around her as they walked away from the crowds and the noise. As he had so often in the recent past, he set about the task of comforting her against her
dismay.

“It is all a bunch of gossip and empty talk, Lessa. No one takes Hitler as seriously as they pretend to. He makes for great conversation, but he isn’t a
monster.”

“I fear that is exactly what he is. He is the entire topic of discussion at the university. His speeches are passed around and read aloud in the halls. He even has supporters right here in Warsaw. His speeches scare me, Isaac. I want to leave Warsaw. I want us to go from here together. There is a darkness gathering that the human race has not yet
imagined.”

“Lessa! You have allowed nightmares into your head that have no basis in fact. Besides, where would we go? Our families, our friends, and our work are all here. This has been the home of our families for generations. It makes no sense to run from someone’s
words.”

“It does if those words are applauded by an entire nation.” She stopped and turned to face him squarely. “He has his country believing in the things he says. He could tell them that the moon was green and they would listen. He has revived their national pride and honor at the expense of several scapegoats, including our own people. And he has the army and industrial base to go wherever and whenever he wants. He terrifies me. I have the most horrible
dreams.”

He put his arms around her again, drew her close, and once more felt the tension leave her. Somewhere up the street a lonely violin was weeping Albinoni’s Adagio, and they began to move together, slowly. Few people passed them at this hour, and he waltzed her up the street to her father’s house. She was calm again, and
smiling.

“Love finds its courage in the shadows and shade,” he reminded her. “Sing yourself to sleep, my beauty. My candle is burning for you. I will see you in the
morning.”

He kissed her hungrily and felt her body
sigh.

“Goodnight, Isaac,” she murmured into his
mouth.

“Goodnight, Lessa,” he murmured
back.

The bittersweet memory caught in the little whirlpool over the tub’s drain and went round and round, finally disappearing. He had relived that night a thousand times. And at the zenith of her need he had changed it all…changing history. He had taken her in his arms and whispered fiercely, “Yes. Gather your things and we will go. If we are wrong, we will laugh at ourselves. And we can tell our children how foolish we were. It will be a humorous memory to grow old
with.”

But he hadn’t changed history. He hadn’t fled with her. And his memories were all that was left of Lessa. Memories rich with the attendant anguish of his
failure.

He was a tired old man alone in the tub with his swirling troubles, a troubling task before him. He stood up and grabbed a towel, then walked back into the suite to
begin.

Chapter Three

F
ive hours later, the phone interrupted his immersion in homeless mortality. It was his
editor.

“For God’s sake, Isaac, it’s been a major bitch tracking you down! What are you still doing in St. Louis? You were supposed to be in Baton Rouge two days ago. You’re going to have to hustle now because the deadline has been moved up by three days. Are you catching this, Isaac?
Isaac?”

“And good evening to you, Adam. Yes, I am quite well, thank you for asking. I will leave for Baton Rouge tonight. And I will finish the piece on time, as usual. Not to worry. Bon soir,
Adam.”

He hung up with the editor’s strangled reply choking to escape the
mouthpiece.

Baton Rouge was a distraction to him right now. There was a subtle but startling pattern in those files, too much to cite coincidence. He had little faith in coincidence anyway. It seemed certain that someone was killing homeless people in Atlanta and St. Louis. The pattern dated back to the beginning of the five-year period that he had access to. One or two people, always afflicted with life-threatening illness, and morphine. It maintained a cycle that repeated itself at roughly-annual intervals.

It was easy to see why the authorities hadn’t noticed anything amiss. The police, when they bothered at all, only dealt with the homeless in their own towns. They would be oblivious to similar deaths in other parts of the country. And, after all, they were homeless people. There was no one to miss them. No one to demand an answer to suspicious questions. What was suspicious about unhealthy drug users living on the streets, anyway? For someone who enjoyed killing for killing’s sake, this was an almost perfect paradigm.

In fact, there really was little reason for alarm. Not officially. If he hadn’t had the disquieting encounter with the stranger in Atlanta, even he would have put this matter to bed days ago. But it was undeniable. There was something sinister and purposeful about that man. Wasn’t
there?

Or was it him? An old man, who had witnessed too much horror, jumping at
shadows?

He had to slow down and think rationally. Perhaps Baton Rouge wasn’t a distraction after all. If there was a pattern in the two cities he had already visited, it was possible that the pattern was in place elsewhere…in other southern
cities.

Whatever the case, he would certainly need more information before he approached anyone else with his discoveries. If he was wrong, there was a world of implication for his future that he didn’t care to think
about.

“Come on, Lessa. Let’s go see if our phantom has been busy in Baton
Rouge…”

*

“Good evening, Mr. Bloom, we’ve been expecting you. How was your
flight?”

“Uneventful, Thom. My favorite kind. How have you and your family been getting on since I saw you last? That must be five or six years
now.”

“Just fine, sir. Thank you for asking. What can we do to make your stay more comfortable? Still fond of old Gevrey-Chambertins?” The concierge asked with a wry smile.

“I am still Chambertin’s slave, Thom. Please have a bottle of the ’85 sent up, and some chèvre. I’ll order some dinner after I have settled in. And I’ll need a taxi at ten in the morning. Thank
you.”

He made himself comfortable in his room. When the wine arrived, he poured a tall glass and turned the suite’s stereo up, loud. It was Delibes, Lakme. Sensual, powerful, and thoroughly revitalizing.

“Well, Lessa,” he spoke softly, “what do you think of this situation? Your husband can now add criminal detective to his resume. That is, if he should ever seek some honest
labor.”

He rose and began to walk around the four rooms of his suite, talking to her as he
wandered.

“Why would anyone want to kill these people? Of all the victims to choose, these have the least to offer. Nothing at all for anyone to envy or lust after. Is it because they use drugs? Is someone killing them with their own poison…as some sort of revenge? And how did I get
involved?”

Now there was a sixty-four dollar question. The man who didn’t even pause for conversation on the streets of his own neighborhood was suddenly playing Sherlock Holmes halfway across the country.

But he had to admit, morbid circumstances aside, that he felt more vital and alive than he had in many years. Still, he wasn’t going to get any more involved than was absolutely necessary. He would gather what information he could as discreetly as he could, confirm his theories as well as possible, and turn the entire matter over to the police.

He went through the rooms again, turning off all the lights. He turned the stereo’s volume up another notch, so that he could hear it outside, and took his wine out onto the balcony.

The night was a brilliant sapphire with the lights of the city below him sparkling like facets in the gem. Dvorak drifted out to him now. He swirled the wine around and over his tongue, enjoying the heady sensuality. And, answering the call of his ever-present longing, Lessa was before him, laughing. It was no longer Baton Rouge. It was Warsaw, four nights before their wedding, 1938. He was teaching her to drink Cognac. She wasn’t getting it, but she was certainly enjoying the
lesson.

“Once more…no, no! Inhale
before
you
swallow…”

“Pfffffttt!!! She sprayed a mouthful across his shirt, and began to laugh and choke all at once. He thumped her on the back.

“All right, you lush, that’s enough. You peasants are below refinement. This stuff is too good for you. Be off! You’re banished to the potato
stills!”

“No, Isaac! One more chance. I promise I’ll get it right this time. Please? I’ll be your best
friend.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “All right. One last time. A mouthful of the brandy, now inhale through your mouth so that the air mingles with the liquid, then swallow. And finally, exhale forcefully through your nose. OK? Try
it.”

“Yes, but you have to promise that you will kiss me as soon as I have done it.
Promise?”

“Of course. That’s easily done…if you’re still standing. Now
drink!”

She concentrated on each step of the process until she blew the air out of her nose like a surfacing cetacean. He applauded and laughed, then leaned into her lips, which she parted to allow the sip of Cognac that she hadn’t swallowed to flow into his mouth. He swallowed it down and opened his eyes to look at her.

“Miss Frankle, I do believe that there will be severe reprimands when I return you to your father’s house. You’re drunk. And your kisses are making me
so.”

“If you liked that one, wait until Friday,” she whispered
teasingly.

He took her into his arms and ran his fingers through the blue-black night of her hair, kissing her over and over again until they were both
gasping.

“I can’t believe that you are going to be my wife. My wife! What did I ever do to deserve such a
gift?”

“You have given me a life of love, Isaac. That is what you have done. And I intend to spend forever giving it back to
you…

back to
you

back to

you.”

The Dvorak had become Chopin’s Nocturnes, and the city blurred beneath him. There was not enough wine in the world…and not enough Cognac. Isaac went to his prayers and to his bed.

The next morning he took his taxi to the Parish Coroner’s office, explained his “project,” and was given the copied files that he requested. Now he really had a base to work with. If the pattern were revealed here in Baton Rouge, and if it surfaced in other cities that he would visit later, he would have plenty of evidence to hand over to the
FBI.

It was a stunning thought, that this could somehow be a national phenomenon. Lord, maybe it was just a little too stunning. He sat down on one of the folding chairs in the lobby and quickly scanned through a handful of files. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. And that fact bothered him
greatly.

Could he really believe his eyes? Hadn’t this all started with an old woman singing lullabies in the dark, which had somehow conjured images from his own past? It was a past that he had never truly been able to leave behind. What did that say for his
objectivity?

He glanced around him at the handful of people in the lobby. That middle-aged woman with the permanent scowl…would she see the same pattern? Would anything seem odd about sick and dying homeless people using too much morphine?

He had felt certain that he had stumbled onto something sinister. But this was starting to become unraveled and overwhelming. And the more involved he became, the more foolish he felt.

He fought the urge to abandon the matter right there and returned to his hotel to take a closer look. He sifted through the material carefully, methodically, taking his time. There was a growing fear that his own credibility would eventually come into question. After several exhausting hours, however, he knew that he was still involved. Whatever was happening in Atlanta and St. Louis had found its way to Baton Rouge as
well.

His next stop would be New Orleans. From there it was on to Biloxi, Pensacola and Miami. It would require only a little extra effort to investigate the pattern in those cities. After that, if there was solid evidence, he would certainly wash his hands of all of it and hand it over to the professionals. He turned his attention to his assignment, then packed for his morning journey to one of his favorite cities: New
Orleans.