Odd Apocalypse (31 page)

I could see now why Henry fantasized about having a close encounter of the third kind, during which aliens would grant him immortality. He wanted to live forever, but without the bonds that tied him so tightly to Roseland. They were all to one degree or another prisoners of this estate, psychologically if not physically.

The longer that they lived, the longer they
wanted
to live. And the longer they lived, the more their world shrank. Their spectrum of experience grew narrower year by year. Their sociopathic arrogance, their sense of godlike power, and their contempt for clockers were continuously distilled into an ever more poisonous brew.

I wondered who these people were with whom Constantine Cloyce formed the deranged community of Roseland. Did all of them date back to the 1920s, were they his servants then? What had been the original names that they had outlived?

If they were all from that time, I suspected that they must be far more insane than I yet knew. The gauntlet I must run to save the boy would be bristling with more and sharper spears than the arsenal of prismatic lights on the ceiling.

Thoughts of longevity brought me inevitably to memories of Stormy Llewellyn, who had died so young. Of necessity, I had come to be at peace with my loss, to live with a certain emptiness but not with a constant anguish. Now a melancholy ache weighed me to the floor longer than I intended to lie there. It seemed to me that if Nikola Tesla could have defeated Death by inventing a fantastical machine, I should have defeated the Reaper by being smarter and quicker than I was on that desperate day in Pico Mundo when I became the eternal lover of a woman I could never again kiss in this world.

Having given the four searchers plenty of time to ascend to the
second floor and to proceed away from Cloyce’s suite of rooms, I got to my feet, drew the pistol from my holster, picked up the pillowcase sack, and slipped shadowlike along the dark perimeter of the drawing room.

Some there be that shadows kiss; / Such have but a shadow’s bliss
.

By those words is the prince of Arragon described in
The Merchant of Venice
when he fails to choose correctly and, by his wrong choice, loses all hope of wedding Portia.

My friend Ozzie Boone, writer of mysteries, used to mock me for having been an indifferent student in school and especially for knowing nothing of Shakespeare. Since leaving Pico Mundo, as time permits, I have immersed myself in the works of the Bard. Initially, I read the plays and the sonnets for the simple pleasure of seeing Ozzie’s pride in me when one day I returned to my hometown. But soon I read them to glimpse a world that was so right in Shakespeare’s time but that has gone so wrong in ours.

His words, written over four hundred years ago, often encourage me and keep my spirits high. But sometimes lines come to me that strum a darker chord, and they pierce as I would much prefer not to be pierced.

Some there be that shadows kiss; / Such have but a shadow’s bliss
.

The master of Roseland’s suite was off the west wing. Had the windows not been protected by steel shutters, most rooms would have offered me a view of the land rolling down to the coast and to the sea a mile away.

Cloyce had left burning not just a lamp or two but all the lights, as though when he returned, he didn’t want to have to spend even a moment on the threshold of darkness, fumbling for a switch.

He’d once claimed not to have slept in nine years, but I was sure his assertion was a great exaggeration if not outright nonsense. The truth might be that he’d not slept
well
in nine years or longer, perhaps because he left the lights on all night, unable to tolerate a room that was as midnight-black as his mind.

His quarters were as sumptuously furnished as any chamber in the house. The Tiffany lamps, the antique bronzes, and the paintings were likely to bring millions.

I found nothing particularly strange until I got to a spacious chamber that I imagine he thought of as his trophy room. On the walls were the mounted heads of a lion, a tiger, a gazelle with magnificent
ringed horns, and other specimens he must have shot and shipped back from Africa.

On one wall numerous framed black-and-white eight-by-ten photographs included several taken on safari. A young Constantine Cloyce, surely no older than thirty, was recognizable in spite of his hairstyle, which was of that era, and his lush mustache. He posed with various kills, holding a rifle, solemn and proud in some pictures, grinning and proud in others.

To have had the time and resources to be an adventurer at such a young age, he must have
inherited
the newspaper fortune that had allowed him later to launch a movie studio. If he was thirty in the photos, the safari dated to 1908, fourteen years before he began to build Roseland.

In some of the photographs, another young man appeared with him. He must have been a pal of Cloyce’s because in two photos, rifles having been set aside, they stood behind the animals they had shot, arms around each other’s shoulders. Henry Lolam looked the same then as now, though back then he must have had another name.

Farther along the wall were photographs of Roseland during its construction. In some of them, Cloyce posed with others.

I saw Nikola Tesla first. He appeared in four pictures, always wearing a business suit and tie when the others dressed casually. In two, he was such a strikingly hawkish figure with such intensity of expression that, by comparison, the people with him seemed to be no more real than those life-size photo cutouts of famous folks that you once could pose with in carnivals and boardwalk arcades. In the other two, those with him looked real enough—although Tesla seemed to be uncomfortable, as if he thought he didn’t belong with his current company.

Mrs. Tameed posed with Cloyce in one shot. She looked forty now, but appeared to be twenty-something in the photo. If there had been a greater age difference, I might not have recognized her except maybe by her height. Hair cut short, wearing a cloche hat, she was dressed in the flapper style of the period—sleeveless dress with a knee-length skirt, a V-neck bodice with cleavage revealed—that shocked the parents of that free-spirited generation.

I had difficulty imagining that Mrs. Tameed had ever been as frivolous and cheerful as she seemed to be in that picture. I would have thought that she insisted on wearing jackboots from the day she started to walk and that her greatest regret as a young woman had been her inability to grow a mustache to match Hitler’s.

She was in another photo with Cloyce. This time she and Victoria Mors flanked him, both dressed as flappers, both hanging on him. They appeared to be a tipsy and dissolute trio.

In that picture, Victoria looked as young as she did now, tender and elfin and sprightly. I wondered if she maintained herself in a more constant state of youth than did the others. And if she did so—why?

In another shot of Cloyce with four men, dating perhaps before the 1920s, I knew only two of the others. Paulie Sempiterno stood slightly to one side, somewhat but not much younger-looking than he was now, glowering at the camera as if he distrusted the photographer and the very idea of cameras. Jam Diu looked ten years older then than now. He wore white shoes, a white suit, and a white Panama hat; and he boasted a Fu Manchu mustache that dangled two or three inches below his chin.

I had seen everyone currently of Roseland except Chef Shilshom. But if he had been of normal size in those days, I would not have recognized him.

The mounted heads of animals on two walls lent this place none
of the men’s-club atmosphere that might have been intended. Instead, at least for me, each head was Death in masquerade, his skeletal face concealed behind animal masks, as in Prince Prospero’s abbey where he had partied in costume. Their presence oppressed me. I imagined that their glass eyes followed me as I toured the room.

I was eager to move on, but I wanted to investigate the contents of a highly polished mahogany cabinet with inlaid geometric patterns of ivory and ebony. Behind its doors were shelves filled with DVDs.

A man given to murder for pleasure might have a collection of films, but I doubted there would be a single Muppet movie among them. No titles were printed on the narrow spines of the cases. Expecting either pornography or tales of extreme violence, I took one from the top shelf and saw taped to the front a photograph of one of the naked women in the subcellar of the mausoleum, in the very pose in which he had arranged her in that
other
trophy room.

I checked a few more on the top shelf. Like the first, they bore photos of the victims in death, each labeled with a name and date. But there were a lot more DVDs here than bodies in the mausoleum.

When I examined some on the bottom shelf, I found that, like those above, they were arranged from left to right and shelved by date. The earliest was labeled 1962.

He must have filmed those early victims in 8 mm, later using a video camera. As technology advanced, he transferred his archives to videotape and later to DVD. His experience in the movie industry and his wealth gave him the knowledge and the means to upgrade the filmed record of the abominations that he committed. Somewhere in the house, he must have a well-equipped little studio where he could edit his films and transfer them to more sophisticated formats as those were invented.

I didn’t count the DVDs. I couldn’t bear to. I’m sure there were more than 150.

I wondered where those other bodies were. I hoped never to find them.

I wanted to set the cabinet on fire. I figured that I knew what was on those discs: each woman alive and afraid, then what he did to her to amuse himself, and finally how he killed her, maybe with Victoria watching as she said he sometimes allowed her. I didn’t think anyone should watch those women in their terror, as they were humiliated and degraded. Not even cops or prosecutors, or juries.

They were gone, and maybe it didn’t matter, but it wasn’t right. These demented home movies reduced each woman’s life to the ordeal in which she was least herself, in which she was broken. And they would all have been broken emotionally and mentally, for Cloyce had so much experience in the tactics and techniques of terror that he would keep at each of them until he succeeded. He had all the time in the world to strip from his victim everything that was essential and momentous about her, and leave her diminished to the point that death would be a relief. All the time in the world.

The DVDs were evidence. Until they would not be needed in order for justice to be done, I could not destroy them.

As I accepted the fact of that, I knew what it meant: To ensure that there would be no need for the filmed evidence, I would have to deliver ultimate justice to everyone in Roseland except the boy, to the women as well as to the men. Seven deaths were warranted.

Subconsciously, I must have known what would be required of me the moment that I’d seen the preserved corpses in the subcellar of the mausoleum. But now I could no longer repress the awareness that my role here was to be a scourge, that I could not merely free the boy and leave with him. I could not restrict my killing to self-defense or to the defense of the child.

My legs felt weak. I sat in a nearby chair.

As usual, the house was hushed. No sound arose to distract me from my grim train of thought.

To spare Cloyce’s victims further indignities to their memory, I must be a scourge. To prevent others from perhaps being infected by Cloyce’s depravity by watching him at work, I must be a scourge. To prevent the time-management technology from falling into the hands of authorities who, if not already corrupt, would be corrupted by it, I must be a scourge.

Scourges aren’t heroes.

I had never imagined myself a hero, but never had I imagined that I would be
this
.

Scourges assume authority they don’t possess. I assumed the right was mine to spare the memory of the dead women from stain, and I assumed I had the authority to decide that time-management technology inevitably would be used for evil purposes if I didn’t wreck it and destroy those who knew about it.

Scourges transgress against social and sacred order. Prince Hamlet wasn’t the hero of
Hamlet
. His mission was to be a minister of Truth and perhaps also a scourge. But he couldn’t entirely believe in the first half of that mission, while in the end he embraced the role of scourge.

Scourges always must be scourged themselves.

Hamlet did not survive
Hamlet
. Moses, having scourged three thousand people, never lived to see the promised land.

A killer like Cloyce was a murderer, killing for wrong reasons but compelled to do so.

A scourge went into darker territory than that. A scourge was not
compelled
to kill by mental imbalance or emotional confusion or selfish desire. A scourge made a carefully reasoned decision to kill in numbers that exceeded what was absolutely necessary to ensure
self-preservation and the defense of the innocent. Even if he killed for a right reason, he was in rebellion against social order and commanding authority.