The 37th mandala : a novel (18 page)

"Mom. ..."

She stumped heavily around the room. "It's freezing in here."

"I didn't notice." He took her by the shoulders, but she lurched out of his grasp, staggering toward the hall just as Lenore walked out of the bedroom in her nightgown. The cuffs of her jeans were visible below the hem.

"Hi, Ma," she said.

"What are you doing out of bed?" His mother's voice was abnormally loud. "You're on drugs again, aren't you?"

"Mom," he said, getting her by the shoulders, shaking his head at Lenore to stay out of sight. His mother lurched sideways, knocking open the door of the temple, plunging into it.

"Would you look at this shit?" she cried. "My God."

"That's private, Mom. Please come out of there." He tried to pull her back as carefully as he could, but she wrenched her arm away from him and spun around, lifting her eyes to the ceiling with the weirdest expression he'd ever seen. Giee and malice and something else. As if she knew what was up there.

"Mom, please. ..."

She stumped heavily toward his altar. He flipped on the overhead light to make the temple look more like a simple library. He stood next to her, fearing she might break something in her strange mood.

She stopped where she was, gazing down at the open copy of
The Mandala Rites
. She reached out, flipped through the pages. Mandalas flickered past.

"What's this?"

"Nothing. A book."

"It looks like Satanism."

"Satanism is inverted Christianity. I'm not into anything like that. This is totally different stuff."

"It's the same nonsense, isn't it? This crap nobody can read?" She stooped over and picked up the book, and he felt a shudder go through him. "I mean, what is this shit? Can't even hardly pronounce it: '
P-sm-mim-nou-o-u-e-u-s-v-ee
.' '

"Don't," he said.

"You telling me this isn't garbage?"

He heard a steady pounding somewhere, a rhythmic drumming like a flywheel turning, but loud as a house's heart beating in the walls. It must be Lenore, hammering the walls.

She was turning very red now, with the strain of pronouncing the mandala keys: "
L—Loq vey-vulp-sea—
"

"Don't do that, Mom." He tried to pull the book away, wondering why Lenore was pounding on the wall, pounding and pounding.

"Do what? I'm not doing
azca rod du naalauv
..."

"Stop it!" he screamed.

But she wasn't looking at the book, wasn't even holding it now. The pounding continued, hard and steady in the walls, and the words came from her throat in thick waves, in gouts of vileness splattering the room. It wasn't merely the words that sickened him; something rode in on the tide of sound, a seething presence that made the air itself cringe and crawl. The tide picked up his mother and carried her across the room, flung her toward him. No one he knew could be seen in her eyes just then.

But in the air above her he saw something familiar and not entirely unexpected.

It was dim, far dimmer than the mandala Lenore had summoned, but its power was very great. This one was flat and shimmering with membranous light, like a fat decayed snowflake, a rotting sea anemone; it was eyeless, colorless, and lacked the flailing arms of the other. It was gilled like the underside of a mushroom, and the thin folds of its astral tissue quivered and rippled, each one raw and open as a toothless mouth. It clung to her skull like an outrageous hat, attached by suction to her soul—fixed by the pressure of its hideous kiss. It fattened on her rage and anger, guiding her this way and that as she rushed about. Suddenly her eyes did not seem drunken; the mist that clouded them could claim a different source.

He backed into the hall, toward the bedroom where Lenore was pounding. The storm raked the sides of the house, tearing at the walls, shaking windows, screaming almost as loud as he wanted to.

His mother came on with both hands reaching for his throat. He ducked from her grasp and came up hard against Lenore. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear, alert with her own consciousness, thank God.

But the walls continued to pound. Lenore had nothing to do with that. There was something else in the house, invoked by his mother's words, which kept on coming, shaking the house, splitting the wood planks of the floor, clawing at the foundation, hammering nails out backward with the fingers of the storm.

Lenore covered her ears, her face twisting up in pain and horror.

"Make her stop!" she cried. "Make her stop!"

Suddenly Mrs. Renzler paused, choking off the chant; she staggered sideways, grabbing for purchase on the blank wall. Her eyes rolled up as she shivered and let out a groan. She was waging a battle inside herself, but he could hardly help her fight it. He had to protect Lenore and himself; that was his priority.

While his mother fought, Michael dragged Lenore into the kitchen, toward the back door. They could get into the Volkswagen, go for the police—go somewhere. The hospital. California. They'd have to go without luggage; but they needed money.

He turned from the door to the phone, back to the door again. He looked to Lenore for advice, and then his mother lurched into the kitchen. She was chanting again, still reaching for him. She must have knocked open the bathroom door on her way, since Scabby was now weaving between her ankles, smearing them with blood. Her eyes were bloodshot and bloodthirsty. Weakened by alcohol, she had already lost her battle.

The horror of seeing her like this paralyzed him. It struck past all defenses, all intellectual barriers. He couldn't convince himself that something alien impelled her. She was still his mother, and if this was the nature of their relationship, the delicate balance on which the universe stood poised, then there was no reason to live. It was better to surrender to her. Better to bare his throat for her nails.

She moved quickly to fulfill his desire. He let out a choked prayer as her hands closed around his neck. Then he heard a dull clang.

Her hands fell away. She collapsed to the floor.

Lenore stood over her, a heavy iron skillet dangling from her hand. Grease from their breakfast, eggs and hamburger, dripped from the pan as she stood there. It mingled with the blood that oozed through his mother's matted hair.

At the same instant, as if the sound of the pan had been the final beat in a tuneless song, the pounding in the walls stopped dead.

He rushed to the sink. The sight of blood and grease, the sudden memory of Tucker's bedroom, the panic of the last hours—it all welled up in him.

When he managed to look around again, Lenore was taking his mother's pulse. She looked calm and controlled, kneeling like an angel over the prostrate woman.

"I think she'll be all right," she said. "I didn't hit her too hard."

Michael crouched and touched his mother's slack face, his heart crying out inside him at the sight. Lenore showed him where the skillet had hit; the skin had split, spilling blood, and a knot was swelling through the ooze. She had cut her lip falling, and that was bleeding too. Scabby crouched nearby, sniffing at the hamburger grease.

"We have to get her to the hospital," he said.

"No," Lenore said firmly. "We have to go."

"What?"

"If we do that, Michael, we'll get caught here. We'll never get away."

"We can't just leave her here. It's my mother, Lenore!"

"I'll throw more stuff in a bag. We'll take her home, tell Earl she came in—blind drunk—fell and hit her head. Leave it to him, Michael."

He gazed down at his mother. She was breathing steadily, but what did that prove? "I don't know. ..."

"It's the only way. Now get up. Hurry."

He started to protest; he could think of a million good, logical reasons against what she proposed. But as he looked up, he saw the mandala floating over her, as if it had aligned itself along a fracture plane in a crystal, invisible except at certain angles. It hovered there, malignantly sculling the air, stroking Lenore with great tenderness, but also threatening her—letting him know what it would do if he hesitated, or opposed it in any way.

"All right," he said. "Let's go."

Derek 's answering machine was blinking when he walked in that evening. "You have one message," said the snorkeled voice. Lilith, he thought, his heart leaping. But he was furious at her too and luxuriated in the thought of her pathetic excuse, her inevitable apology. Of course, she had never broken up with him before, and he could not be sure these things would follow. They were certainly not Lilith's style. In fact, it was too soon for her to be calling. She would let him dangle for weeks, probably; just as she went for weeks without calling him even when things were going well.

Having convinced himself that it couldn't be her, he decided not to play the message at all.

At that moment, the phone rang. He snatched it up with a hopeless wish he recognized too late to stifle.
Lilith!

"Hello?"

"Have I reached Mr. Derek Crowe?" A man's voice, unfamiliar; street noises—a siren, in fact, blasting its way into his apartment. He realized he could hear a siren on the street below too.

"Who is this?"

"I don't want to alarm you, Mr. Crowe, but I would like to speak to you about the mandalas."

"Alarm me? Why should that alarm me? Are you a reporter?"

Absently he reached out and touched the button on the answering machine, as if Lilith might rescue him from this caller, if she were there. The machine clicked its way to the start of the message.

"No, no. I am a very ordinary person—well, maybe not so ordinary. I have unusual knowledge; I think you will understand me better if we could talk in person, even very briefly."

The message began: "
Hello, I hope this is the number for Derek Crowe—your machine did not say
." It was another strange male voice, this one speaking with a French accent. "
We have been trying to reach you for a very long time now, and I hope this time I am successful
."

"How did you get my number?"

"I can't really tell you that. Let me assure you, sir, I am a very good citizen. I mean to cause you no harm, no trouble. I only want to prevent trouble."

"
My name is Etienne. I am one of the owners of the Club Mandala, which is set to open here on February sixth—the thirty-seventh day of the year!
"

Club Mandala? This was ridiculous! Now they were calling him!

He tried to keep his attention on his live caller. "How do you mean?"

"
I and my partner were really wishing very much to get in touch with you, eh, to talk to you about the mandalas, and your part in the whole show
."

"I don't—it's not something I wish to discuss on the phone."

"I don't have time for games," he said.

"
I think we could have some very interesting information to exchange
."

"I promise, this is no game. I am quite sincere. I have come a long way to see you. I assure you, this problem is very important to me, as a representative of the Cambodian people here in California."

Cambodia? Derek thought with a start. Oh, no.

He started to respond with a poorly formed objection, but the answering machine, the hesitant yet cocky voice, was maddening, breaking his concentration.

"
Please give me a call as soon as you can, so we can meet and discuss these things. We hope we can involve you somehow in the club. There is a place in it for all of us, I think. My number—
"

Derek slammed down his hand, switching off the machine.

"What do you mean, a representative?" he said. "A politician?"

"Well, I am active in a small way in politics, yes. But I am not here in a political office. I prefer to be very discreet just now. My constituents might be upset even to know what I have learned about your work with these, as you call them, mandalas. I am here for their sake. I hope to spare them much pain."

The mention of Cambodia exhumed the specter of Elias Mooney. It was as if Eli were hounding him in death, resurrected by the publication of the book; as if every time the mandalas were introduced to another fresh mind, Eli's shade grew a bit denser and darker, asserting its connection to the whole mess. Michael Renzler, Bob Maltzman, and now this man. He prayed this did not mean his caller had known Elias too.

It crossed his mind that some sort of blackmail might be shaping up here. He could shut off the Club Mandala lunatics, but he sensed he could not ignore this man. Not until he'd heard his demands, at any rate.

"Where—where are you?" he said after a moment's pause.

"I am very close," said the man. "Can I please buy you a coffee? If we could only meet for several minutes, it would be very important."

"Where?"

"I could not help but notice, there is a Cambodian restaurant across the street from you. We could meet there. ..."

"How soon?"

"As soon as is convenient."

"Now," Derek said. "Let's get this over with. How will I know you?"

"Oh, don't worry. I know you from your books." He laughed, a deep rattle. "Bye-bye."

Derek put down the phone. He had not yet even taken off his coat. The mandalas were taking over his life, he realized, making it practically unlivable. But maybe all this would lead to some kind of publicity. Maybe he should devote himself to getting the most out of this book, and stop worrying about the next. See where that took him. A foiled blackmail attempt—and surely the Mooney connection was too tenuous ever to be exposed—could be played up in a big way. He would have to figure the man's angle, that was all. He was sure of his own immunity; for all practical purposes, he was innocent of anything.

He switched on the answering machine to let it finish its message and noted down the number of the Club Mandala owner on a Post-it, which he shoved in his pocket. He'd call them, all right. He was just getting warmed up.

Outside, he crossed the street one step ahead of traffic, arriving at the door of the Prey Svay Cafe just as a man standing there opened the door to him. He stopped and stared at the man, half a head shorter than he, wiry and very dark, with thinning gray hair but otherwise clean-shaven; exuding strength and confidence, but all of it hard won. The skin of his face was so scarred that it looked like pockmarks; the hand holding the door was also covered with knobbly scar tissue. Derek bowed slightly, as if that were the custom in all of Asia, then felt like an idiot when the man put out his free hand and shook.