The sudden shrill chirp of a hundred birds froze Allen in place, his hand poised to knock on the department head’s door. Probably it was his imagination, but then he heard it again. Maybe Dr. Carpenter had one of those soothing rain-forest-sounds CDs.
It didn’t matter. He’d been summoned.
He knocked, heard somebody mumble something. He entered.
The birds went crazy, flapping between bookshelves.
“Shut the damn door,” she yelled at him.
Allen hastily shut the door, stood cringing amid the bird storm, feathers brushing his face, the room alive with the swirling racket of wings and beaks.
“Sit down.” Professor Cathy Carpenter gestured at the hard, wooden chair across her desk.
He sat.
She sat too, took a small wooden box from her top desk drawer, and began to unpack the contents. A plastic baggy, paper.
“You didn’t have a very good semester, did you, Allen?” She unfolded a small square of thin paper, pinched the herb from a plastic baggy, and rolled it into the paper. The joint was on the small side.
Birds flapped, hopped between shelves.
“There were some distractions,” Allen told her.
“Uh-huh. What’s your last name? Cabbot?”
“Yes.”
“Any relation to the Salem Cabbots? Good family.”
“No, ma’am.” He flinched as a bird swooped within an inch of his nose. The rest of the birds screeched and danced.
“The mayor’s an old student of mine. Winston Cabbot of Salem. Hmmm. Winston of Salem. Winston Salem. That’s odd. Isn’t that a cigarette or something?”
Allen ducked another bird on a strafing run.
“So Winston is what? Your uncle or something?” Carpenter raised an eyebrow.
“We’re not related, ma’am. I’m from Portland.”
“Do you have any matches?” She fished around in the other drawers.
“Professor Carpenter, there are like a hundred birds in your office. Maybe more.”
“One hundred and twenty-two. They’re budgies. Ah!”
She found matches, struck one, lit the joint, and puffed smoke.
She stood, sucked deep on the joint, then went around the room, puffing smoke into the budgies’ faces. After three minutes of this, the birds settled into sedate lines along the bookshelves.
Professor Carpenter returned to her seat. “You earned straight Cs in your classes.”
“I’ll do better.”
“What happened?”
Allen didn’t feel he could tell Professor Carpenter about Brenda Cole. The entire episode had been juvenile and ill advised. Allen had known from the start that Brenda had been too much girl for him, a senior in Warner’s poetry workshop, a rebellious girl in a black dress and combat boots and a nose ring and all those great tattoos in interesting places. They’d had three great weeks before she’d dumped him flat on his ass, and Allen had spent the rest of the semester embarrassing himself with pathetic phone calls and bleeding-heart emails, trying to win her back.
“There was a lot going on, Professor Carpenter. I fixed it.”
Above him, the birds sat in a long line, looking down, hunched together like old men, some absurd jury listing to his feeble story.
“Why did you choose Gothic State University, Allen?”
The small university perched atop a rocky precipice overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The institute was undistinguished in every way. The English Department’s one claim to fame had been a nationally renowned Brontë scholar named Thornton Hardwood. It was Hardwood who’d lured Allen to Gothic State. Allen loved the Brontës, wanted to write his dissertation on gender coding in Wuthering Heights.
Hardwood had died suddenly of a stroke six days into Allen’s first semester. Allen had stayed through the second semester because he hadn’t applied to any other schools and hadn’t known what else to do. Brenda had happened the third semester, and Allen’s scholarly ambitions had dropped straight into the crapper.
“I just like it here, ma’am.”
“Uh-huh.” A budgie landed on Dr. Carpenter’s coffee mug. The mug had a novelty message that read, “I earned tenure, and all I got was this lousy coffee mug.” Carpenter rubbed the budgie’s head with her pinky finger. “Hello, Admiral Snodgrass.”
“You can tell all the birds apart?”
“All the budgies are named Admiral Snodgrass.”
Ah.
“I’m going to give you a chance, Allen. You’ll have to bring your grades up, but I’m willing to keep your name off the academic probation list.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am.”
“Wait and hear the rest,” she said. “It’s well known around the department you have a gift for research.”
Allen nodded. During his first semester, he had taken Professor Mapplethorpe’s research methods class and had immediately become teacher’s pet. Mapplethorpe had spread it among the faculty that “the boy can dig anything out of a library.” Allen constantly endured harsh comments on his papers for sloppy writing, but his research skills were impeccable.
“I’m going to assign you as Dr. Evergreen’s grad assistant.”
Allen squirmed in his seat, opened his mouth to object, closed it again. What choice did he have?
Dr. Evergreen was known campuswide as a cranky hard-ass. He stank of bad cigars and gin. He was an unpleasant and demanding man, and most students only took his classes when forced to complete degree requirements.
Budgies cooed in a ganja stupor.
“I understand,” Allen said.
“He’s writing a chapter for a new monograph on Kafka.” Carpenter stubbed out the joint in a ceramic ashtray. “You’re to go with him to Prague this summer and help him with research. It’s not a vacation. He’ll work you hard.”
“Prague? The Czech Republic? That Prague?”
“Yes.”
“I was going to visit my folks this summer.”
“Not anymore. Unless you’d like to drop out.”
“I’ll go to Prague.”
“Good. Go to the party at Evergreen’s house tonight. Grad students are invited, so you won’t feel out of place. Tell him you’re on board.”
Allen stopped himself from sighing. “Okay.”
“Go away now, please.” Carpenter relit the joint, sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes.
I didn’t like Allen at first. With instantaneous knowledge of his entire life, I figured I knew all I needed to make this judgment. He’s a little weak, lets people push him around. He’s apologetic when he hasn’t done anything. He means well in a way somehow more annoying than if he meant harm. You know the type. Always hanging at the edge of a conversation, waiting to be invited to talk.
Allen has a bad habit of ignoring nice, bookish sorts of girls right under his nose. They like him. He’s good-looking and well mannered, with brown hair, wavy and thick, a medium-square jaw and shoulders. Tallish. An open face given to a shy, reluctant grin full of straight white teeth. But Allen ignores the plain Janes in favor of exotic, fast women who ignore him, or worse, chew him up.
Perhaps I despise him for this, since I used to chase the same sort of woman. Ages and ages ago.
But having the sum total of a man’s life inserted into your head like a computer memory stick isn’t the same as experiencing the man or seeing him in action-or often, unfortunately, inaction. Walk a mile in his shoes-or his skin-well, sympathies develop. So I suppose I ended up rooting for Allen, hoping he’d get through all this in one piece.
It’s not my job to take sides, but I am a thinking being, and I do have an opinion.
Still, it would be nice if Allen could get his head straight about women. One of these quiet, girl-next-door types could do his self-esteem a world of good.
Take Penny Coppertone, for example.
“I like that one,” said Penny Coppertone as she sat on the edge of Allen’s narrow bed.
Allen’s dorm room was small, and there was nowhere to sit but the bed. The single chair overflowed with textbooks and dirty laundry. Allen was one of the few grad students still living in the dorms. He couldn’t afford an apartment on his own and didn’t want a roommate.
“This one?” He held the muted red tie up to his shirt, then held up a narrower blue tie. “Not this one.” He wanted to look right for Evergreen’s party.
“Actually, why don’t you wear the black shirt with the tweed and no tie at all,” Penny suggested. “I think that will strike the right tone.”
“What’s the right tone?”
“Professionally academic but off duty and ready for a glass of wine.”
“I’m going to Prague, Penny. Did I mention that?”
“What? That’s wonderful. When? This summer? That’s when the summer writing workshops are. In July, I think. I haven’t been accepted yet, but I’m hoping-”
“I’m going as Dr. Evergreen’s research assistant.”
Penny’s face fell, all the way to the ground. She tried to pick it up again without success. “Well, but still… it could be fun.”
Allen spared her a sideways glance as he slipped into his jacket. “With Dr. Evergreen?”
“No, I suppose it will suck.”
“You’d better hurry and change if you still want a ride.”
Penny’s hand automatically went to her dishwater hair, pulled the ponytail loose. “Actually, I was already-” She looked down at her Gothic State sweatshirt and faded jeans, heavy wool socks and Birkenstocks. “I mean, yeah, I guess I’d better get dressed. I might be a while. How about I meet you there?”
“Okay, but hurry, or all the food will be gone.”
Penny Coppertone was an excellent poet, but her images were quiet and subtle. If her poetry had been about sexual exploration and explosive rants against the establishment, and if Penny had died her hair jet-black and gotten her nose pierced, Allen would have been all over her.
Men can be dumbfucks. If I had it to do all over again…
But of course I don’t.
The Pacific Ocean was just swallowing the sun as Allen left campus in his four-door, V-8 crapmobile, the red-orange rays sizzling on the water. Only a pale pink smear of daylight remained by the time he parked last in a long line of cars on Dr. Evergreen’s street. He followed the cars up to the house, but it was completely dark by the time he stepped onto the front porch and knocked.
Nobody answered.
Distantly he heard muted music and the hubbub of many voices. He raised his fist to knock again.
“The party is in the garden around back.”
Startled, Allen sucked breath, took a step back.
He hadn’t seen her there, on the porch swing, shadows and hanging ferns making her seem as if she’d floated in darkness, only the ice blue eyes glowing out at him. She stood, approached Allen, her face coming into focus.
She was somehow light and dark at the same time, some smiling Celtic goddess, features like delicate china, skin so white it glowed, absorbing light, leaving an aura of darkness all around her. A breeze kicked up, lifted her hair, black and shining like obsidian. She seemed to float toward him, eyes flashing cold and terrible, hair streaming behind like black flame.
Like some sort of terrifying shampoo commercial.
Allen wanted to flee. He wanted to kneel and pledge his soul to her. He didn’t know what the hell he wanted to do.
“You must be Allen.”
He blinked. The spell was broken. Allen was aware of warm sweat in his armpits, behind his ears. What’s wrong with me?
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I thought there was-I was invited-”
“The party is around back.” She moved as she spoke, graceful and silent, suddenly on his left, her slender arm looping into his. “I’ll walk you around. It’s in the garden.”
Then he was on a path. He felt light, like part of him was still back on the front porch.
“You know me, but I don’t… have we met?”
She laughed softly, the sound of delicate hamster bones crushed under the heel of a tall black boot. Like dry leaves blowing across the cold stone of an ancient tomb. Like… Pay attention. She’s talking.
“I’m Cassandra.”
The name was familiar. “Dr. Evergreen’s wife?”
“Yes. He’ll be glad you’re here.”
“I’m looking forward to working with him.”
The slow smile on her face knew the lie.
Allen swallowed hard, felt the warm trickle of sweat down his back. The night was cool, but Allen felt flushed, a little dizzy.
They emerged from the path into a circle of light, to find a line of Chinese lanterns strung through the trees, a gazebo, people milling about a table of drinks and food, tinny music from hidden speakers. He recognized faculty, some of his fellow graduate students. He stood a moment, wondering what to do first. Maybe get a glass of wine? Or should he say hello to Dr. Evergreen?
He asked Cassandra, “Should I find Dr. Evergreen and-”
The woman at his elbow was gone.
“Okay, that’s… weird.”
He waded into the party. He did not see Dr. Evergreen or his wife. He felt awkward and wished he’d waited for Penny so he would have had someone to talk to. He zigzagged his way to the wine table, grabbed a random jug of red, and filled a plastic cup. He tasted it. Good. He read the label on the giant jug. Three Thieves’ Red. Horse-riding desperados adorned the label, pistols in the air. Allen had had Dr. Evergreen pegged as too pretentious for jug wine, but maybe he had the guy all wrong. Maybe this would all be okay after all.
Allen accidentally bumped someone behind him. Purple wine spilled over his knuckles.
“Watch it, douche bag.”
Allen mumbled an apology, then saw it was Kurt Ramis, one of the testosterone-driven fiction writers from the MFA program. He wore a leather bomber jacket with a patch representing a fictional squadron. Shoulder-length, auburn hair carefully arranged to seem windblown, square jaw. Kurt thought he was the next Hemmingway; most of his fiction involved shooting large animals and getting laid.
“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Kurt said. “How’s the Jane Austen studies coming? They fit you for a dress yet?”
“You’re hilarious. And it’s the Brontë sisters.”
The two girls on either side of Kurt giggled, but one of them said, “Be nice.”
“Whatever. Come on, ladies, and sit with me in the gazebo. I’ll tell you about the novel I’m working on. A rugged game hunter must guide a spoiled heiress through the Alaskan wilderness. It’s got bestseller written all over it.”
Asshole.
Allen decided to leave. To hell with it.
He stopped, spotted Penny emerging from the sliding glass doors in the rear of Evergreen’s house. She wore a black cocktail dress, the modest V of her neckline showing a hint of healthy pink skin. She was rosy-cheeked; hair done up and back. Allen was impressed. Penny actually looked like a girl. She was almost pretty.
She saw him, and her smile widened bright and white. She skipped over to Allen.
“You look good,” he said.
“You think?” She did a little half spin. “I’ve had this dress for a while but not an excuse to wear it. Have you talked to Dr. Evergreen yet?”
“I haven’t seen him. I was just getting ready to leave.”
“Oh, don’t do that. I just got here.”
“I can stay another few minutes, I guess.”
She smiled, and Allen did too. When she smiles like that, she is pretty, I guess.
He shuffled awkwardly, suddenly found it not so easy to talk to her.
“I could use some wine,” she said gently.
“Oh, yeah. Okay. Let me get it.”
He wriggled his way through the crowd back to the table, refilled his plastic cup with Three Thieves’ Red, and filled a new one for Penny. He felt like he was at senior prom. Nervous. Snap out of it. It’s just Penny. Good old pal Penny.
He brought the wine back, handed her a cup. They stood, drank. He put his free hand in his pocket, shuffled his feet. The party ebbed and flowed around them.
“This is good wine,” she said.
“Yes.” He looked at her, looked away again.
She moved in closer to him, surreptitiously pointed with her pinky at a young girl in denim across the party, and whispered in Allen’s ear, “She’s in my poetry workshop and wrote a poem about a professor she has a crush on. You don’t think it’s Dr. Evergreen, do you?”
He snorted laughter, covered his mouth. They huddled together, whispering a game guessing the life stories of the other party guests based on how they looked. They laughed, and it was easy. This was good old Penny. Everything was right again.
“That girl in the thrift-store dress is creepy,” Penny said. “I heard her boyfriend dumped her and she just started cutting her leg with a kitchen knife. Just sat there, sawing bloody lines into her thigh.”
Speaking of creepy… “Have you ever met Dr. Evergreen’s wife?” Allen asked.
Penny shook her head. “But I’ve seen her with Dr. Evergreen at parties and readings. She looked beautiful, but sort of distant. You’ve met her?”
“Briefly.”
“What’s she like?”
“I’m not really sure,” Allen said. He found he could hardly remember her face. “She’s light on her feet, I know that.”
Penny grinned. “What the heck does that mean?”
Allen started to explain when the hysterical woman found them.
“Oh, my God, Penny, you are not going to believe it.” The new girl was petite, with sharp features, short black hair, a plaid skirt, and stylish white blouse. Pearls. Allen had seen her around the department and thought of her as Back East pretty. Red eyes. Tears had smeared her makeup. She swallowed great, heaving sobs between words.
She latched onto Penny. People stared openly.
“Calm down, Blanche,” Penny patted her friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go this way. Come on, honey.”
Penny led Blanche away from the gawkers, around the side of the house and under a low tree. Not knowing what else to do, Allen followed.
“Now, take a breath.” Penny held her friend by the forearms, looked her square in the eyes.
“It’s K-Kurt,” Blanche said. “I s-saw him kissing that skank Missy Logan in the woods next to Dr. Evergreen’s house.”
Penny frowned, shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Blanche. I warned you about him.”
“Missy f-fucking Logan,” spat Blanche. “She’s a cow! Why would he-” Her words were lost in a new torrent of wailing and hand-wringing.
“I didn’t see him with Missy earlier,” Allen said. “He was with two other women.”
Blanche wailed even louder, then threw herself onto Penny’s shoulder, tears and snot flowing freely. Penny patted her friend’s back and shot an accusing look at Allen.
Allen shrugged. “I’m just saying-”
“Well, don’t,” Penny said.
Allen mouthed, “Sorry.” Then he took a step back.
“I’ve a good mind to find that boy and chew his ass right off,” Penny said. “Blanche, honey, stay here and pull yourself together. There’s a lot of people at this party, and you don’t want to give that rat-fuck Kurt the satisfaction.”
Blanche sobbed and nodded.
“Allen, stay with Blanche.”
“Me? But-”
“Stay!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hold this.” Penny handed Allen her wine, stalked off, her fists clenched in righteous woman rage.
Allen looked at Blanche and cleared his throat. “That Kurt guy. He’s an asshole, you know? You’re better off without him.”
Blanche sniffed.
“Uh… can I get you a drink or something?”
Blanche nodded, sniffed again.
“Okay. Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
Allen found the Thieves again, filled another plastic cup. Might as well top off his own drink and Penny’s. He drained the jug.
Two hands. Three cups. He gathered them into an awkward triangle, tried to walk, spilling purple over his hands. He slowed his walk, hunching over, balancing the wine. He looked at the wine as he walked, so deep and dark, like fresh blood. The blood of thieves.
He wasn’t watching where he was going and crashed into someone, knocking all three cups of wine down his front, staining his shirt and pants. He gasped at the splash of liquid, bit back a string of vulgarities.
He stepped back, looked at the bearlike figure before him.
“Jesus Christ, kid. You smell like a Napa Valley wino.”
Allen gulped. “Sorry, Dr. Evergreen. I hope I didn’t get any on you.”
Allen came out of the first-floor bathroom, holding up a pair of Dr. Evergreen’s Portland Trailblazers sweatpants with one hand, his wine-stained clothes bunched in the other. He swam in an extra-extra-large Gothic State T-shirt, also Dr. Evergreen’s. It was like wearing a circus tent.
Dr. Forest Evergreen was lumberjack big, Paul Bunyan-ish, barrel-chested, chin the size of an engine block.
Allen went from the bathroom to the kitchen. All modern stainless steel and computerized appliances. His eyeballs ping-ponged back and forth. Tentative. Where to go next? “Dr. Evergreen?”
A voice from down the hall. “This way.”
Allen went down the hall, past closed doors toward the end, where a half-open door spilled dim light into the hallway. He paused again.
“Get in here.”
Allen started, went inside.
Dr. Evergreen’s study was the complete opposite of his modern kitchen. It felt old, ancient in fact, like some old wizard’s workroom from a bad Dungeons & Dragons movie. Very old, leather-bound books lined the shelves. Strange, arcane charts and graphs hung on the walls, and a large globe of the world during the Victorian Empire stood in one corner. Behind Ever-green’s desk hung a yellowing chart, a detailed schematic of the human skeleton. The desk itself was big enough to match Evergreen-darkly polished wood with the nicks and scratches of centuries. Evergreen sat at the desk, a tumbler of amber liquid in one meaty fist. The half-glasses perched at the end of his nose looked small compared to his massive pumpkin head, like they’d been ripped off a doll.
Evergreen hunched over the desk, reading from a brochure without looking up. “‘Imbued with old-world charm, this spacious apartment overlooks the fields and trees of Letna Park. Mere steps to the closest tram line, charming pubs, and a variety of restaurants.’” Evergreen looked over the glasses at Allen. “What do you think?”
“What is it?”
“An apartment in Prague.”
“Oh. Sounds good. I’m sure I won’t have a problem.”
“Not for you, pinhead. For me. I’ve arranged some dorm space for you.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to spill red wine all over the Czech Republic, are you?”
“I’m really sorry, Dr. Evergreen. I’m not usually that clumsy, and-”
Evergreen motioned to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
Allen sat.
“You know what I expect of you?”
“I think,” Allen said. “I spoke to Professor Carpenter.”
“Uh-huh. And what did ganja-head say?”
“That I’d be helping you with research. Something with Kafka.”
“Yeah, that’s the story, but I’ve got something a lot more important for you to work on. A real challenge for your research skills.”
“Oh?”
“I’m getting a grant from the university for the trip, so it has to be some lit thing. I’ve basically written it already. But frankly, I have more important things to work on. Are we clear?”
“No.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in later,” Evergreen said. “Stop looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like somebody pissed down your back. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
“If you can give me some kind of idea what I’ll be researching, maybe I can get started right away,” Allen suggested. “Get a head start.”
“Save it for later. Think of it like a scavenger hunt. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
Allen went back out to the party and marched straight for the wine. He was in for a long semester. And a long summer. He gulped the wine, refilled the cup. Maybe he’d make himself drunk. Why not?
Penny planted herself in front of him. “Where the hell have you been? I told you to stay with Blanche. Why are you dressed like that?”
“I don’t have time to babysit your distraught friends. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not having a very good time.”
“Just tell her I’m looking for her if you see her.”
“Where are you going?”
“Into those woods,” Penny said. “If I know Blanche, she’ll go in there and try to catch Kurt making out with whatever skank is next on his to-do list.”
“The woods? Don’t go into the woods,” Allen said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s… the woods.”
“If I see the big bad wolf, I’ll point him toward Grandma’s house.”
“Just yell if you need any help.”
Penny rolled her eyes and left.
Allen sipped wine. The party came and went around him. Dull.
“I hope you don’t mind if I introduce myself.”
Allen looked up from his wine, raised an eyebrow.
The man who had addressed him was a priest-black suit, white collar. Tall and athletic, late thirties or early forties. His hair was a deep black and just over his ears. Blue eyes. Crow’s-feet. But a bright, energetic smile. He shook Allen’s hand firmly.
“Father?”
“I’m Father Laramie,” said the priest, “but I hope you’ll call me Paul.”
“Father Paul.”
“Just Paul.”
“Okay.”
“Penny tells me you’re Catholic,” said Father Paul. “I didn’t know if you were aware we held a Wednesday mass in the chapel on campus.”
“Ah.” Allen took a swig of wine to buy himself a second. He’d mentioned to Penny that he’d been brought up Catholic, but he hadn’t attended mass in years. He had not even realized Gothic State had an on-campus chapel. How long since his last confession? Well, really, what did Allen have to confess?
This thought depressed him somewhat.
“I’m hoping I can convince you to come around and see us sometime,” Father Paul said. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t encourage you a little.”
“Uh.”
“I know how busy you students are, but it’s often just these busy times when students need to take a break from the frenzy of the semester and refocus on something spiritual and calming. We have a surprisingly large congregation.”
“Oh.”
“I’d like you to have something.”
Father Paul pushed something into Allen’s hand. He looked down into his open palm and saw a velvet jewelry box. He opened it and saw a silver crucifix.
“That’s a little welcome gift we present to all of our Catholic students,” the priest told him. “We want people to know we’re here and that we care.”
Allen took the crucifix from the box. It wasn’t small; it was heavy, maybe solid silver. Allen had a hard time believing they gave out one of these to every Catholic on campus. He started to hand it back to the priest. “I think this might be too much. I don’t feel right.”
“No, no, please don’t worry,” Father Paul said. “We pay for them out of the orphan fund.”
Allen blinked.
“That’s a joke, Allen.”
Allen smiled weakly. “Sorry.”
“There’s no obligation,” Father Paul said. “Why don’t you wear it?”
“Well, I don’t generally-”
“Wear it, Allen.” The priest put a firm hand on Allen’s shoulder, and an abrupt gravity descended upon the conversation. “You’d be surprised how such a simple gesture can bring… comfort.”
Father Paul’s firm gaze held him a second, and Allen’s mouth fell open, speechless. What the hell’s going on here?
Allen was about to firmly insist he didn’t want the crucifix when a piercing scream split the night.
“Penny!” Allen dropped his wine and ran for the line of trees. He plunged into the woods along the narrow hiking path. “Penny!”
Thin branches slapped his face in the darkness. Allen winced but kept running. He turned a corner and smacked into somebody coming fast from the other direction. They both tumbled, went into the bushes. Allen stood, reached for the person with whom he’d collided, and pulled her to her feet.
Blanche threw herself on Allen. “Oh, my God, oh, my God.” Hysterical. Gulping for breath.
Allen shook her by the shoulders. “Where’s Penny?”
“My God, it’s awful. He’s dead. He’s-he’s been-it’s-” She shook her head frantically, the sobbing coming back double.
He’s dead, she’d said. Not Penny. Allen shook her again by the shoulders, thought about slapping her like he’d seen people do in the movies. “Who’s dead, Blanche?”
Blanche made a new, even shriller, panicked sound, pushed away from Allen, and ran back in the direction of the party.
Allen followed the path in the other direction, but he didn’t run now. His feet felt leaden. Fear sweat broke out on his forehead, and silver moonlight filtered through the thin canopy of leaves overhead. With Blanche’s hysterical keening fading into the background, an eerie silence blanketed the woods. The bird chirps, the rustle of leaves, and the scurrying of squirrels had all been swallowed by the pall of dread that had suddenly sunk its claws into the landscape.
Allen stopped walking, his breathing coming shallow. He looked back over his shoulder.
No. Keep going. Penny is still out here someplace.
He made himself jog forward, his footfalls crunching leaves so loudly that the sound seemed obscene. A smallish clearing opened before him, and he immediately saw the body lying on the ground, looking waxlike and unreal in the moonlight. Allen took three quick steps toward the body and froze.
The head was missing.
Allen approached more slowly, fighting down a wave of nausea. A bit of spine stuck out from the ragged neck hole, as if the head had been twisted off savagely and suddenly. Blood still oozed like raspberry syrup. A thick, wet coppery smell permeated the air. Allen didn’t need the man’s face to identify the body. The bomber jacket told the story.
Kurt Ramis, Blanche’s loudmouthed boyfriend.
Allen briefly fantasized about Blanche flying into a rage at Kurt’s infidelity, wrapping her arms around his neck, and wrenching Kurt’s head free of his body.
Unlikely.
Who the hell could do such a thing?
Allen heard a rustling in the bushes to his left. His head jerked around to see, and his body froze. He heard it before he saw it, a breathing and snorting, and then the low growl. Something in Allen’s bowels went watery.
It poked its head through the bushes. Eyes glowed like green fire; he saw a muzzle and pointed ears, red-brown fur standing out in spikes. A dog, an enormous dog of some kind, growling, drool dripping from gigantic fangs. No. Not a dog.
A wolf.
It was gigantic, dwarfed any wolf he’d ever seen at the zoo. It snarled, lips peeled back to display two rows of yellow teeth. It crouched low, and Allen could almost feel its muscles tense, the powerful creature poised to spring.
He remembered his grandfather saying never to run from a dog. They sense fear. Make eye contact. Back it down.
Allen very much doubted his grandfather’s advice applied in this situation.
It’s going to jump on me now. It’s going to eat me. Holy shit, I’ve got two seconds to live what the hell am I going to-
Voices from back down the path, several coming toward him. A group, many talking in frantic voices.
The wolf cocked its head toward the sound, listened a split second, then turned tail and vanished into the woods, departing with impressive speed.
A mob formed behind Allen. A girl screamed. Allen recognized Father Paul’s voice saying, “Dear God!”
A heavy hand on his shoulder. Dr. Evergreen. “Jesus, what the hell happened here?”
Allen’s head was spinning, his gaze still fixed on the patch of bushes where he’d seen the beast. “I have absolutely no idea.”
Let us leave Gothic State University and its people and environs a moment, and let us travel across the country, across time zones, the Atlantic Ocean, to Europe, and a small cobblestone street in the Jewish Quarter of Prague in the Czech Republic.
A side note: An alarming number of people still refer to it as Czechoslovakia. It’s a republic now. I digress.
The Jewish Quarter, or Josefov. Full of old-world charm and souvenir stands. Tourists simply went apeshit for old-world charm and souvenir stands, and nothing said “old-world charm” like a plastic replica of the Old-New Synagogue perched atop a plastic base with little Czech flags around the edges and a hole on one side for sharpening pencils. The Old-New Synagogue on Maiselova Street was the oldest in Europe still actively used as a house of prayer. The spiritual zeal of the Quarter was probably best expressed by a T-shirt that read, “Prague Oy!” and was available in all sizes at a nearby kiosk. In a narrow house next to a jewelry store, mere steps from this temple of worship, lived the disgraced rabbi, Abraham Zabel.
Zabel was something of a wizard, and he sold his occult powers to the highest bidder.
There was good money in this.
Zabel is about to entertain an unhappy client.
Let’s watch.
Abraham Zabel sat at the old scratched desk in the small office of his Josefov house. It was going on evening, and the steady din from the street of hucksters roping in tourists had relented somewhat. He thought often of giving up the house for someplace quieter in the suburbs, but the Jewish Quarter was too perfect, too close to places he needed to visit, people he needed to stay in contact with for his business. The tourists would remain a minor annoyance.
He poured himself a glass of port and returned his attention to his journal, a combination diary and appointment book. On Thursday he had a demon banishing, but then he was free for the weekend. He relished the time off but was concerned that business had been slow. Well, no worry. It would eventually pick up again. It always did.
The dark arts were ever in demand.
He opened an intricately carved wooden desktop humidor and removed a thin cigar, lit it with a thin silver lighter. The humidor was carved with symbols from ancient Hebrew-various warding spells and protections. Zabel doubted the spells retained any potency, but the box looked nice, and it was convenient for the cigars.
A knock at his office door startled him. It meant someone had let themselves into his locked home. Zabel thought briefly of the small revolver in his bottom desk drawer but decided to leave it. He was well protected in the little office. Zabel was a cautious man.
He was about to tell his visitor to enter when the door swung open and a man entered. Zabel knew him: Pascal Worshamn, a client. He had bright blue eyes, alert and energetic, and a smooth pink face that made him look youngish, although the dusting of gray over his ears told his real age.
“Hello, Pascal.” Zabel motioned to the small chair on the other side of his desk. “A seat?”
Pascal didn’t sit. “We haven’t concluded our business, Zabel.”
Zabel spoke good Czech and passable German, but he’d been born in Brooklyn to Czech immigrants. Pascal was from some upper-crust place in London, so the conversation went on in English.
“I told you on the phone,” Zabel said. “You get what you pay for.”
“It didn’t work.”
Zabel sighed. “It worked as well as it could. It killed the wrong man, I admit, but that must be because Evergreen caused some distraction. He’s not without his own skills.”
“Can’t you control the thing? Tell it to try again.”
“It can’t,” Zabel insisted. “It was commanded to destroy itself after the kill. It wouldn’t do to have a golem lumbering around attracting unwanted attention. It probably threw itself off a cliff into the ocean.”
“Make another one,” Pascal said.
“Pay me, and I will. You cheaped out the first time. You should have sent me along, to make the thing on the spot, so I could control the situation, allow for changes and surprises. My resources are not unlimited.”
“Neither are the Society’s.” Pascal pulled a small automatic from his jacket pocket, aimed it at Zabel’s chest. “I must insist the Society get its money’s worth. You’ll make another golem.”
“Only if you pay me.”
“I don’t think you appreciate the implications of this 9 mm pistol.” Pascal stepped forward, trying to appear menacing.
“Threats, is it? Fine, let’s trade threats. You’re not going to leave here alive, Pascal. That’s my promise to you.”
“Are you deluded? Drunk? Too much port for you, my dear Zabel. I’ll draw your attention to the obvious one last time. I’m the one with the pistol.”
“Shoot then.”
“What?”
“Go on,” Zabel said. “Shoot.”
Pascal lifted the pistol, stood pointing it for five seconds. Ten seconds. A light sweat broke out on his forehead. The hand holding the pistol developed a subtle tremor. Pascal laughed, embarrassed and nervous. “I can’t seem to pull the trigger.”
“See the tapestry behind me? The paintings on either side of you?”
Pascal turned his head, looked at them. Abstract images with intricate patterns.
“The patterns are subtle, but woven into the mix are hypnotic suggestions reinforced by powerful spells,” Zabel explained. “Right now, your subconscious is being told that I am your best friend in the world and that you would never harm me. Every second you look at the pattern, the subliminal command grows stronger.”
Pascal jerked his gaze away from the painting, redoubled his efforts to shoot Zabel.
“It’s no use, Pascal. Even a glance is enough.”
“This isn’t over, Zabel. The Society won’t stand for it. They’ll dog your every step.”
“Lars!” Zabel raised his voice. “Lars, come here.”
The floor shook with heavy footsteps. The thing that appeared in the office doorway made Pascal wince and step back, a surprised gasp leaking out of him.
The wooden man was six and a half feet tall, put together with mismatched pieces of wood. He smelled like pine. The face was an agonized grimace, wide, hollow eyes carved in dark wood, the mouth slightly open, the corner of a folded piece of parchment stuck out from between the thickly carved lips.
“Lars, please dispose of our friend Pascal.”
The golem advanced on Pascal, who screamed and backed against the wall. This time the pistol fired. Pascal squeezed the trigger until he emptied the magazine, the shots scarring the golem’s chest, woodchips and splinters flying.
The golem didn’t flinch; it grabbed the wrist of Pascal’s gun hand and twisted. Snap. Pascal screamed again, and the gun fell to the floor. One of the golem’s powerful arms went around Pascal’s neck. The man squirmed and tried to pull free, panic aflame in his eyes. “Zabel, please. Zabel!”
The golem squeezed with one arm, put a gigantic hand on top of Pascal’s head, and twisted. Pascal screamed in raw agony, and the golem twisted again and pulled. A wet snap and a crunch. Pascal’s body went limp. The golem continued to wrench at the head, Pascal’s limbs flopping around like a rag doll’s.
With a final, mighty tug, the golem pulled off Pascal’s head with a wet pop. Blood sprayed.
Zabel looked at his servant, who was cradling the head in the crook of his arm like a football. Perhaps he’d been hasty. Information was never a bad idea. Zabel took a large serving tray from his small closet and set it on his desk. He instructed Lars to set the head there. “Clean up the body in the usual manner, please, Lars.”
The golem threw the corpse over his shoulder and carried it away.
Zabel sat at his desk, facing Pascal’s head. He pulled a small velvet bag from his desk drawer, spilled the materials in front of him. He took a polished, dark red stone and placed it into Pascal’s mouth. He lit a candle, mixed some powders and herbs in a small bowl, then mumbled a few syllables and blew the mixture into Pascal’s face.
The head’s eyes fluttered and opened. “Wha hammpned?”
“Move the stone to the side of your mouth with your tongue,” Zabel instructed. “You’ll be able to talk.”
“What happened?” Pascal asked. His eyes darted to either side. “Good God! What’s happened to me?”
“Did you tell anyone else in the Society you’d hired me to construct the golem?”
“No,” Pascal said. “I was ordered to eliminate Evergreen. That’s all. How I went about it was my own business. Damn, why did I tell you that?”
“You’re a Truth Head now,” Zabel said. “You can’t lie. Who ordered you to eliminate Evergreen?”
“Jackson Fay,” said the head.
Zabel sucked in breath. Jackson Fay. The name was not unknown to him. A very dangerous spellcaster. “Why eliminate Evergreen?”
“I was told he’d persisted with unholy associations and would cause trouble if not handled. Fay did not elaborate. He simply trusted me to get the job done without going through the bureaucracy of a full Council vote.”
Zabel’s lip curled into a mocking grin. “It seems Fay’s trust was misplaced.”
“The Society will still be suspicious when I don’t report in,” Pascal said. “They have ways. They will find you and avenge me.”
“Perhaps, but not anytime soon.”
“What the hell is this in my mouth?”
“A bloodstone,” Zabel said. “If you spit it out, you’ll break the spell.”
“Then I will spit it out and damn your spell, you son of a bitch.”
“Go ahead. Spit.”
Pascal shifted the stone from one side of his mouth to the other but didn’t spit.
Zabel laughed. “You see? It’s not so easy to give up life, is it? To resign yourself to oblivion. How we do cling to hope, we pitiful human creatures. Even now you’re thinking there must be some way out of this, some way to reverse what has happened. Some do, in fact, spit out the bloodstone, but not you, Pascal. Oh no, not you.”
“Damn you to hell, Zabel.”
“Lars!”
The golem returned carrying a mop and a bucket.
Zabel said, “Before you clean up the blood, take Pascal’s head to the cupboard with the others.”
The golem scooped up the head, then carried it out of the room under its arm.
“This isn’t over!” Pascal screamed back at Zabel. “Do you hear me, you bastard? I might just be a head, but I’ll get you. I’ll get you, Zabel. I’ll see you rot in hell!”
Dr. Evergreen’s party was almost no fun at all after the discovery of the headless corpse.
The police showed up. Guests were questioned and questioned again. Efficient men in white coats zipped the body into a black bag and wheeled it away in an ambulance. A few special people like Allen were asked to come down to the station for further questioning. Allen dutifully went along and answered what he guessed were routine questions.
As if there’s ever anything routine about a decapitation.
Allen sat in the bland interrogation room sipping tepid coffee under fluorescent lights. His stomach was upset. He was tired. He vaguely felt like the cops suspected him of something even though he’d been assured numerous times they only wanted to be as complete as possible and if Allen could just be patient, they’d wrap all this up as soon as possible.
The police evidently had a very different definition of “as soon as possible.”
Another cop asked him the same list of questions for the third time. There were forms to sign. They confirmed Allen’s contact information. Just as it looked like they were about to let Allen go, a particularly dour-looking cop had one more question for him.
“You have any knowledge of what this might be about?” The cop held up a tiny glass vial, sealed at the top. It was three-quarters full of thick, red liquid. Crescent-shaped particles floated in the liquid, in addition to strands of what appeared to be thread.
“I’ve never seen that,” Allen said.
“It’s blood and fingernail clippings and hair,” the cop said. “It was found in the victim’s jacket pocket.”
“Okay, gross,” Allen said. “Hey, I have nothing to do with that, okay? All I did was find the body.”
“You ran into the woods after you heard the scream. That’s right?”
“Yes. I told you that.” He’d said nothing about Penny. They hadn’t asked.
“And there was a wolf at the scene, which ran away when the other party guests approached the scene?”
“It was dark. Like I said before, it was probably just a big dog.” Allen was eager not to seem crazy-cuckoo.
“We appreciate your time, Mr. Cabbot. We’ll call you if we think of anything else to ask.”
Allen left the police station. Fast. All he wanted to do was get back to his dorm and sleep. It was after midnight by the time he got there. He slouched up the stairs, unlocked his door, and went into the dorm room, already unbuttoning his shirt, anticipating nothing but deep, dark sleep.
“Allen!”
“Jesus!” Allen clutched his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Where have you been?” Penny curled on Allen’s bed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I’ve been waiting for hours and worried about you.”
“Where have I been? Where’d you go at the party? Jesus, I heard this scream and thought you were being murdered or something. Did you hear about Kurt Ramis?”
“Of course! It’s been all over the news. I went to my car to get something, and when I came back I couldn’t get near Dr. Evergreen’s house. The street was choked with police cars.”
“It was horrible. Penny, something ripped Kurt’s head right off his body. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I never want to again. The police kept me for hours.”
Penny sucked in breath, slid to the edge of the bed. “Holy shit, Allen, they don’t think you did it?”
“Of course not. But I found the body. They had a lot of questions. Something else.” Allen hesitated. “Penny, I swear I saw a huge wolf near the murder scene. I thought it was going to eat me, swear to God.”
Penny stood slowly. “Oh?”
“I mean, this fucking thing was snarling and going crazy. I really thought it was about to pounce.”
“Wolves are not indigenous to this area,” Penny said flatly.
“Well, I know what I saw, and it was-hey, are you mad at me or something?”
“It’s just that with everything going on, I don’t think you need to exaggerate, telling people your wolf story.”
“It’s not a story.”
“It was probably just a big dog.”
Allen blew out a sigh, flopped onto his bed. “Fine. A big dog.”
“Listen, Allen.” Penny eased down onto the bed next to him. “If you don’t want to be alone… I mean, if you want to talk or have some company, I know what you saw was probably upsetting and everything.”
“No, thanks. I’m exhausted. All I want to do is go to sleep.”
Penny stood again quickly. “Of course, I mean… sure. I know you’re probably exhausted. Right. I’ll just go.”
“I talked to your friend Father Paul at the party.”
Penny brightened slightly. “Isn’t he nice? I don’t get to mass as often as I should, but I go when he’s on duty.”
“I don’t know. The whole conversation seemed a bit odd.” Allen pulled the crucifix from the pocket of his sweatpants. “He insisted I take this.”
“Good. You should wear it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Look.” She dipped two fingers under the collar of her T-shirt and came out with a silver crucifix. It was smaller but otherwise identical. “You wear yours, and I’ll wear mine. We can be Savior buddies.”
Allen laughed. “Maybe.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Mmmmmm. What have you done for me lately?”
“I’m serious,” Penny said.
“You know we are.”
“Then do this for me,” she said. “Simply because I’m asking you to.”
“But why?”
“Do it for me, and I’ll tell you later.”
Allen looked at her, then at the crucifix, and back to her. He hadn’t figured her for the religious type.
“Didn’t I get you through Professor Mayflower’s Restoration lit class?”
“Yeah.”
“Then humor me.”
He smiled and shrugged, slipped the thin chain over his head. The crucifix hung heavy to the middle of his chest. “There. Happy? You saved my soul.”
“Maybe.”
Penny left him to sleep and to dream.
You’ve probably heard all the Freud stuff about dreams, the subconscious stretching and giving itself a workout, all those dreams that originate from within. Going to class in your underwear. The dream where you’re falling and falling and falling.
But there’s another sort of dream too. The kind that comes from elsewhere, that wriggles into your mind. An invasion. Allen dreamed of eyes. Cool, calm eyes of the night, eyes he felt had been watching him for centuries. Eyes that ate the light and lived in darkness. And he was cold; he shivered.
Allen awoke at dawn, covered in sweat and burdened with some nameless dread that he couldn’t explain.