Quoth the crow, p.7
Quoth the Crow, page 7
part #3 of The Crow Series
his stories had made it into the Magazine of Fantasy and
Science Fiction and other higher-paying markets (including a
short-short in Rage, his first men’s magazine sale). He’d even
written one of the books in the perennial horror line based on
the popular Gothic TV series, Dark Sunset. Unfortunately, it
had been severely rewritten by the in-house editor of the
series, while his own serious novel had fallen victim to the
industry-wide retrenchment in mid-list category fiction.
Translation: it had never sold because it wasn’t “high-concept”
enough and he wasn’t a name-brand writer. At least not yet,
he’d tell himself.
His masters thesis had been called “William Blessing and
American Gothic.” He’d been thrilled when Blessing had
actually answered the questions he’d sent in a letter. When
Blessing had received the final thesis, he’d been so pleased
with the results that he’d helped get it published as a
monograph by a small university press. They’d stayed in
contact through e-mail, and when Donald had started
wondering whether he should get a doctorate, Blessing had
been more than supportive. Having read and admired not just
Donald Marquette’s critical efforts but his short stories as well,
Blessing suggested that he come to Johns Hopkins to get his
doctorate and had arranged for financial help, including a
scholarship. Blessing was also assembling a huge collection of
Gothic fiction in three volumes: one from North American
writers, one from British writers, and one from writers from
the rest of the world. In addition to other editing work,
Blessing thought that Donald might be interested in helping to
assemble these volumes with him.
Naturally, Donald had jumped at the chance.
Teaching on a high school level was getting to be a drag.
Getting a Ph. D. from a prestigious school like Johns Hopkins
would make it possible to get a position as an assistant
professor at a university somewhere. Also, being associated
with a person on the level of Blessing, both academically and
in terms of popular fiction, could do nothing but good things
for his writing career.
With Blessing’s help, he was accepted at the Baltimore
university. He’d arrived before the beginning of the next
school year in order to get settled and start working seriously
with Blessing on the ambitious multi-volume series.
Now, the notion of seeing Blessing’s famous library with
its amazing collection of the memorabilia, not merely of Edgar
Allan Poe but of many other writers in the Gothic tradition,
gave Donald a thrilling buzz.
Except for this strange business with that bird, it looked as
though it was going to be a banner day, he thought. Blessing,
though obviously troubled by the crow incident (and,
naturally, by his brush with death) was a genuinely fine fellow
and, although Donald was still a little nervous, Blessing’s
politeness and enthusiastic reception made him feel very good
indeed.
What treats awaited him upstairs!
Blessing made a quick detour back to his bar.
“Come, come, then,” said Blessing, pouring another drop
of whiskey into his cup, this time without diluting it with
first-rate coffee. He smoothed back his hair and pointed
upward. There was a manic gleam in his eye. Clearly he
relished showing off his home and his treasures—particularly
to someone like Donald Marquette, who would appreciate
them. “Let’s go up to the lab and see what’s on the slab.”
“Lots of books, I’d imagine,” said Donald.
As they passed into the hallway, approaching the staircase,
the door opened.
“Ah! It’s the wife!” said Blessing. He quickly downed the
whiskey and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He handed the
mug over to Donald. “Do me a favor and hide the evidence,
eh?” He pulled out a cough drop from his pocket, unwrapped
the paper, and popped it in his mouth.
“Okay,” said Donald. He thought for a moment and then
walked back to the kitchen. He went to the sink and ran the hot
water, washing out the dregs of the whiskey.
When he turned the water off, he heard voices from the
other room: A man’s. A woman’s.
“I’m just glad you’re all right!”
“I’ll tell you one thing. No one’s getting me up on that roof
again! But come on up, dear. Donald Marquette’s here!”
“Terrific! I’ve been looking forward to meeting him!”
The woman’s voice was rich, sweet, mellifluous.
Marquette stepped out of the kitchen, quickly drying his
hands on his shirt, anticipating an encounter with a strong,
friendly woman. Probably with a touch of gray but strongly
built with a gentle, mature smile and the kind of steadiness
that gave a great writer and scholar like Blessing foundation
and anchor in this rough world.
“Donald! I’ve heard so much about you,” said the woman
as she saw him.
Donald Marquette blinked and stopped in his tracks.
Amy Blessing was one of the most beautiful, striking
women he’d ever encountered in his life.
And she was no more than twenty-five years old.
six
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
—Edgar A. Poe, “Ligein”
THERE WAS A GIRL WITH A KNIFE IN HER CHEST IN THE
BASEMENT.
Somehow, Baxter Brittle managed to keep his hands from
shaking too much as he poured himself several ounces of good
French cognac into a glass of Coke.
A very, very dead girl.
Brittle drank gratefully, allowing the carbonated varroom
of alcohol to separate him just a little bit more from the
problem.
The familiar environs of his bar helped him as well, the
touch of the field of bottles, the smell of last night’s beer and
cigarette smoke in the air. Fortunately, Ed the janitor had come
in early as he was paid to do and swabbed the place down after
last night’s bacchanalia. He and the other bartenders could
pretty much take care of it through the week, but on Saturday
and Sunday mornings, they needed a professional.
Now the beer cans were in a black sack along the side of
the road outside, with the rest of the Friday flotsam and
jetsam. Too bad the garbage collectors don’t take dead bodies,
thought Baxter.
Outside it was a beautiful spring day, unfortunately. The
nice thing about his bar was that it was equipped with shutters
as well as windows, so he could pretty much control the
lighting. Most of the time, he kept them tightly shut. Baxter
took pride in the fact that, in his bar, he could create perpetual
night. Right now, in fact, those shutters were closed. The only
light in the room was provided by the dim overheads, a few
lights in the bar, and an EXIT light to the rear of the place.
However, even this was too bright for Baxter Brittle’s delicate
condition, so he was very happy that from time to time he
wore shades, inside and outside, and no one would wonder
why he was wearing them now. (Not just to keep out the light,
but to hide his puffy, bloodshot eyes, as well.)
He tilted back the rest of the Coke and allowed the cognac
entrance into his system. Then he poured himself a little more,
neat, and put it upon the bar. And surveyed his domain.
Thank God no one is here, he thought.
He knew that customers would be straggling in eventually,
but every moment of peace he got he needed to get his brain
back in gear.
After his intimate acquaintance with blood and death, he’d
managed to hobble to his upstairs apartment. The shower had
been hot and welcome, going a long way toward getting him
back on the road to something at least approaching sanity. A
scrubbing, some shampoo, and lots of steam had led him to a
conclusion.
Whatever had happened last night, there was time to deal
with it.
Enough time had passed to allow certain key memories
into his brain pan, the most significant of which was the fact
that the girl was from somewhere far, far away; was, in fact, a
runaway, if memory served, who’d just arrived in the area and
knew practically no one. The others of the Gothiques, Baxter
felt, were probably having a similar morning as he had. Even
if any of them remembered what had happened last night, he
was pretty certain that no one would go to the police. No, he
had enough on them, enough power, that they’d just come in
here, check things out, talk it over. That this had not happened
yet did not surprise him. Many of the gang didn’t even rise
before the sun set. Baltimore vampires! Just as well.
After his shower, he’d put on some fresh clothes,
padlocked the cellar doors, and then opened the front door.
He’d pretty much figured that if he kept the bar closed today,
that would be a pretty damned suspicious thing. No, better to
get through today, another Saturday-as-usual, and then deal
with the horror below late tonight or tomorrow. To that end,
he’d padlocked the door to the cellar. Cops could hack their
way through, sure, but he’d deal with that if it happened. Right
now the main thing was to put on a good face, get enough
drugs and alcohol into the system to appear normal, and just
get on with slinging the good old booze.
He’d just about started thinking normally, without the
spike of terror and anxiety rammed up his butt, when the door
opened and the man all in black walked in.
He was a tall man with a muscular build, tightly wound
around a large frame. He had a V-like torso and wore tight
blue jeans. An expensive coat hung down from immense
shoulders all the way to the heels of his black leather boots.
Long hair in loose ringlets highlighted a face that could have
been something chiseled out of stone. His eyes were deep-set
and looked at Baxter with an amazing intensity.
“Hey, Brittle,” said the man, showing strong white,
wolflike teeth in a predator’s smile. “How about a nice vodka
martini. Shaken, not stirred. Just like you.”
The smile turned into a grin.
Baxter stared at the man.
He knew this guy.
Yeah, he knew this guy…and things started falling into
place.
Last night.
This man was at the bar last night!
But had he been below?
Baxter Brittle’s mind churned hard, but that was all that he
could come up with. It was enough, though. There was
something about this man that was important. Vital.
Exactly what was hard to say, but making the guy his
martini would buy him some time.
Baxter grinned. “Hey, man. First customer. You get a big
one, small price.”
“You always pay more than money for martinis,” said the
man. He had a resonant precise voice, rich in irony.
Baxter forced himself to chuckle. “You bet. But oh, they
can go down so smooth.”
He pulled out the stainless-steel mixer, dug up some
shaved ice. Much vodka, a whisper of vermouth. Affix top.
Shake, shake, shake. Quickly, before too much ice melted, he
set up one of his classic martini glasses on a napkin in front of
his customer. A strainer affixed to the top of the tumbler kept
the ice back as he poured the clear mixture into the glass. It
was a focused ceremony, and the traditional moves gave him
an odd kind of familiar comfort.
“Olive or twist?”
“Didn’t Charles Dickens write that book?”
“What? Oh, yes. Right.” He winked at the man, cocked a
finger at the man. “Good one. I’m a bit slow this time of day.”
“I would think so…after what happened last night.” The
man leaned forward on the bar, his teeth going into a Jack
Nicholson sort of grin. “I’ll take both the lemon twist and the
olive. Please.”
Baxter pulled open the condiment tray, selected a nice fat
Spanish olive, and squeezed a toothpick through it and the
pimento inside. Then he pared a bit of lemon zest and gingerly
placed it in the drink. Cautiously, he said, “I’m not sure I know
what you mean.”
He studied the man’s face, tried to get some memory back,
but there was nothing there but a vague certainty that, in fact,
the man had somehow been involved with last night.
The man picked up the toothpick, waggled it for a moment
in the drink, then sucked off the olive. He chewed this
methodically for a moment, then drank off a half inch of the
martini, still staring at Baxter with those penetrating eyes.
“I hope you won’t think of me as anything but an ally,
Baxter. In fact, I want to make sure you know that I absolutely
harmonize with everything in your life. Only I believe I can
take you in the directions you desire.”
“I’m sorry. You lost me.” Baxter was frightened, but he
was also annoyed. “Look, I admit I drank too much last night.
I don’t remember a damned thing that happened after about
ten.”
“But you recognize me.”
“Vaguely.”
“Good. That’s all that’s necessary. Oh—and help yourself
to some of the mix if you like. On me.”
“Don’t mind ifI do.”
Baxter grabbed some normal crystal, poured himself the
drink, and took a swallow. The chill bite gave him a bit of
relief. “What’s this about—blackmail?” He sighed. “If you’re
after money, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy.”
The man sipped at his martini, still intently staring at
Baxter. He looked like some gigantic snake, its prey in the
corner, sizing it up, getting ready for a strike.
“Oh, I think we’re both after money, but that might come
down the line, if we can get in synch.” The man leaned back,
looking relaxed. “If you woke up as I imagined you did, it was
to a bit of shock, Baxter Brittle. I’d like to help you with the
situation that you’re in.”
Baxter knocked back the rest of the drink. “I’m tired of
beating around the bush. What are you proposing?”
“Ever see that movie Pulp Fiction? ”
“Sure.”
“John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson accidentally blow a
guy’s brains out in the backseat. The result: one messy
backseat. They take the car to Quentin Tarantino’s garage. The
mob boss calls in Harvey Keitel, who figures out what to do
before Tarantino’s wife gets back. He’s called ‘The Cleaner.’”
“What are you saying?”
“Just call me Harvey.” The man smiled. “You’ve got
yourself a situation. I can take care of it for you. It’s that
simple.”
Baxter shook his head. “If you know I’ve got a situation,
maybe you can tell me what happened!”
“Maybe it’s just as well you don’t know, Baxter. Maybe
you’d sleep a lot better in the future if we just get this little
matter behind you. And I’ll take care of the…uhm…dead
weight in your life. No one else knows, Baxter. No one really
cares about the victim. I have the talent and the power to erase
just about everything that might lead anyone looking for her
here.”
Baxter was just damned grateful there was no one else in
the bar. His entire being had shut down from the moment he’d
seen that knife stuck in that girl. Now something very much
like hope glimmered at the back of his mind. He knew very
well that this man could be some strange kind of informant.
Maybe an investigator into cult activity, looking into the
warped world of the Goths, and coming away with a lot more
than he’d bargained for—trying to nail the heinous slaughter
of a poor innocent.
No. As Baxter studied the craggy face of this man, he saw
nothing but a different kind of ambition. An ambition that had
already etched itself into his own heart.
Baxter pulled out a pack of French cigarettes. He took one
and stuck it in his mouth. He felt a little more powerful just
completing this ritual.
“Tell me your name. I need to know your name first,” he
