The bloodstone, p.24
The Bloodstone, page 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“PERHAPS THERE COMES A TIME IN EVERYONE’S LIFE,” CHANDAL said tremulously, her eyes bright, not with tears, but almost with ice that would later melt and run free, “when nothing of the past has any validity anymore. It’s a sort of a boundary, I think, Ron, and once you’ve stepped over it, you can never be the same again, or feel the same way again, or...” Her voice dissolved and she took a sip of tea. Though it had no taste, the action of lifting the cup to her lips was a valuable fill-in, a way to keep functioning.
Ron faced her across the oval table in the L of the living room, that area next to the kitchen that had been set apart for eating. He stared at the layer of dust on the dining table that glistened in the morning light, at the soot on the kitchen window that faced him, at the dinginess of cabinet tops and unpolished mirrors and ornaments. He breathed in the dank odor of dust mixed with moisture and knew that all this was a symbol of how deep Chandal’s problems lay. He hadn’t told Chandal about Dr. Luther’s offer to help. He had decided to wait for a more opportune moment.
He took his time, stirring his coffee, then placing the spoon on the saucer. “Do you mean you can never feel the same way about me again?” he asked. “I guess maybe that’s a low starting point, Chandal. But for you and me, it is at least a starting point.”
“I don’t know,” she said immediately, the words strangled in her throat. “You see, I’m not sure I’ll be able to feel anything in the old way. Or even remember. I could see you, Ron, next month or even next week, and I’m not sure—” Her voice cracked. “I’m not sure I’d recognize you. I’m not even sure I’ll know myself. Nothing is sure right now. Maybe I’ll speak a different language or maybe I won’t talk at all. I won’t be myself, you see. That’s what I’ve come to understand. I’ll be her.”
“Who is that?” Ron asked gently, folding his hand on top of her wrist. He could feel her pulse hammering. She shook her head. “Who?” he demanded and saw shame flit across her pale face.
“Elizabeth,” Chandal replied hopelessly. “She’s inside of me and she’s swallowing me alive, almost like she’s feeding on me. The more of me she consumes, the more of her there is. I can feel her opening up like an inflated balloon, crowding me out. And what I think, Ron, is pretty soon there won’t be room for both of us inside me. She’s suffocating me, killing me.” Her voice had diminished into a thin whisper. “And I can’t tell anyone. I shouldn’t even have told you,” she choked, “because it’s unbelievable. It’s fucking unbelievable, Ron, and I don’t expect you to take me seriously.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely as the cold hard shine of her eyes now evaporated into a silent flow of tears that coursed down her cheeks.
Ron, looking at her with a mixture of bewilderment and pity, thought how little resemblance there was in this haunted, anxious face to the old Chandal in California who had laughed so easily and been so full of hope for the future. Yet his love for her was complete, wide enough to encompass both images.
“Tell me,” he said, settling back in his chair, “exactly how this whole goddamn thing got started.”
She tried to protest but had no further strength for it. The story came out in confusing bits and pieces, long rapid strung-together sentences interrupted by suddenly blocked segments of memory. There were several facts that emerged.
Chandal had no idea at all where she had gotten the impulse to return to New York City. She started packing her suitcases and an hour later she was at the L.A. airport. Secondly, since arriving in New York, she had acted in strange behavior patterns that had jeopardized her career and wrecked her finances. Finally, she was terrified to mention her confusion, both because she was afraid “Elizabeth” was eavesdropping and might retaliate and also because she feared being returned to solitary confinement in the hospital.
Ron spoke slowly, being careful to keep his expression nonjudgmental. “Do you think the whole thing is caused by this Elizabeth, or is there something more to it than that?”
“It’s a whole group of people, I think. One of them is the old woman I’ve seen on the fifth floor of the brownstone. They’re watching me. She’s the only one I’ve actually seen, but I know there’s more of them. I can feel it. When she’s not there, I know that someone, somewhere, has taken over the watch.” Her eyes raked his face, challenging him to mock her. “Do you believe me?”
He didn’t even pause to think. “Yes, I do.”
She stared at him, puzzled. “Why?”
“Because,” he said steadily, “it’s the one thing I can do for you. And anything you need, Del, that’s what I want to give you. What I’ll try to give you.” He went on swiftly, aware that tears again brimmed in her eyes. “Now the question is why they should be watching you.”
“I can’t understand that either,” she said eagerly.
“Oh, I know generally why,” Ron replied, “although not specifically.”
She paused, her eyes opening wide. “You do?”
“Yes. There’s obviously something they want from you,” Ron said. “Now we have to find out what that something is.” He got up so suddenly, his chair tilted backward and he had to catch it with one hand to prevent its falling to the floor. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“I would like to see that fifth-floor apartment for myself. If the old biddy is there, we’re off to some sort of a beginning, wouldn’t you say?”
“She won’t be there,” muttered Chandal, but she followed him obediently through the front door into dazzling morning sunshine.
“This is better than California,” Ron grinned and tucked her hand into the curve of his arm as they slowly paced down the flagstone path. She had been looking up into his face and now stopped suddenly, pulling him to a halt beside her.
“My God, you’re thin,” she said with new discovery. “What have you been doing with yourself?” Then she cupped his chin in both her palms and kissed him with lips slightly salty from her dried tears.
The kiss left them both dizzy.
Ron murmured shakily, “That’s the best kiss I ever had since that night when we parked in Laurel Canyon.”
“Shut up,” she said, laughing, the sun in her eyes, and added, “No kidding, why are you so thin?”
“I’ve been pining away for you,” he said and found that he believed it. For the first time in two weeks he had a settled feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if he could deal with anything. “Let’s go find that sneaky old woman,” he said jovially, “and beat her wrinkled old ass.”
“Ron!” shrieked Chandal as he playfully swooped down on her, securing her body in the crook of his arm.
In front of the brownstone they paused.
“We should get the key from Doreen,” Chandal said, suddenly somewhat constrained.
“Who’s that?”
“Mike’s wife.”
“Hmm,” Ron said, tightening his grasp on her.
“Ron, about the other night... you see, that’s part of this whole strangeness. That might be the hardest thing for you to believe—”
“While I’m believing,” Ron said, “Let’s go ring her doorbell and get the key.”
“Right.”
Cutting across the sidewalk, Chandal led the way up the stairs, dingy and laced with decaying vines, and entered the inner hallway. Ron noted her hand hovering between knocker and doorbell. When she finally reached for the tarnished twirled handle, she found it immovable, stuck against the face of the door.
“Visit here often, do you?” he quipped and she broke into giggles as he punched the bell marked “Super.”
Moments later her newfound gaiety was shattered cleanly in one blow with no more effort than one might take to shatter an acorn with an anvil. Ron’s gaze went from Chandal to Mike and Doreen Hammer, who stood together in the doorway like immovable sentinels.
“I told you there’s no one living in that apartment,” Doreen declared adamantly with folded arms, feet widely and firmly stanced like a pioneer settler in a field, proclaiming her territory.
“But she was there, Doreen,” Chandal pleaded. “Just let us have the key. Ron wants to look around.”
“Sounds like the old Polish woman who used to live there,” Mike shrugged. “But she’s dead.”
“Maybe there’s another woman in the building,” suggested Ron with the air of a compromise.
“No,” Mike said pleasantly, not taking his eyes from Chandal’s face.
“We don’t have any old women living in this building,” Doreen added. “The building’s almost deserted. Besides, 5B is locked. You know that, Chandal. And even if an old woman could get in, what would she be doing up there?”
“Sleeping!” snapped Chandal. “Spying on me. Any number of things. I’ve seen her, Doreen! Do you understand that?”
Doreen’s round red smile collapsed unhappily. She glanced over her shoulder at Mike.
Mike shook his head.
“All right,” Chandal said, her hand on Ron’s arm. “I’ll ask Miss Ramsey about it then.”
“Who?” Doreen asked blankly.
“Miss Ramsey,” repeated Chandal in icy tones. “The woman who rented me the house.”
Mike and Doreen exchanged a long puzzled glance and then Mike snapped, “She’s crazy. She’s really crazy.”
Doreen said slowly, anxiously, “I rented you the carriage house, don’t you remember? You saw the sign. Wait a minute.”
She disappeared down the old linoleum hallway as Chandal hung limply on Ron’s arm, her fingers the only alive part of her body, tearing into his skin like pointed claws.
“What are they trying to do to me?” she mumbled between chattering teeth. “It’s a trick, Ron. I didn’t see any sign. Don’t believe what they tell you.”
“I’m on your side, kid,” he said lightly and bent forward to peer into the hallway. A putrid odor seemed to emanate from within the apartment, floating toward them in an unhurried cloud of tainted air. What was that odor? Ron wondered, fighting the urge to draw back into a clearer atmosphere. Something chemical or even worse was the subliminal smell. Like rotted flesh.
“Here it is,” Doreen said breathlessly, coming briskly down the hallway. She held out a large “For Rent” sign, green letters on a white background. “You rang the bell and I told you about the carriage house and took you over. Don’t you remember, Chandal?” Her rouged cheeks stood out like round dots of surprise across her chalky skin. “You loved it,” she went on. “You came back and gave me two months rent—”
“In cash?” Chandal asked tartly.
“Yes. Because, you know, the carriage house....”
“I know,” Chandal replied. “It’s illegal,” she explained to Ron and then her legs did give way.
“Look, do you mind?” Ron murmured politely, catching her about the shoulders. “If she could just sit down for a minute....”
He wondered if they realized what a subterfuge it was. That the last place he would have thought to take Chandal was to the source of that foul odor. But there was that sudden drive of curiosity, something he couldn’t explain. He simply had to see the inside of that large, dim, cavelike apartment. Swiftly he moved forward, supporting Chandal’s weight. Doreen followed, wringing her hands, the sign propped forgotten in the dark hallway. Mike closed the door behind them and brought up the rear of their short processional.
Ron released his hold on Chandal and she dropped weakly onto the couch. Adopting an easy posture next to her, he waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting before he began recording details.
There was a single shaded lamp burning in the living room. The furniture was covered with dark rose chintz. A few wine bottles supporting melted candles sat on coffee table and mantel. Embers of a fire sputtered in the fireplace, over which a slowly revolving spit was suspended. On this was skewered some meat being barbecued. The odor of the meat was apparently the source of the putrid aroma, Ron decided, feeling a tightening at the base of his tongue. His head swam giddily as he glanced away, noticing that the primary decoration of the room was animal skins and heads. An entire bearskin lay on the floor, a stuffed wolf stood in a corner. Deerheads looked gently down from their nailed-on plaques. Smaller specimens from birds to snakes, even a skunk, were on shelves about the room.
“Taxidermy,” Mike explained shortly. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Where do you hunt?” Ron asked, his eyes back on the barbecuing meat.
“Upper New York. Canada. What I’d really love is to go on a safari one of these days.”
“It’s his dream,” Doreen explained.
“Ah.” Ron looked around, groping for words. “Are there any other apartments on the fifth floor?”
“Yes, one other,” Mike said.
“Well, maybe whoever lives there is using—”
“No one lives there. The top floor is completely empty.”
“That’s not true,” Chandal exclaimed. “Doreen, when we went up there the other night, someone opened the safety cylinder and looked out at us. Don’t you remember? When I was banging on the door.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. I told you before we went up there, that no one lives on the top floor.”
“Then why was there a light burning in the hallway? All the rest of the hallway lights were dark.”
“Not dark—gone. I told you that, too,” Doreen said in a level voice. “The tenants on the other floors take the lights out of their sockets whenever they need one. That’s why the top floor still has one. Nobody bothers to go up there.”
“Doreen, why are you doing this? Why?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, shit! SHIT!” Chandal rose without warning and began to pace, staring first at Doreen and then at Mike.
Ron jumped in. “The other tenants. Can we speak with them?”
Mike shrugged. “It’s a free country. You’ll have to try and catch them when they’re here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We only have a few tenants living here. A broker who only uses the apartment occasionally. A student, but he’s very rarely here.”
“And Sue Ann,” Doreen added. “But she’s in Europe. Italy, I think.”
Ron shook his head. “I see.”
Mike moved slowly to the fireplace. “I don’t see what all the big fuss is about, anyhow.”
Ron looked at Chandal, who refused to comment. “Well, you see...” Ron hesitated. “The woman upstairs keeps watching Chandal, and—”
“So?” Mike asked. “No harm in that.”
“It could be very annoying.” Ron tensed.
“Well, like I’ve said—there’s no old lady living in this building.” Turning, arms folded on the mantel, Mike looked Chandal full in the face for a moment.
Ron could sense a strange undercurrent between them, almost as if they were communicating on another level, or in another dimension. From the corner of his eye he watched Doreen take a step between them.
“God!” she cried. “Sometimes I wonder what we’re doing here ourselves.” She eyed Mike nervously.
Mike snorted faintly. He moved over to the front window and peered out of it, hunched over. “Well,” he said, “it isn’t so bad here once you get used to it.” His voice was lower, a little blurred in the stifling air. “I was brought up on big dreams, you know. Where did it get me? Take the two of us here—ever since we moved in we’ve been going around and around, trying to figure a way to get out. There isn’t any way. So what? There’s a million variations on poor slobs like us.” He rubbed the stubble on his face with his fist. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He turned to face Chandal, smirking. “We all get a little crazy from time to time, so you might as well learn to enjoy it.”
Chandal stood shivering, her eyes glazed over. Suddenly she said, “Ron, I want to get out of here. Right now!”
“All right,” he said easily, and went to her side. “I guess she’ll be better off walking,” he explained and looked up to see that Mike and Doreen stood together blocking access to the small hallway.
Something hastened him, told him to get Chandal out quickly before they would have a chance to think about it. Grasping her arm, he pulled her after him as Doreen and Mike parted instinctively, clearing the way for them.
At the front door Chandal turned back to stare at Doreen. “I know why you’re doing this, Doreen,” she said piercingly. “You’re trying to make Ron think I’m going crazy. But it’s not going to work! Do you understand me? It’s not going to work!”
Pityingly, Doreen smiled back at her.
Back at the carriage house, Chandal raged. “She’s a dirty liar!”
“Is there some way we can prove—”
Chandal cut Ron off. “Almost deserted! Ron, when I moved into the carriage house, almost every window of the brownstone had signs of occupancy. You know, drapes, plants, shutters. I even remember thinking most of the drapes looked shabby so it probably was a low-income building. But the worst thing is to blatantly stand there and tell me I imagined Miss Ramsey and the Friendly Realty. That, at least, I can prove. I have a signed letter of agreement.”
“From Friendly Realty?” Ron took a quick step toward the den. “If you’ve got proof—”
“Not in there!” she said, a feverish note of paranoia in her voice. “I wouldn’t keep anything of mine in there!” She had disappeared up the stairs, leaving Ron to wait somewhat helplessly and confused. If she was really going to come down that staircase with a signed letter of agreement from Miss Ramsey of Friendly Realty! He shook his head as though to clear it. He had promised to believe her. He was a man of his word. He had never violated a promise to a client or to a studio, record company, casting director or commercial advertising agency. Certainly now, in the case of Chandal, he intended to live up to the highest letter of his unstated law. He was going to believe in Chandal, possibly even more than she believed in herself.
She stood before him now, ashen-faced, a muscle in her cheek twitching uncontrollably.
“They’ve taken it,” she said, frowning as though to consider who the shadowy “they” might be. “They’ve rooted through all my personal things, Ron. And they took the letter of agreement, because it was my proof against them. And so now, of course, it’s just my word against theirs.” She pursed her lips as if in sudden thought. “Friendly Realty,” she murmured. “It’s on West 64th Street. 400—no, 300 West 64th.”
