Agyar

THIRTEEN

The church bells, unusual for a Friday, finally stopped several hours ago. I think by now it must be Saturday morning. March has all but ended, but it still feels like mid-February; I’m tempted to take this as a personal affront.

Once more, now, I am feeling well and fit, as if the trials of a week ago had not occurred, save for the wounds of experience, which bring strength, not weakness. I found a telephone and spoke to Jill in the hospital, and wished her a speedy recovery. They do not, she said, have any idea what happened to her, but she says she’s doing well. They were concerned that she had attempted suicide at first, but not any more. She expects to return home within a day or two.

I can relax now, and consider the impossible, and prepare for exertions to come, for there may be some. The notion does not frighten me. If I am correct in my surmises (why do I want to say surmisi?), then I will still carry out the visit I had intended to make, only I will do so with a different purpose. This, I think, will happen tomorrow.

If I am right, then I can leave this place, and never need to worry about Kellem again. Perhaps, even, Susan will come with me; I should like that very much. But I dare not broach the subject until I have some reason to believe I will escape this peril.

Before, the notion of opposing Kellem was unthinkable. Now, all of a sudden, I can not only consider it, but I have, indeed, been thinking of little else for the past several days, even to the point of failing in my duty to this machine. The notion fills me with an excitement such as I have never felt; one that is not unmixed with fear, but is no less strong for that.

I am not weary, but sleep is, nevertheless, coming on. Tomorrow, more will occur.

I have this odd piece of paper in front of me. I read it, and I wonder if I have been made a fool of. I hope not. I think not. Unless something happens to change my mind, I will assume not.

When I left the house it was early in the evening, the full moon had not yet risen, and I was greeted by the aftermath of a freezing rain; one of those ambiguous signs that either says, “It will be colder soon,” or, “It will be warmer before too long.” For the time of year, it ought to be the latter, but I am not convinced. But it makes the streets and sidewalks just as slippery either way, and everywhere I saw the flashing lights of tow trucks doing their job and policemen too busy to look for the likes of me.

In spite of the fact that I walked all the way-tread-ing, as it were, on thin ice-it was still early when I found the hotel, every bit as ugly as I’d been told, with red brick and a cracked glass door next to a revolving door that bore an “out of order” sign that seemed very old. I looked at the other doors that were a part of the same structure, and one of them had, drawn in chalk, a circle with a dot in the middle of it. Inside the door, a public hallway, were three mailboxes. I recognized the name on number two.

There were three doors on the landing at the top of the long, narrow stairway. The one I wanted was not difficult to identify; it was in the middle and had a number on it, albeit hanging upside down from one nail. It also had her name above the door in glittering letters.

I knocked upon the door and waited.

There was the sound of shuffling feet, and the door was opened as far as the security chain would permit. I found myself regarding a pair of dark eyes cast into an old, weathered face poured from a mold I’d seen many times in many places. The eyes regarded me, widened, narrowed, then appeared to consider. I had the feeling that I’d been recognized.

After a moment the door closed, the chain slipped off, and the door opened again; apparently she realized that such devices are neither sufficient nor necessary. She supported herself with a wooden stick in one hand, the other gripping the door.

Her voice was sharp and brittle. She said. “You must be John Agyar.”

“Yes,” I said. “Good evening.”

She nodded, watching me carefully.

I said, “Are you going to invite me in?”

“No.”

“Ah. Then we must converse this way?”

“I have nothing to say to you. What have you to say to me? I’m too old for threats to mean anything.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.”

“Only for as long as it’s been true. What do you want?”

“I thought you could tell me my future.”

She snorted. “My crystal ball isn’t here. What do you want?”

I shrugged. “I dislike standing by the door. Can we meet somewhere?”

“Do you think I’m so foolish?”

“Au contraire, as my friend the ghost likes to say. I believe you are wise enough to take precautions, and intelligent enough to know what precautions to take. As it happens, I have no desire to harm you in any way; but I am wise enough not to expect you to believe me and intelligent enough to invite any reasonable alternative.”

She stared at me for a moment more, looking me dead in the eye as if to tell me I could do nothing to her, which may even have been true. Then she nodded. “There is a cafe in the hotel downstairs; I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll wait for you outside.”

She snorted a little. “Very well. I will see you in a moment.”

I returned to the street and found a dark place to await the redoubtable lady and keep an eye out for the police, just in case she thought to call them on me. I decided that I liked her; I hoped I wouldn’t have to kill her.

Twenty minutes later she came out of the door, helped by two walking sticks. She was heavily muffled against the weather, wearing a dark wool coat and a matching hat and scarf, thick woolen mittens with little metal clasps attaching them to her coat sleeves, such as children wear so they don’t lose their mittens. I suspect that she had made most of the items herself.

She looked around for me and I stepped up next to her. She didn’t jump; she just scowled and said, “Come along.” She didn’t have much trouble walking in spite of the icy sidewalk, I suppose because of years of practice and the shortness of her steps. A boy of about eighteen was spreading salt on the sidewalk as we walked by, but it hadn’t started working yet.

I followed her into the cafe, which consisted of about ten green plastic booths and some stools arranged in a long rectangle. The interior decoration was chrome, except for additional aesthetic statements provided by the coats hanging on racks which were attached to the end of each booth; patrons sitting at the counter were, I suppose, expected to leave their coats on.

It was just past the dinner hour, so, while there was no one in line ahead of us, we had to wait almost five minutes for them to clean off a table; five minutes which my companion spent complaining loudly about being made to wait standing. A harried-looking but not unattractive middle-aged waitress offered her a seat at the counter while she waited, an offer that was declined with a sniff.

At last we were shown to a booth. I helped her with her coat, removed my own; I saw from the thin gold chains around her neck that my companion, who wore a severe black dress, had not neglected anything; we sat down. The silver was ugly, and set on a paper place mat full of pictures of covered bridges; it had been printed by the Lakota tourist bureau and should have been called, “What to avoid in Ashtabula County.”

My dinner partner propped her canes against the booth, and set her purse next to her. She picked up the one-page plastic menu from behind the napkin holder, glanced at it, and said, “Well? The beef stew is good. Or perhaps some chili since the day is so cold?”

“Funny,” I said. “Thanks just the same, I think I’ll pass this time.”

She sniffed, replaced the menu, and folded her hands in front of her. She said, “No doubt. Well, then, let’s get on with it. What do you want?”

“Coffee?” said the waitress, coming up behind me.

“Please,” I said. “Half a cup.”

“Tea,” said my companion. “With lemon.”

The waitress went away, and came back presently with a little tin of hot water and a bag of Lipton’s. She poured me half a cup of coffee, learned that I didn’t need cream, and was informed that we would not be ordering food, which didn’t seem to bother her. She went away.

The old woman put the tea bag in the thick ceramic cup and poured the water over it, scowling as if it had offended her in some way. “What do you want from me?” she said.

“As I said, I want to know my future.”

“You know your future as well as I do; the only question is when, and you are aware, I think, that I would not tell you that even if I could. What do you want?”

So much for polite conversation. I said, “You know who Jill Quarrier is.”

“Of course.”

“Then you ought to know that she failed.”

The old woman frowned. “Failed?”

“She didn’t have what it took.”

“She couldn’t have-”

“If I had left her alone, it might have been different. Then again, it might not have.”

She glared at me. “What have you done to her?”

“She lives.”

“How do you mean that?”

“As you do. She breathes, her heart beats, she eats and drinks and tells jokes.”

The old woman sniffed. “Well?”

“Well, I want to know how she did it.”

She scowled at me. After a moment, she said, “What’s the difference? It failed.”

“It failed because, as I said, she didn’t have what it took after I interrupted the proceedings. I do, no matter who interrupts me.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It isn’t necessary that you understand. I am bound in a certain way by a certain person. I wish to free myself. I didn’t think it could be done, but you and Jill have shown me that I am wrong.”

“How? If-”

“She came very close.”

“I see.”

She sipped at her tea, glared at it, then glared at me. “Why should I help you?” she said.

“Jill Quarrier,” I said.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“She is mine. I own her. I can do what I will to her. After her attempt to escape me, I put her in the hospital. I can do so again. And again. Eventually, I will have all of her.”

“You-”

“She is expected to get out tomorrow or the next day.”

Her mouth worked up and down, without ever closing completely. If looks could kill and so on. “I can put such protections on her that-”

“Against her will?”

“What do you mean, against her will?”

“I mean against my will. Think about it.”

She did so, grinding her teeth. I wondered if they were real. After a long time, she took another sip of tea, forgetting even to scowl at it. At length, she said, “What exactly are you offering?”

“Jill. Her life, her health, her freedom.”

“In exchange for telling you how to break free from whoever is binding you?”

“Exactly.”

“How do I know you will keep your end of the bargain?”

“You don’t. But you know what will happen to Jill if you refuse.”

“It will happen anyway,” she snapped. “And you know it-”

“Rubbish. If I release her, and leave her alone, she will live a full and normal life.”

“Yes, until she dies.”

“We’re all in for that eventually.”

“But when she dies-”

“She will be embalmed. Or maybe cremated.”

Her mouth worked again, this time from side to side, as if she were having trouble with her teeth. “What is it you want to be released from?”

“The same as Jill.”

She stared at me. “I have lived for many years, and I have seen my share of evil, but-”

“Spare me.”

“Spare you? How amusing. Perhaps someday you will beg me for exactly that.”

“Not likely,” I said. “And it might not be clever of you to make me think that I would rest easier with you dead.”

“I don’t fear you.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

She snorted. “And the Devil is quoting Shakespear.”

“Oh, hardly the Devil, I think.”

“The servant is the man.”

I laughed a little and played with my coffee cup. I said, “You know, I think, that I am not deliberately cruel.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“Then you should know it. Because I can be cruel if I want to be, if I see a need to be. If you think of betraying me in any way, you should consider it carefully. Whatever you do to me, I will take out on Jill, and I will show you what I have done to her before I do the same to you. It would be good of you to consider this.”

“Don’t threaten me, monster. I do what I promise.”

I laughed. “Tell it to the air, cigany; I know your kind. But I think you will this time.” I repressed a chuckle, suddenly remembering how Young Don had interpreted that word he didn’t recognize.

She glared at me again. “You’d best find paper and pencil to write this down; it is long.”

“Very well.” I signaled the waitress over. She asked if we wanted anything else. I asked for a pen. She provided one and went away again. I turned over the place mat and prepared to write.

The old woman said, “It must be done under the waning moon, the new moon is best.”

“Very well.”

“And you must begin at midnight.”

I laughed.

“You think it’s a joke?” she snapped.

“Of course. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”

Her mouth twitched angrily and she began speaking. I wrote it all down. The paper was too coarse. I prefer typing, I think.

I have typewritten the instructions and set them aside until the moon should become newer. Why is it that we call the moon new when we can’t see her at all? For that matter, why do we say first quarter or third quarter when any fool can see it is a half-moon? Now, by the way, she is big and full and beautiful, rising early in the evening and setting as the sun rises.

I walked through the bitter cold that might be winter’s last serious effort for the year. The harsh winds, I am told, come from Lake Erie and make their way into the center of the state where they become mild and people complain of the cold. Those from Lakota consider themselves hardy, superior folk for surviving winters with winds like this; I think, perhaps, they are merely stupid; and I am including Laura Kellem in their number. I will not stay here a moment beyond the time I am bound; a time which will, I think, end in two weeks, at the dark of the moon of April.

But what if Susan wants to stay? Will I remain here in spite of the risks? No, not unless there is a way to protect myself from Kellem-protect myself thoroughly. And, of course, there is such a way. It makes me tremble to contemplate it, but it is not impossible. If it is that or leave Susan, well, it may become more reasonable. Or not. If I can free myself from Kellem, that is enough; she is stronger than I, and older, and, even if I owed her no gratitude, it would be foolish to take such a risk.

It is funny, I think, how I cannot conceive of life without Susan, and yet we’ve never talked about such things. Or perhaps we have-that she offered to give up her other lover is, I think, as unprecedented for her as these feelings are for me.

I believe I will go see her, and maybe we will talk about these things, and perhaps I will be in for another shock-an unpleasant one if my suppositions prove to be ill-founded. But it is better to know than not to know, isn’t it?

I spent the evening with Susan, though we didn’t go anywhere and I didn’t touch her, save for an arm around her shoulder. She seemed disappointed, and I was sad that I couldn’t explain.

We sat on her couch listening to Maazel conduct the Cleveland Orchestra through Shostakovich’s Symphony Number 5. I’ve always liked Shostakovich; he’s morbid. I said, “Jill isn’t back yet, is she?”

“No. I spoke to her, and she said she’d be getting out tomorrow. Are you going to be here to welcome her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“Yes. And then, perhaps I shouldn’t.”

She said, “You know, Jonathan, you never actually said that you’d stop seeing Jill if I stopped seeing Jennifer.”

“I implied it pretty strongly, though.”

She smiled and nestled closer to me. “Mmmm,” she said.

“But all right, I formally agree. Yes. Done. Compact made, signed, and sealed. An alliance offensive and defensive against this wicked world.”

“That will do,” she said.

“I will tell her next time I see her.”

She frowned, watched me with her big eyes, and said, “Do you think that right after she comes out of the hospital is the best time?”

“Somehow,” I said, “I don’t think it will break her heart.”

“Oh?”

“Trust me.”

“I do.”

“When are you going to tell Jennifer?”

She nestled her head against my shoulder and said, “About two hours ago.”

“Oh. Hmmm. How did she take it?”

“She’s a bit of a bitch. But we’re going to get together and talk things over.”

I almost offered to make sure she stayed out of her life, but then I thought that she wouldn’t like that. My next idea was that I could simply cause her to disappear, but then Susan might feel guilty about it. Perhaps I ought to just allow things to run their course. I’m glad I didn’t send that letter to Traci.

I said, “Confident, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” She stroked my hair.

“But,” I said.

“Yes? But?”

“What of the future?”

She pulled her head back just a little and looked at me. “What of it?”

“I have been considering leaving this city.”

“Oh,” she said, very carefully.

“If I do, will you come with me?”

She frowned. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it. Everything I’ve been working for-”

“I know. You don’t have to decide now, just think about it.”

“All right.”

“If you decide to stay, I might not be able to leave.”

“Is it so important that you do?”

“I don’t know. It might be.”

“Why?”

I shook my head and we listened to the music. Susan never presses me about things; that is one thing I like about her. After a while I said, “You never press me about things; that is one thing I like about you.”

“Mmmm. What’s another.”

“Your body.”

“You’re batting a thousand so far, cutie pie. What else?”

“How shy and hesitant you are about discussing your own merits.”

She laughed that wonderful laugh. “I was wondering when you were going to get to that.”

Outside, the sky wheeled above us, and the full moon sank in the west.

I guess I’ll never make a detective.

I have this whole pile of information from the newspaper, and I couldn’t find what I wanted. Why? Because I was looking the wrong way. I was trying to find something that said, “Laura Kellem committed this murder,” knowing, really, that even had she signed her work the signature wouldn’t have made it into the paper. If, instead, I’d looked at it the other way around, I would have seen it at once.

And if I’d known what was going on, I could have been more circumspect, and then-but what’s the point? I might as well record it as it happened, and save the reflections, if any, for later.

I came downstairs today after my shower and found Jim staring out the remains of the one window that both faced front and wasn’t boarded up. I said, “Are they still out there?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But they have been here, off and on, every day for the last week.”

“So they probably aren’t neglecting us at night, either.”

He nodded and turned to face me; or, rather, the wall over my right shoulder.

I went up to the window, looked out, and swore under my breath so I wouldn’t upset Jim. “What are they after? Is it those two assholes I killed?”

“Maybe,” said Jim. “They frown on other people killing drug dealers; I imagine they think it presumptuous.”

“Narrow of them.” I continued to stare out the window, trying to see if anyone was out there. At last I gave up and stared morosely at the hearth. “I suppose starting a fire is right out,” I said.

“Do you think it’s Laura Kellem?” he said.

I didn’t answer; I just didn’t know any more. And I didn’t know if the police had the house under constant surveillance, or just periodic drive-bys.

I put my horrible coat on. Jim said, “Where are you going?”

“I want to see how our police force is spending my tax dollars.”

“You don’t pay taxes.”

“I’ll see you later.”

He licked his lips. Why would a ghost lick his lips? “Be careful,” he said.

“Yes.”

I left the way I was getting used to leaving-carefully, over roofs, and with darkness all around me. Having got that far, I checked out the area and found them very quickly, half a block down the street: Two gentlemen sitting in a running car drinking coffee while passing a pair of binoculars back and forth. Just like in the movies. Did the Lakota police have the manpower to spare for twenty-four-hour surveillance like this? Apparently, unless I just happened to catch them. Or maybe Mel Gibson had said, “Look, Captain, I just know that place is it. Let me check it out.” And Robert Duvall had said, “We can’t spare you. How are you coming on the Johnson embezzlement case?” And Mel had said, “Captain, I’ve got three weeks of vacation built up, and I’m taking them right now.” Then a quick cut to exterior house, background, car parked down the block, foreground, two men in car-

No, not very likely. Sorry, Mel.

They knew I was about, and they knew I frequented the house, and they were watching for me. Why?

I looked around a little more, but they seemed to be the only ones. The thought came that I could do for them both right then, but, to put it mildly, it would not have helped the situation.

Then another thought came to me, and, after some reflection, I could see no problem with it. I positioned myself behind a tree, cloaked in the night, and I waited. The moon, waning from the full, rose in the heavens.

After a time, I knew that one of the policemen was sleeping, and the other, the passenger, was staring straight ahead. I walked up to the car and tapped on the window. The driver was of middle years, perhaps forty or forty-five, and had a flat face of the type that makes one think he was dropped on it as a child. He didn’t look anything like Mel Gibson. The passenger looked like Robert Duvall. He stared at me without expression and without blinking, and rolled down the window.

I said, “Why are you here?”

“Orders,” he said. Ask a stupid question…

I said, “For whom are you watching?”

“Homicide suspect,” he said. His voice was wheezy. He probably smoked too much; the noxious odor of secondhand smoke wafted from the car along with warm air from the heater.

“Does this homicide suspect have a name?”

“John Agyar, alias Jack Agyar, alias Yanosh Agyar.”

Now was not the time to attempt to get into the Guinness Book for endurance cursing, nor was it the time to correct his pronunciation of my name. I said, “How do you know he lives there?”

Robert Duvall’s face contorted just a bit because I had made him think; he probably had to put together things he had been directly told with things he’d happened to hear. He said, “A neighbor identified the sketch, and his em oh matches two homicides that happened there.”

I didn’t know what an “em oh” was, but I got the idea. I said, “Give me the sketch.”

He did. His companion, the driver who didn’t resemble Mel Gibson, started snoring. I looked at the sketch; this one was considerably better. It mentioned the coat again, and also included the pendant, damn it.

“Here, put this back.”

He did so.

I said, “Are you sure the drug dealers were killed by Agyar?”

He said, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Same kind of killing as the other two, and maybe three more.”

“All right-wait. Other two? ”

“Yes.”

Literal son of a bitch. “What others? Name them.”

“Kowalczek and Swaggart, maybe the Tailors, and maybe a pimp named Alvin Jorgenson, alias Charlie George.”

“Say those names again.”

“Kowalczek, Swaggart, Tailor, Tailor, and Jorgenson.”

Ah ha.

I said, “Who was Kowalczek?”

“Theresa Kowalczek, female Caucasian, aged twenty-four.”

“How did she die?”

“Her throat was ripped out.”

“That was never in the papers,” I said. He didn’t say anything, and I realized I hadn’t asked a question. “Why wasn’t that in the papers?”

“It was hushed up.”

“By whom?”

“Baldy.”

“Baldy?”

“Yes.”

“Who is Baldy?”

“Theodore Baldwin.”

I clucked my tongue and tried again. “Who is Theodore Baldwin?”

“The mayor of Lakota.”

The mayor?

“What does the mayor have to do with this?”

“His son was engaged to Terri Kowalczek.”

Oh, Kellem, good work. “What is known about the killing?”

“Some sort of love triangle. This Agyar was involved with one or the other of them, either Kowalczek or Baldwin, we don’t know which.”

Probably pretty accurate, if one were to substitute Kellem for Agyar. “Hasn’t someone-umm. What is Baldwin’s first name?”

“Brian.”

“Hasn’t someone asked Brian Baldwin?”

“He isn’t saying anything, and he’s been sick.”

“Sick how?”

“I don’t know; that’s what we’ve heard.”

“Is he in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

Unfortunately, it all made sense. “When did the investigation break?”

“When Donald Swaggart was killed the same way, and we got a witness.”

“What is known about this Agyar?”

“Nothing, except that he’s been seen in this neighborhood, both before and after the bodies were found in the house.”

I wondered how my dear neighbor Bill would feel if he were to wake up one morning and find his wife dead. My musings were interrupted by the radio, which had being going pretty continuously, starting to sound urgent. It occurred to me that my friends had been out of touch for a while, and it was always possible that someone would call or drive by to check on them, if they hadn’t done so already.

Robert Duvall was still looking at me, waiting. He would continue to do so for some time, unless he was told to do something different.

“Now listen to me,” I said.

“Yes.”

“There must be something wrong with the exhaust system in this car.”

“Yes.”

“You have had the engine running, and you both fell asleep.”

“Yes.”

“In a moment, you will spill your coffee on your lap, and that will wake you up.”

“Yes.”

“You will know at once that you have passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning, and you will roll down the window, turn the car off, and wake up your partner.”

“Yes.”

“First you will roll up the window, and you will forget doing so, and you will forget this conversation entirely, then you will spill your coffee.”

“Yes.”

“Do so now.”

He rolled up his window and I got out of there.

I returned to the house, came up to my typing room, and dug through the sheaf of papers that my friend from the newspaper had given me, and it was all there, between the lines; hints of a love triangle, hints of a gruesome death, if you were looking for them. The whole thing was there. The trouble was, I’d been looking for the gruesome death part, rather than trying to spot a murder that made so much noise Kellem would know it couldn’t be hushed up.

Yes, indeed, the fool had fallen for the mayor’s son, and, when his fiancee had refused to back out quietly, Kellem had gone off her head and killed her. Idiot. And, on top of it all, Kellem wouldn’t leave. Why? I suppose because she was in love with him. Double idiot.

Hmmm. Of course, if Kellem is in love, that might explain why I

Never mind. My own feelings require no explanation. Nor do my actions.

But it all makes sense, I think. I now know the situation, and how I’ve been put into the middle of it. The police are watching the house, they will probably search it again, and eventually some fine morning someone will notice something funny about the bookcase or the dimensions of the basement, and then they will either locate the catch or simply bash down the wall, and then they will find me, and then-

And I’m stuck here, because that stupid bitch Kellem won’t let me leave.

Now, at any rate, I know the cure for that. I must take it soon.