Innocent Blood

Twenty-Two

‘But why us?’ he asked Astrid later that evening. He had hardly touched the Thai noodles she had ordered, and they lay congealing in their bowls. Why was it that, after a bereavement or a disaster, people always said, ‘I know how you’re feeling . . . but you mustn’t forget to eat?’

Frank had no appetite for food. He didn’t even feel like getting drunk. He was freshly bruised, and half deaf, and all he wanted to do was hunt down the man who had ordered Mo and Lizzie’s murders and beat him to death with a baseball bat.

Astrid was wearing a tight black leather jerkin and tight black leather pants and spiky-heeled boots. Her hair was gelled back and there were huge silver hoops dangling in her ears. She looked as if she had just walked off the set of a low-budget horror movie.

‘They said they were going to bomb the entertainment industry, didn’t they?’ she reminded him. ‘They said they were going to set off a bomb a day, every day for eleven days. You were just unlucky.’ Her voice sounded huskier than ever.

‘I know that. But that pizza delivery boy specifically asked for Bell, Cohen and Fries. He hadn’t come there to bomb Twentieth Century Fox. He came to bomb us.’

‘All right, he came there to bomb you. But think about it. If it’s true what your psychic detective friend was telling you . . . I mean, if Dar Tariki Tariqat are all abused people, trying to get their revenge . . . well, you can see why they went for a program like Pigs.’

‘Pigs is a comedy, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Yes, but it’s folksy and warm and it’s happy.’

‘It’s not always happy. Most of the time, Dusty and Henry are pretty miserable. And their dad is practically a manic depressive.’

‘I know. But things always work out in the end, don’t they? Every episode finishes up with that cheesy scene of the Dunger family gathered around the pigsty, laughing and hugging each other and scuffing the kids’ hair.’

‘Astrid, that’s supposed to be a parody. Like, you know, “goodnight, John Boy.”’

‘Oh, yes? Tell that to some lonely kid who was beaten with a belt buckle and sent to bed without any supper.’

‘So what are you saying? That TV families should always be dysfunctional, with dads who sodomize their daughters, and moms who drink, and kids who take crack and set fire to tramps, just so the viewing audience won’t think we’re being smug? For Christ’s sake, Astrid, we’ve never tried to pretend that the world is perfect. But people like to feel folksy and warm and happy, and why not? What harm does it do?’

‘You tell me. Look what happened to Lizzie and Mo and Daphne, and all of those other people. Look what happened to Danny.’

Frank covered his face with his hands, as if his hands were doors and he wanted them to remain closed for ever, so that he could stay in the dark. He was still shocked, and he still found it impossible to believe that Lizzie and Mo had been killed. He felt like crying, but he didn’t seem to have any tears. He kept picturing Mo, frowning at the end of his cigar, trying to make up his mind if it was worth relighting; and Lizzie, toying with her Ethiopian food and telling him to enjoy life while he was still above ground.

Astrid sat close to him and stroked his hair. He could smell her perfume and her warm leather pants. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how bad you must feel.’

‘Tell me it’s still morning,’ he said, his voice muffled behind his hands. ‘Tell me I’ve just woken up and I haven’t gone to the office yet.’

Astrid kissed him. ‘When I was little, and something really bad happened, I used to pretend that it was only a movie, and that I was only playing a part. Somehow that made it easier to bear.’

Frank took his hands away from his face and looked at her. ‘Do you know something . . . that’s the first time you’ve ever told me anything personal.’

‘I’m always telling you personal things, Frank. It’s just that you don’t always hear me.’

‘All right. So what was so bad that you used to pretend it was only a movie?’

She smiled at him, still stroking his hair. ‘I lost my innocence.’

‘You lost your innocence? Who took it?’

‘The world is full of thieves, Frank, and they don’t only take wallets. They take everything and anything that’s worth having. Beauty, joy, innocence. They don’t really want it for themselves, they just don’t want anybody else to have it.’

‘Tell me,’ said Frank.

‘No. You’re not in any fit state. You need a sedative and you need some sleep.’

‘Sleep? No thanks. I’ll only have nightmares.’

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Astrid went to answer it, and it was Nevile. He was immaculately dressed in a black shirt and black pants, as if he had been playing Well-Groomed Vampire #2 in the same movie as Astrid, and he smelled of Burberry aftershave.

‘Oh,’ he said in his tensile British accent. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

‘Of course not,’ said Frank. ‘Come on in. This is Astrid, by the way. Astrid, this is Nevile – Nevile Strange, the world-famous psychic detective.’

‘Well, well,’ said Astrid. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last. Frank and I were just talking about you.’

‘I wondered why my ears were burning,’ said Nevile. He held out his hand but Astrid smiled and turned away as if she preferred not to make any physical contact.

Frank said, ‘We’ve been trying to work out why Dar Tariki Tariqat would want to blow up Pigs. Listen, how about a drink? There’s a bottle of dry white wine in the fridge.’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks. The police told me all about the bombing and I just called by to make sure that you were all right.’

‘I’m covered in so many bruises I look like a patchwork quilt, and a trolley car keeps ringing in my ears. But they took me to Mount Sinai for a check-up and otherwise I’m all in one piece.’

Nevile came over and peered into his bloodshot eyes. ‘You were damned lucky you weren’t in the office with the others. I’m so sorry about your friends; it’s absolutely tragic.’

Frank lifted both hands. ‘I feel, mentally, like I’ve had my arms torn off. Can you understand that?’ He suddenly found it difficult to speak. ‘I mean, we wrote that series together every working day for three and a half years and it was like we were . . .’

‘I know. I don’t know what to say.’

Frank cleared his throat. ‘I need to talk to you, as a matter of fact.’

‘I’m rather pushed for time, I’m afraid. Perhaps we can make it tomorrow.’

‘The cops told you that it was a pizza delivery boy?’

Nevile nodded.

‘Well, a couple of minutes before that pizza delivery boy showed up, Daphne took a phone message for me. She said it was a woman. Somebody wanted to meet me in the parking lot, urgently. I looked out of the window and I swear to you, I could see Danny standing out there. He was in shadow, I could only see a silhouette, but I swear it was him. That’s why I left the office in such a hurry, thank God.’

Nevile raised one eyebrow. ‘Was Danny still there when you got outside?’

‘No, he wasn’t, and nobody else had seen him, either. I was still looking for him when it suddenly hit me that none of us had ordered pizza. I mean, the delivery boy had asked me which was our office – Bell, Cohen and Fries – but none of us had ordered pizza. I could see Mo up at the window, and I tried to warn him. You know, I waved, and I shouted . . .’ Frank became silent for a moment at the memory of it. ‘I guess he thought I was joking. Mo was incapable of taking anything seriously. Even a bomb warning.’

Nevile looked thoughtful. ‘Seeing Danny in the parking lot could have been some kind of premonition, I suppose. Sometimes we see things that warn us of coming events. Birds, animals, certain vehicles like ambulances or hearses. But in this case, I’m not so sure. What makes this really unusual is that your secretary received an actual phone call, saying that you were needed outside.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Either a real woman was ringing you, to warn you, or else you were receiving a warning from a very powerful psychic source – so powerful that it could make your phone ring. It’s been known before, spirit voices being heard over the telephone. A woman in Wales used to hear her mother talking, even though she had died of cancer more than five years before. Electrical circuits are highly sensitive to spirit messages, like the automatic writing I picked up on my computer.’

‘Any way of telling whether this was a real message or a spirit message?’

‘We should meet tomorrow, and try another séance. Meanwhile, I really have to go. Lieutenant Chessman called me and I’m on my way to Century City right now. They want to see if I can pick up any vibrations from the bomber’s shoes – although they’re pretty sure that they know his name already.’

‘Really?’

‘He was carrying a photograph of his mother. His foster-mother, anyhow. There was a street sign in the background and they were able to trace her from that.’

‘You know what really gets to me?’ said Frank. ‘He’s blown himself up, too, and that means that I’ll never get the chance to kill him myself.’

Nevile took out a leather-bound notebook. ‘His remains haven’t been formally identified yet, but he was a house painter from Culver City called Alexander Sutter, twenty-four years old. His foster parents were Mr and Mrs John Happel, of MacManus Park. Apparently he was put into foster care when he was eleven years old, after persistent sexual and physical abuse from his natural father.’

‘Another abuse victim? It looks like your theory could be right.’

‘After this, yes, I’m pretty sure of it.’

‘All the same, it’s hard to think of abuse victims getting themselves together and planning something like this. The only ones I’ve ever met – they’re usually so withdrawn, you know? So downtrodden.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Nevile. ‘But it looks as if somebody managed to get them together and inspire them to take some action. These bombings have taken some very careful organization. Dar Tariki Tariqat use a different type of explosive each time, and a different method of delivery, so it’s very difficult to trace them back. Somebody’s doing their planning for them, that’s my opinion. Somebody clever, and very well financed.’

‘What do the cops think?’

‘They still believe that there’s some kind of Arab influence at work here – even if they have used child-abuse victims to do their dirty work for them.’

‘What’s your opinion?’

‘Well, I was talking to an FBI psychologist this afternoon and she agrees that child-abuse victims probably wouldn’t have focused their resentment into a terrorist campaign unless somebody had focused it for them. And who wants to see Hollywood destroyed more than Islamic extremists?’

‘You think she’s right?’

‘I don’t know. She certainly has a point. But I think it’s too easy to blame the Arabs. I have a very strong feeling that there’s another dimension to this. I wish I could work out what it is.’

Frank showed him to the door. ‘I’ll give you a call around nine tomorrow, how’s that?’

‘Fine,’ said Nevile. He was about to leave but then he looked over Frank’s shoulder at Astrid and asked, ‘Who is that?’

‘She’s the girl I was telling you about, the girl I met after the bombing at The Cedars.’

‘She’s very pretty, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is. And I must say that she’s really helped me to get over Danny.’

Nevile continued to stare at her. ‘She wouldn’t take my hand, did you notice that?’

‘Is that significant?’

‘Not necessarily.’ He sniffed. ‘I think I can smell something, too. But I’m always oversensitive. Look . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?’

On the nine P.M. news, Commissioner Campbell read out a statement that he had received during the afternoon from Dar Tariki Tariqat. He looked very gray, and tired, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

‘After today’s act of retribution against Twentieth Century Fox, Dar Tariki Tariqat hopes that the entertainment industry will now realize that we mean what we say, and that they will immediately withdraw all of those television programs and motion pictures which revel in blasphemy and salacious behavior. If this is not done, a second explosion will take place tomorrow at noon at another location, and further explosions will take place at noon every day until the television and movie industries have been cleansed of the moral corruption that has already taken this planet to the very brink of damnation.

‘In particular, we are proud to have punished the creators of a television show that made an open mockery of all moral and religious values. And let us say this: there are those who may think that they have escaped what destiny has in store for them, but anybody who has accused God of being cruel will be hunted down like the vermin they are, and made to pay for their slanders with their lives.’

Frank listened, frowning, and then sat up. ‘Astrid, did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’ said Astrid. She was lying with her back to him, naked, and she was almost asleep.

‘Dar Tariki Tariqat made a statement about the bombing. They said that anybody who escaped is going to be hunted down and killed.’

‘So?’

‘Anybody who escaped? Think about it! That means me!’

Astrid blinked at him, trying to focus. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Who else escaped from that explosion apart from me?’

‘Well, nobody.’

Frank was excited now. ‘There was something else. They said that anybody who accused God of being cruel is going to be hunted down like vermin.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Who did I accuse of being cruel? Not God, maybe, but somebody who behaves like he’s God. And who said almost those exact words: “If you repeat this slander, I’m going to have you hunted down like the vermin you are, and exterminated?”’

‘You’re not serious. You mean Charles Lasser?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I don’t get it. What does Charles Lasser have to do with any of this?’

‘You tell me. Who could organize a terrorist campaign better than him? He has money, he has influence. He has international contacts.’

‘But why would he want to damage the entertainment industry? He’s part of the entertainment industry.’

‘No, when you think about it, he’s not. He’s always been an outsider. I don’t know anybody in Hollywood who likes to work for Star-TV – not unless they have to. Star-TV isn’t a television company. It’s more like a bulldozer for Charles Lasser’s ego. If you knew the contracts he’s dishonored, and the producers he’s ruined, and the number of bright young independents he’s bought up, for the sole purpose of closing them down . . .’

‘But he’s offering ten million dollars, isn’t he, for anybody who can catch these bombers? Why would he do that, if all the time it’s been him?’

‘Maybe it’s a blind. Maybe he’s trying to look like the knight in shining armor, when all the time he’s wrecking the competition,’ Frank said, picking up his pants from the floor.

Astrid said, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to call the cops, what else?’

‘But you don’t know for sure that it’s Charles Lasser, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. But it’s still worth them looking into it. Think about it, Astrid, if it is Charles Lasser, he killed Danny, too.’

Frank could see himself reflected in the window, like a ghost. The ghost picked up the phone from the coffee table and waited while its call was connected.

‘Lieutenant Chessman? It’s Frank Bell, remember me? Listen, I’ve just heard the latest statement from Dar Tariki Tariqat. I may be wrong, but I think it contains a kind of a clue.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Lieutenant Chessman had his mouth full. ‘What kind of a clue?’

‘Well, first of all I think it’s a warning, personally directed at me. They said they were proud of killing the people who wrote Pigs, but they were coming after anybody who survived.’

‘I see. I haven’t heard that statement yet.’

‘I also think they might have given away the identity of the person who’s behind all of these bombings.’

‘They did what?’

‘It’s not easy to explain, but I think it could be Charles Lasser.’

There was a very long pause. ‘I hope and pray that I didn’t hear you say what I thought I heard you say.’

‘If I can meet you, Lieutenant, I can explain.’

‘Listen, don’t say anything more over the phone. Where are you at?’

‘Sunset Marquis.’

‘OK . . . give me twenty minutes and I’ll call around and see you.’

When he came back into the bedroom, he found that Astrid was tugging on her black leather pants.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked her. ‘You’re not going? It’s almost midnight.’

‘I know. But if the police are coming around, I think it’s better if you see them on your own.’

‘I will see them on my own. You don’t have to leave.’

She brushed out her hair, and pouted at herself in the mirror. ‘No, I’ll see you tomorrow night, maybe. I’ll call for a taxi, if that’s OK.’

‘Astrid, you really don’t have to go. I can see the police downstairs in the lobby.’

Astrid stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘You know what they say. If you find yourself on a runaway train, you should jump off while you still have the chance.’

‘Astrid, two of my very best friends were murdered today. My son’s dead. If Charles Lasser had anything to do with it, I want to see him arrested, and tried, and executed.’

‘Of course you do. But what’s your evidence? Something you heard on the television news?’

‘Charles Lasser used the word “vermin.” They said “vermin” too.’

‘You can’t really be sure that they were referring to you.’

‘They bombed my fucking office! They killed my friends! They murdered Danny and he was only eight years old!’

Astrid buttoned up her jerkin. ‘Even if you’re right, and it was Charles Lasser, you don’t think that you could possibly prove it, do you?’

Frank frowned at her. ‘Is that a question, or is that something you know for a fact?’

‘It’s common sense. Charles Lasser has twenty-six lawyers.’

‘Oh, you know that, do you? That exact number? Listen, I really think you owe me some kind of explanation about this. What is it between you and Charles Lasser? He says he doesn’t know you, which I don’t believe for one moment, and as for you – well, you won’t say anything.’

Astrid reached out and touched his cheek. He took hold of her hand, tightly, and held it, so that she couldn’t get free.

‘I can’t say anything,’ she told him.

‘Can’t, or won’t?’

‘I don’t love you, Frank, you realize that, don’t you?’

‘Who said anything about love?’

‘You did.’

He released her hand. She collected her purse, then went through to the living area and picked up the phone. ‘I need a taxi. Sunset Marquis, room 217. That’s right. As soon as you can.’

Frank stayed in the bedroom. The television was showing pictures of his shattered office. Among the litter of scorched paper lay a broken statuette of three dancing pigs: one with its arms broken off, one without a head, and one without any legs. Embrace no more, think no more, dance no more.