The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

17

Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to work we go..

I was well aware that miracle bashing would be a most difficult task, and a thankless one at that. I could waste months speaking to the legions of ex-stutterers, ex-asthma sufferers, and people who now walked without the aid of their wheelchairs and crutches as a result of Garth's messiah-ship, and I would get nowhere. Garth's words and presence generated a kind of holy hysteria in all sorts of people, and it counteracted the not-so-holy hysteria that had afflicted these people in the first place. Consequently, there was no doubt in my mind that a lot of these "miracle cures" had actually occurred, and there was no way I was going to "disprove" them-even if I wanted to, which I didn't. However, it seemed to me that there was one glaringly weak link in the chain of events that had launched Garth on his new career as miracle worker, and that was the link I would attack.

Fortunately, Sergeant Alexander Mclntyre was still feeling sufficiently guilty and embarrassed over the fact that The

National Eye had scooped the NYPD on Garth's whereabouts to enable me to prompt him to make good on his initial offer to let me review the file I wanted to see. I looked it over, made a lot of notes, thanked him, and walked out into a bleak, cold winter day to see what might fall out if I managed to shake Harry August's tree.

The middle-aged woman who opened the door of the modest frame house on a quiet residential street in Bayside, Queens, peered at me suspiciously.

"Yes? What is it?"

"My name is Robert Frederickson, Mrs. Daplinger. I wonder if I could-"

The woman gasped, put a hand to her mouth, and took a step backward onto the enclosed porch. "Oh, Lord."

"No, Mrs. Daplinger," I said dryly, reaching out quickly to prevent the door from closing on me. It was obvious that she knew who I was, and she was not at all pleased to find me on her doorstep. "Just Robert Frederickson."

"You're Garth's brother-the one who's been marked," the woman said in a hushed, small voice.

"I'm the only brother my brother's got, Mrs. Daplinger," I said, and flashed my warmest smile. It seemed the woman had become one of the faithful-which meant that I was going to have to choose all my words very carefully, or I'd find out nothing. "Would you be kind enough to answer a few questions for me? I'll only take a few minutes of your time."

"What do you want?" Mrs. Daplinger asked in the same breathless voice. She was obviously afraid of me-and I found that disturbing.

"You were one of the witnesses to the miracle Garth performed when he cured Harry August's blindness. That's what I'd like to talk to you about."

"How did you get my name and address?"

"I must have seen them in a newspaper article."

"That happened months ago."

"Yes, but I've only recently developed a strong interest in what my brother is doing. I think I've had a bad attitude toward him, and I'm trying to set that right by finding out all I can about his mission. May I come in?"

The woman thought about it, finally nodded. "Just on the porch, though. I'm not sure it would be. . right … to invite you into the house."

"Thank you," I said, stepping onto the enclosed porch and shutting the door behind me.

"Garth did restore Mr. August's sight. I was there, and I saw it happen."

"I understand that someone tried to snatch your purse while Garth was healing Harry August. Is that right?"

"Yes. But the thief was caught almost immediately. I identified him to a policeman; he was arrested, and I got my purse back. But that wasn't important at all. Why do you even ask about it?"

"I'd like to hear from you exactly what happened."

"I just told you what happened. I was watching Garth restore Mr. August's sight, and a young man tried to snatch my purse. Everybody knows that. Do you want to cause trouble for Garth?"

"No, Mrs. Daplinger. I'd just like to hear from you in more detail what happened. I'd like to know the exact sequence of events. According to the newspaper accounts, there were quite a few people standing on the sidewalk watching Garth and August, so whatever was happening was already attracting a lot of attention-enough so that an amateur photographer even started snapping pictures. It was during all this excitement that the kid tried to snatch your purse, right? The thief figured that everyone would be distracted by whatever was going on between Garth and Harry August."

"What was 'going on,' Mr. Frederickson, was Garth restoring Mr. August's sight. I think you do mean to cause trouble. I saw what I saw with my own eyes, and nothing you can say will change that fact."

"Mrs. Daplinger, has Garth ever said to you or anyone else that I mean to cause trouble? Has he ever said anything bad about me?"

The woman hesitated a few moments, then shook her head. "Garth never says anything bad about anyone."

"If Garth hasn't said anything bad about me, why should you worry?"

The woman tentatively touched her gray-streaked brown hair, averted her gaze. "There are stories whispered about. Some people say that you're jealous of Garth's favor in God's eyes, and that you'd destroy him if you could."

"That's a very old tale, Mrs. Daplinger, and it certainly didn't start with Garth's People." I was beginning to feel like I had a starring role in Paradise Lost.

"Excuse me?"

"Who says these things? Marl Braxton and Tommy Carling?"

"No; I heard them from other people. Many believe it. It's said that you stole sacred relics from Garth, and have hidden them away."

A new wrinkle. "Sacred relics? What sacred relics?"

"For one, the Great Knife God gave Garth during Garth's Great Quest to battle Satan."

Whisper. Already strange and powerful religious myths were being formed as Garth's stories were absorbed into people's minds, smelted in the fires of imagination, then recast in unrecognizable shapes. I'd assumed that Marl Braxton and Tommy Carling had started the slander campaign against me, but I now realized that this wasn't necessarily the case. People caught up in religious fervor didn't need any prompting to form myths; the thought struck me that perhaps all religions, at least in their formative stages, need a Betrayer. This time around, I had the part.

"Mrs. Daplinger," I said quietly, "doesn't Garth teach that you should always speak the truth?"

"Yes," the woman replied, and her dark brown eyes flashed. "And I won't listen to any of your lies about Garth.

You stole the Great Knife, and God marked you for it."

"I didn't come here to say anything at all about Garth, Mrs. Daplinger. I just want to know more about him. I'd like to hear the complete story of how he restored Harry August's sight-what happened on that day. Since it's the truth, I can't see how any harm can come from repeating your story to me."

"It was a lovely, sunny day," the woman said, smiling at the memory. "I'd gone into Manhattan to shop. I was walking down Eighth Avenue, and I remember how crowded it was-I guess a lot of people had decided to go shopping that day. I stopped walking when I saw a crowd gathered on the sidewalk; they were watching Garth talking to Mr. August. I remember. . Garth was crying; his cheeks were wet with tears, and every once in a while he'd sob. He'd taken out his wallet and was shoving bills into Mr. August's cup. He was talking to Mr. August, begging him to come to a place where he would be taken care of so that he wouldn't have to stand on the street and beg. People were laughing at Garth, shouting insults and asking him to give them money. A couple of men even scooped up bills that had fallen out of Mr. August's cup."

"It's getting chilly out here, Mrs. Daplinger, and I don't want you to catch cold. Don't you think you should get a coat or sweater?"

She shook her head, said distantly, "I'm all right."

"You weren't laughing at Garth, were you?"

"No. I thought it was a sad spectacle. I felt sorry for both men, and a little embarrassed. Mr. August seemed very uncomfortable, and he kept trying to push Garth away from him. Garth just kept shoving money into Mr. August's cup while he tugged at Mr. August's sleeve and begged him to come along with him. Mr. August kept trying to push him away.

"Then I felt somebody grab my purse, and I started screaming for help. I turned around and saw this young man tugging at my purse, and cursing at me. People started crowding around us. The young man kept tugging at my purse, and I tugged back. Then he pulled a knife, and everybody backed away. I let go of the purse. The young man put it under his arm, then went to get the money from Mr. August's cup. By this time, Mr. August had already been healed-but I'm not sure he even realized it. But he must have seen what was happening, because he snatched his cup away and started beating the young man over the head with his cane. The boy must have been startled and hurt, because he suddenly dropped his knife and tried to run away. Some men grabbed him and held him down on the sidewalk until a policeman came.

"By then, a number of people were staring at Mr. August, because they'd seen him strike out at the young man just as if he wasn't blind at all. His dark glasses had fallen off, and he seemed to be in a kind of state of shock. He was staring back at the people around him, and his right eye was in focus and seemed perfectly all right. People were starting to say ugly things, claiming that Mr. August might have terrible scars on his face but that he wasn't blind. They were shouting at Mr. August to give Garth back his money, and urging the policeman to arrest Mr. August along with the purse snatcher. Then, all of a sudden, Mr. August started shouting things I didn't understand-now I know he was speaking in tongues. Then he dropped down on his knees and started kissing Garth's feet. He was shouting that Garth had cured his blindness and made him see again. He begged Garth to take him along to whatever place Garth had been talking about. Garth pulled him to his feet, and they walked off together-with Mr. August shouting all the time that Garth had given him back his sight."

"The policeman wasn't interested in arresting Harry August?"

"I guess not; he was busy handcuffing the purse snatcher. Also, there was a lot of confusion; someone was snapping pictures, and people were just milling around. Some people were following Garth and Mr. August."

"What did you do, Mrs. Daplinger?"

"Then? I was. . upset. I just went home. Then, after the stories started appearing in the newspapers, I began to realize that I had actually been present when a miracle had been performed. I searched for Garth, and I became a member of Garth's People. I guess a lot of people who were there on the sidewalk that day came to feel the same way, because I often see them at the caring houses where I go to help." She paused, cocked her head, and smiled at me. "I feel very blessed, Mr. Frederickson."

"Thank you for the time you've given me, Mrs. Daplinger," I said quietly. "I appreciate it."

The woman looked at my forehead, then into my eyes. "You don't seem like a bad man."

"I try not to be."

"It's strange how God works."

"It certainly is, Mrs. Daplinger."

"God chose Harry August to have his sight restored through the power of the Messiah; yet, I'm sure there are thousands of other blind men, women, and children who are so much more deserving. I know it's uncharitable of me to say this, but Harry August is such an unpleasant man."

Unfortunately, Sergeant Mclntyre's guilt and embarrassment weren't sufficient to impel him to call a number of city, state, and federal agencies on my behalf, under the auspices of the NYPD. I had my own contacts, but milking them-and gaining access to certain confidential information-took time, as did checking out hunches and setting up a vigil outside the bathhouse for a couple of days in order to tail Harry August whenever he came out alone. However, three days before Christmas I felt I had gathered more than enough information to give Harry August an early Christmas present he definitely was not going to like.

Lawrence Harold D'Agostino was more than a little surprised to find me waiting for him outside his small, nondescript house on a nondescript street in Brooklyn, leaning against the Ford station wagon he'd owned-and driven-for eleven years. He spotted me when he was halfway up the block; his face went white, his jaw dropped open, and he turned and started to run away. I caught up with him three blocks later, in a small shopping center, when he tried to duck down a narrow alley between two shops. Gasping for breath, he wheeled around and threw a garbage can lid at me. I sidestepped the flying lid, then hit him in the stomach with sufficient force to knock the rest of the wind out of him and sit him down hard on a stack of old newspapers.

"You and I have a lot to talk about, Mr. D'Agostino," I said as I took a sheaf of papers out of my jacket pocket and waved them in his face. "For a blind man, you've led quite an active life for the past few years."

Harry August was starting to get his breath back-and with it, a semblance of calm and his usual cunning. "Fuck you, dwarf," he said, rising to his feet and brushing off his pants. "I've got nothing to say to you, and nobody's going to believe anything you say about me."

"No? How about the driver's license you've had since you were sixteen years old, and which has been renewed like clockwork every five years? You even got a speeding ticket two years ago-which is understandable, I suppose, since it would be hard for a blind man to see a speed limit sign or know how fast he was driving."

"Nobody's going to pay any attention to you, Fredrickson."

"Certainly Garth's People won't, but I don't intend to try to deal with them. Actually, I was thinking of going to the authorities with proof that you've been defrauding the city and state of New York, not to mention a couple of insurance companies, for years."

Harry August ran a hand back through his long, greasy hair, studied me with his one good eye, swallowed hard. "What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Harry. You were injured in an industrial accident fifteen years ago, when a battery you were handling exploded and acid splashed over your face. You got a lot of money from insurance companies for that accident, including a lump sum in cash which you were supposed to use for plastic surgery. I don't know what you did with that money, but you obviously didn't use it for plastic surgery. My guess is that you decided to use it for something else-the horses, maybe, or a stock market flyer. You pissed it away."

"It's none of your business, Frederickson. Besides, Garth's People will protect me; those fools think you've been marked by God."

"Pretty soon, everybody-fools and others-will know all about you, Harry. You've been collecting disability, which you're entitled to, since the accident, but somewhere along the line, early in the game, an examining physician made a mistake, or put the wrong entry in your file. The accident left you legally blind-20/200-in your left eye, but the right is perfectly all right; that's in the original medical report. But New York State and the insurance companies have you listed as totally blind, in both eyes, and they've been paying you accordingly."

"The disability payments are nothing, Frederickson. Nobody could live on them."

"Seven years ago you applied for welfare assistance. Not only did you declare yourself legally blind in both eyes, but you neglected to mention the disability payments-which you were legally required to do. About three years ago you set up shop on that street corner to bring in a little extra income."

"People owed me, Frederickson," the other man said tightly, looking away.

"Ah. Bitterness. It seems to me that you were being pretty well taken care of. Why did people owe you?"

"You think you know the whole story, but you don't. That money I got at the beginning wasn't nearly enough to get me the kind of plastic surgery I needed-but I didn't find that out until the insurance company had pressured me into signing a settlement for a lump-sum payment. At the time I thought it was a lot of money, but then I found out it wouldn't fix my face. They screwed me good."

"Why did your lawyer let you sign a settlement like that?"

"Ask him," Harry August said, and spat. "He did a lot of. work for the insurance company-something my own company didn't tell me when they recommended him to me." He paused, suddenly thrust his face at me as if it were a weapon. His one good eye flashed black fire. "How'd you like to go through life looking like this, Frederickson? I couldn't get any kind of a decent job with a mug like this, and I knew it. What the hell good is money if you have to keep looking like something cats have been chewing on? So this guy who'd read about the accident and the settlement in the papers comes around and says he's got this really great deal for me in real estate, where I can triple my money-and don't laugh, Frederickson."

"I wasn't even thinking of laughing, Harry," I said quietly. "You haven't said anything that's even remotely funny."

"Sure, I was stupid-but I was desperate for money for the operations I needed, and I didn't know then the things I know now about people. I believed him, Frederickson; he was a real smooth-talking guy. I ended up losing everything, including every penny I had in savings. After that … it's like you said. But disability and welfare don't go far in this city. That's why I started begging. I'd certainly been fucked over enough, so I figured I'd fuck over other people for a change." He paused, licked his lips. "What are you going to do, Frederickson? What do you want?"

"The answer to both questions is that I'm not sure yet. It sounds like you've had-have-enough miseries without my adding to them. That's assuming any of the agencies involved would want to press charges."

"Are you going to report me?"

"Let's just say that I'd prefer not to."

"Which means that you want something from me."

"The first thing I want from you, Harry, is a videotaped repudiation of the notion that my brother restored your sight. We'll tape it at a time and place of my choosing."

"Why are you doing this, Frederickson? Your brother hasn't done anything to hurt you, and neither have I. I haven't hurt anybody. You really are jealous of Garth, aren't you? And you want to use me to dump on him."

"Harry, the motives for my strange behavior will have to remain a mystery to you. I will say that I'm not sure yet how I want to handle this; if possible, I'd like to minimize any damage to the people Garth has helped. But that's for me to worry about. For the time being, you just go on about your business with Garth's People as though this conversation had never taken place; that's important. I'll contact you about the videotaping after I've decided what I plan to do with you."

"This is blackmail."

"Yeah; something like that."

"When the authorities see that tape, they'll want to prosecute me anyway."

"Not necessarily. The whole world knows you as Harry August; knowing the way a lot of governmental agencies operate, nobody may even make the connection between Harry August and Lawrence Harold D'Agostino."

"Unless you spell it out for them."

"Right-but I doubt that I'd feel compelled to do their work for them if you cooperate with me."

"What the hell am I supposed to tell people?!"

"Your problem. No matter what you say, there's no way you're going to come out of this looking like Albert Schweitzer. All I'm concerned with is that you make it very clear that you could see perfectly well-at least with one eye-before you ever bumped into Garth. That part had better be convincing."

"Okay." Harry August mumbled. "I guess I knew this whole business was going to catch up with me one day."

"You reacted instinctively when that kid tried to take your money, right?"

"Yeah," the other man said, shaking his head in disgust. "Your brother was driving me out of my gourd, and I just wasn't thinking."

"Then your glasses got knocked off. Suddenly you found yourself staring back at all those people who were staring at you. It was an ugly, possibly dangerous, situation, and you grabbed hold of the only life preserver at hand-my brother. He got you out of there. What I don't understand is why you stuck around. Why didn't you just split when the danger had passed? For that matter, why are you hanging around now?"

Harry August mumbled something I didn't quite catch, and I asked him to repeat it.

"Money," he said. "Even the way his operation was back then, I could see that money was starting to come in. And I could smell more-a lot more. I had this feeling that I'd stumbled into something that could become very big." He paused, laughed bitterly. "I figured that one right, didn't I? A lot of good it's done me. The story of my life."

"You also figured it would be a good opportunity for a con man like you to get your hands on some of that money, right?"

"I'm cooperating with you, Frederickson. I just hope you're not going to give me any more grief.''

"Did you plan to skim?"

"Yeah, I planned to skim."

"How'd you make out?"

Harry August shook his head. "I got food and clothing, but I never did get my hands on any money. Sure, there was a lot of money and goods coming in, but Tommy Carling already had that damn nun working with him, and she had eyes everywhere. That broad makes sure every penny is accounted for in her books, just in case anyone ever asks."

"And to protect against people like you."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Now there are dozens of volunteers-accountants, lawyers, money counters-to look after all the money and goods that come in. To tell you the truth, I haven't even been thinking much about stealing the past few weeks; the deaths of those two TV preachers kind of spooked me."

"Afraid God is looking over your shoulder, Harry?"

"Come on, Frederickson; I'm not like those other fools. I just figure it's best not to take too many chances. After the Christmas Eve thing, even more money is going to be coming in. Something real big is going to happen; I can feel it."

I frowned. "What 'Christmas Eve thing'?"

"That's right; you don't know about it. Carling's going to issue a press release tonight."

"What will the press release say?"

"Garth's going to make some kind of special announcement at midnight on Christmas Eve. Those fools think he's going to pronounce himself the Messiah." August paused, shrugged. "Maybe they're right. Hell, maybe Garth is the Messiah. I have to admit he'd make a good one."

I felt a chill pass through me that had nothing to do with the weather. "Garth told you this?"

"Hell, no. Nobody's even seen Garth for days. He's supposed to have gone into retreat to prepare for the big announcement. He'll hold a press conference inside the bathhouse, with the public invited to attend. It's going to be something; Carling plans to make some kind of satellite hookup so the whole world can hear what Garth has to say, when he says it."

"Who told you all this?"

"Tommy Carling. He actually runs the whole operation, you know. Garth doesn't care about anything but doing his own thing, so somebody has to take care of business. Maybe that will all change after Christmas Eve."

"And you don't have any idea where Garth could be?"

"No."

"Who does?"

"Carling may know, but if he does he isn't telling. He says Garth doesn't want to be disturbed."

"What about Marl Braxton? Does he know where Garth is?"

"I don't know … I don't think so. He's been just kind of moping around the place, looking lost, since Garth disappeared. Braxton's a tough man, but he spooks me. I think he's crazy, and Garth is the only thing holding him together." August paused, took a deep breath, then tentatively touched me on the shoulder. "Look, Frederickson, you're picking on me-but I'm not the only phony hanging around there."

"Harry, that wouldn't surprise me at all. You're not the only con man, I'm sure, who smelled money in the thing growing up around Garth."

"You don't understand what I'm saying. I may have made Garth famous, but I'm just a little guy in that organization; nobody pays any attention to me, and I don't have any say in what goes on. I'm talking about a big shot."

"Which big shot is a phony?"

"The nun."

"Sister Kate?"

"Yeah. She's good at keeping track of money, and I'd probably be a rich man now if she wasn't; but if she's a nun, then I'm Mickey Mouse."

"How do you know she's not a nun?"

"Because I am a con artist, and it takes one to know one-or even two. She and Tommy Carling are thick with each other, and I don't believe they met for the first time at the bathhouse; I think they knew each other before. I keep my dark glasses on for effect, and I guess maybe people tend to forget that I really can see. Well, I do see things, and I say there's something going on between Carling and that broad. They're always schmoozing with each other, if you know what I mean. I think they're planning to steal all the money eventually."

"Frederickson!"

"Hello, Dane," I said to the big teenager I'd found by himself, looking rather forlorn, staring out a thick Plexiglas window of the hospital's recreation room. His eyes had lit up when he'd seen me.

"What are you doing here, man?"

"I came to say hello, Dane. Christmas can be a lonely time when you're locked up someplace and you have nobody to share it with. I figured a lot of the other kids would be on home leave, and you might like some company."

The boy swallowed, looked down at his feet. "Yeah. The kids here miss you, Frederickson; I miss you. You're a good teacher."

"Thank you. I'll make it a point to visit more often. For now, how would you like to come out with me for the day?"

The boy quickly looked at me, then averted his gaze as sadness moved in his eyes. "I'd love to, Frederickson, but I can't. I'm DFY. I can't go home, and I can't go out with volunteers."

I still had my master key from the clinic, and I'd been pleased, if not surprised, to find that it opened the doors in the children's hospital as well. I'd been prepared to spring Dane Potter illegally, if necessary, but I'd found a better way. "A special dispensation from the director here, Dane. It seems you've been displaying some very positive changes in behavior and attitude, and your therapist thinks it may have something to do with the relationship between you and me; she thinks I'm a good role model-which you and I know is nonsense, Dane, but we won't tell her. I have permission to take you into the city for a few hours to check out all the decorations and lights. If it works out, they may let me take you out again."

"I'd like that very much, Frederickson," the boy said quietly. "I won't cause any trouble."

"Oh, I know you won't-because I'll kick the shit out of you if you try."

Dane Potter laughed. "Yeah, I know."

"It looks like you could use some clothes. Maybe we'll do a little shopping after we check out Rockefeller Center."

"You don't have to buy me anything, Frederickson. It's enough that you'll take me out of here for a couple of hours."

"Buying you slacks, sneakers, and maybe a sweater would be my pleasure. Dane. It would be a Christmas present, but it would also be a little payment for something I'd like you to do for me."

"What do you want me to do, Frederickson?"

"I'll let you know. You ready to roll?"

Dane Potter grinned. "Yeah, man."

Traffic was heavy with last-minute Christmas shoppers, and it took almost two hours to get into the city and down to the Bowery. I left the car in a garage, and walked with Dane Potter the three blocks to the bathhouse. I steered him around the traffic circle, took up a position across the street. There was a crush of people around the bathhouse, but most of them looked like tourists-with the needy now being cared for in various caring houses around the city. Police barricades had been set up, and the lines of people were being greeted by green-jacketed members of Garth's People, who were also handing out free coffee, doughnuts, and cookies. Above the bathhouse, the new glass dome gleamed like a diamond in this coal-mine neighborhood.

"What is it you want me to do, Frederickson?"

"Just be patient, Dane. Any time we spend here, I'll make up to you later, or on another visit."

"What are all those people doing over there?"

I said something about Christmas shoppers as I kept scanning the crowds in front of the bathhouse. There was no sign of Garth, but after about half an hour Tommy Carling and Sister Kate, both wearing green jackets, emerged from inside the bathhouse to talk with the people. My hands trembled slightly as I removed the binoculars I was carrying from around my neck and handed them to Potter.

"Dane," I said, "I want you to scan the people over on the sidewalk and let me know if there's anyone you recognize."

Dane Potter put the binoculars to his eyes, slowly moved his head back and forth. Suddenly he stiffened, reached out with his right hand and clutched at the sleeve of my parka.

"That's Marilyn-the woman I was telling you about! What the hell is she doing in a nun's outfit?!"

"Are you sure that's her?" I asked tightly. "You told me that the woman who helped you escape from the hospital and took you home with her had blond hair. That woman's hair is red."

"Then she must have been wearing a wig," the boy said breathlessly as he continued to stare at Sister Kate through the binoculars, "or she's wearing one now. That's her, Frederickson! I'm sure of it. I'm not about to forget the face of the best piece of ass I've ever had just because she turns out to be a nun." He lowered the binoculars, looked at me. His eyes were wide. "She wasn't all in my mind, Frederickson, was she?! Marilyn's real!"