The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter forty-nine

“Don’t tell me that,” Priscilla Norton said, gesticulating like an auctioneer as she shouted into the phone at her landlord. “Don’t tell me I need to hire a housekeeper, I keep it quite clean, thank you.”

Cross-legged on the floor, an ice pack pressed to his head, Jacob watched her stomp around, glad and guilty that she had chosen to vent her distress at someone other than him.

“I resent the suggest — excuse me. Excuse me. I resent the — don’t you tell me that. Don’t tell me it’s my fault. I’ve never had bugs in my life, not a fly.”

She was naked save the woolen throw carelessly draped over one shoulder, and he could see bruises splotching her milk-white skin: shins, arms, collarbone, wherever the beetle had hit her.

She jabbed the cordless with a thumb and hurled it to the sofa. “Bloody bastard. Accuse me of poor housekeeping.”

“Asshole,” he said.

“It had a horn, for God’s sake. You don’t get things with a horn from not taking out the bloody rubbish.”

Jacob began to stand to offer her comfort, but she shook her head and backed away. “I need to take a shower.”

She hurried into the bathroom and shut the door.

He sank down, listening to the water run, examining his own body for marks. In addition to the soft lump at the side of his head, he had a rug burn on his stomach and another on his flank. No bruises.

It had reserved its true wrath for her.

His lips still tingled where it had touched him.

The water cut off, and minutes later Priscilla appeared in pajama bottoms and a hoodie, her hair tied back severely.

“Do you need more ice?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks. How’re you?”

“I’ll live. Time for bed.” She paused. “Are you coming?”

“Mind if I stay up a bit?”

She looked relieved. “Can I get you anything? Hungry?”

“No, thanks.”

She retreated without an argument.

Jacob sat on the couch, staring at the jagged hole blown in the window.

Behind her bedroom door, Priscilla tossed and turned and mumbled.

His jeans, puddled near the door, began to vibrate. He crawled over to them, turned them right side out, and dug out his phone.

Maria Band said, “I’m keeping track of the favors you owe me.” She sounded noticeably friendlier, though.

Among the events Casey Klute had worked on in the weeks prior to her murder was a cocktail reception for the annual conference of the North American Architectural Design and Drafting Society.

“That help?” Band asked.

“A lot. A whole hell of a lot. Thanks.”

He put down the phone. He got up, went to Norton’s bedroom, opened the door softly. He stood there for a while, watching her small form rise and fall, the duvet pulled up to her neck.

She said, “Who was that?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Miami PD.”

“What did they have to say?”

He told her.

“That’s good news,” she said.

He nodded.

“Are you coming to bed at some point?”

“I’m not really tired.”

She pushed herself up against the headboard. “Should we talk about what happened.”

“What part of it?” he said.

He tried a smile. It felt artificial, and she didn’t return it.

“It hurt,” she said. “When you went inside me, it felt like—”

“I was stabbing you.”

She grimaced. “You haven’t got some horrible disease or something, have you?”

Not a physical one. “No.”

“Then...?”

He said, “I don’t know.”

She emitted a strange, hiccupping laugh. “I’ll tell you what I know. I know we’ve both had far too much to drink on an empty stomach, followed by far, far too much excitement.”

“Agreed.”

A silence. He reached for her hand but she withdrew, hugging herself, rubbing her upper arms. She wasn’t looking at him, so he couldn’t tell if she was angry or cold or what.

She said, “I want to tell you something, but I’m worried you’re going to think I’m mad.”

“I won’t think that.”

“You will.”

“I promise,” he said.

A silence.

She said, “I saw... I mean, it wasn’t like normal seeing. More like, I felt it. I don’t know how else to describe it.” She paused. “I can’t say it out loud without feeling like I am mad.”

Now when he reached for her hand, she was ready to give it to him. He waited.

“I saw a woman,” she said. “Behind you. Standing behind you. For half an instant, if that. Like lightning, sort of, in the shape of a person.”

“What did she look like?”

“Please don’t mock me.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“I feel crazy enough already without you—”

“Pippi. I swear to you. I am not mocking you.”

She fell silent.

“Tell me what she looked like,” Jacob said.

“Why?”

“You saw her,” Jacob said. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Yes, but... I mean, she wasn’t real.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“She — are you really asking me this?”

“I really am.”

“Well... She was beautiful, I suppose.”

“How?”

“How beautiful?”

“What made her beautiful?”

“Everything. Just — I don’t know. I know a beautiful person when I see one. She... She was perfect, I reckon. But I really don’t see what—”

“Hair color? Eye color?”

She made a frustrated noise. “Why are we discussing this?”

“You told me—”

“I told you because I can never tell anyone else, can I, or they’ll cart me away, and to be honest I should never have said a thing to you, either. It’s over and done with and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Pippi—”

“I’ve nothing else to say, Jacob.”

“She was beautiful,” he said. “That’s it.”

“She looked angry,” she said.

Pippi Norton, smart cop, clever girl, began to cry. “She looked jealous.”

She lay on her side, curled away from him while he rubbed her back, talking softly to her. She was right: the whole thing was best forgotten. He spoke as much for his own benefit as for hers. He steered her back to the case, emphasizing how much they’d discovered together, shoring up her bravado. She promised she’d follow up with Scotland Yard. He promised he’d send DNA profiles. They were not coauthors of a shared delusion; they were not failed lovers; they were two cops, absorbed by details, and their parting was cordial, hinged on a tacit agreement to never again discuss the matter.

“It certainly has been a terrific adventure knowing you,” she said.

“You, too.”

“Should you chance through these parts again, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

“Long as you call an exterminator.”

“Believe you me,” she said, “it’s top of my list.”

Back at the hostel, he packed his belongings by the light of his phone while his roommates grumbled and clamped their pillows over their heads.

The lobby was deserted. He sat at a computer kiosk and unfolded his transcription of the Prague letter on the table. As before, it was a slog. He frequently stopped to consult the Internet for definitions. No solution for missing words, so he guessed.

The Maharal’s fondness for allusion made it difficult to determine where his personal voice ended and Scripture began. Jacob kept a running list of sources. The clacking of the keyboard made a lonely sound.

It was nearing five a.m. by the time he’d finished.

Shivering, he folded the note up and put it in his pocket and went to check out.

The clerk asked if he had enjoyed his stay in Oxford.

“Yes and no,” Jacob said.

“More yes than no, I hope.”

Jacob handed over the white credit card. “I wouldn’t go that far.”