Two Songs This Archangel Sings

4

After leaving Garth I walked across campus to my office, where I typed up a letter to Veil explaining in detail everything I had done and planned to do, and giving my reasons. I made two copies of the original, then, after locking up the painting and gym bag in the office, walked the four blocks to my bank, where I opened a new savings account in Veil's name and mine and deposited the ten thousand in it. I added the account number to the letters, then went next door to the post office. I sent the original, by certified mail with no signature required, to Veil's address. The two copies I sent by registered mail to Garth and myself.

I debated going back to my apartment to clean up, decided that it would just be a waste of time. I still had a load of examination papers to grade, so after picking up a couple of sandwiches and some coffee from a deli, I went back to my campus office. After turning Veil's painting to the wall so as not to be distracted, I tuned my small desk radio to an all-news station and proceeded to attack the mountain of papers piled all over my desk.

Grading papers kept me busy until seven thirty in the evening. I went home, soaked myself under a hot shower, put on pajamas and a light robe. I poured myself a liberal Scotch over ice, then proceeded once again with my telephone ritual-Veil's loft, my answering service, the hospital emergency rooms. Nothing. The first Scotch felt warm and pleasantly heavy on my stomach, so I poured myself another. I put a TV dinner in the oven, made myself a salad, then went and sat down in the leather reclining chair in my den to study Veil's painting, which I had propped up on my desk, beneath a small spotlight.

A sulphurous, gun-toting angel-a lone American-draped in a strange robe and hovering over a jungle filled with soldiers in a country that might or might not be Viet Nam, but was almost certainly in Southeast Asia.

A close examination with a magnifying glass revealed no hidden messages or symbols, at least none that I could detect, and when I scraped paint from one corner I found nothing beneath but canvas. Garth could be right about an insane Veil Kendry going over the edge and falling into some black abyss in his admittedly complex and problematical mind, but I didn't think so. Wherever he was, I was still convinced he'd been pushed there and that, with time, the painting would tell me where and why. The problem was that I didn't know how much time I had.

The smell of burning TV dinner sent me padding into the kitchen. I managed to salvage most of my meal, ate it in front of the television set while I watched the Cable News Network. I'd hoped to pick up some news item that I could possibly link to Veil's disappearance, but the vast majority of the coverage was given over to background reports on, and interviews with, Kevin Shannon's cabinet nominees, which didn't interest me at all. My time with the people involved in the Valhalla Project had convinced me that nations were neither moral nor immoral; only individuals could make those kinds of choices, and only time, not television appearances, would determine in which camp Kevin Shannon and his new crew on the Potomac belonged.

When I began to doze, I turned off the TV, threw away the rest of my dinner, worked up enough energy to brush my teeth, then fell into bed, exhausted. I fell asleep almost immediately.

I exploded awake, jackknifing forward in bed as the air exploded from my lungs. Then, writhing and rocking back and forth helplessly, I imploded into a small, airless world of throbbing agony centered in the pit of my stomach. Doubled up in a fetal position tighter than a clenched fist, I kept gasping-but air wouldn't come, and the veins and arteries in my neck and head felt about to burst from the pressure of effort and need. Gasping in my universe of pain, I vaguely realized that the lights in my bedroom were on. Two men in business suits were standing at the left side of the bed, staring impassively down at me. Just before I got my head over the edge of the bed and threw up on their polished surfaces, I found myself looking down on two pairs of expensive, wing-tipped shoes, one brown and one black.

I was just managing to drag some air into my lungs when two sets of hands with strong fingers gripped my arms and legs and pushed me back on the bed. Ropes were quickly looped around my wrists and ankles, pulled taut, and secured to the four corners of the bedframe. Thus spread-eagled, the joints in my shoulders, arms, and legs immediately began to ache. I was still unable to breathe right, much less scream for help, and so I concentrated on getting air into my lungs while I studied my uninvited guests and fought against rising panic.

The brown-suited night visitor standing at the foot of the bed looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was clean-cut, with short brown hair that matched his cold eyes, and a neatly trimmed mustache. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, he, like his partner, appeared to be freshly shaven and smelled of cologne. He could have been an up-and-coming stockbroker, except that instead of an attach6 case he held the blackjack that had served as my alarm clock in his right hand. In his left hand he held Veil's painting.

The second man wore a charcoal-striped suit. He was middle-aged, with thinning gray hair and thick eyeglass lenses. Standing to my left, he suddenly bent down, and when he straightened up I could see that he was holding one of my bath towels, which was sopping wet.

They were top-of-the-line professionals, I thought, tough-minded and cold-blooded. They were also obviously well equipped, since by breaking into my apartment without a sound they had managed to bypass not only a most suspicious concierge in the lobby, but my own alarm system and a double lock as well. I was impressed. It occurred to me to ask what they wanted, but I was fairly certain they'd get around to that in time, and I wanted to conserve what little breath and energy I had.

"I'm sorry for your discomfort, Dr. Frederickson," the older man said in a soft voice that was just above a whisper. There were no chairs in the small room, and so he eased himself down on the edge of the bed, a foot or so from my head, and casually crossed one leg over the other. Then he snaked the wet towel out across the floor, like a whip. "I hope we won't have to hurt you again. Experience has taught us that it is often best to begin with an intense, sudden burst of great pain, so as to save a person even greater agony over a prolonged period of time." He paused, gently rubbed my diaphragm, helping me to breathe. "See? I think you're feeling better already, no? Please answer all our questions fully, without raising your voice. We certainly don't want to wake up any of your neighbors, and everyone knows that even the best buildings in New York have walls that are notoriously thin."

I most certainly did want to wake any and all of my neighbors, whether those on either side of me or those across the hall. I sucked in a deep breath and was just about to let loose with what I hoped would be a blood-curdling scream when the thick, wet towel snapped through the air and slapped across my face. A fraction of a second later the blackjack thudded into the bare sole of my left foot. A pain with a quality quite unlike anything I'd experienced before shot up through my left leg, slammed into my groin and belly, then traveled in a shock wave up my spine into my skull, where it seemed to expand to the point where it felt as if my eyeballs were being pushed from my head. It got a blood-curdling scream out of me all right, but, with the wet towel over my face, I was the only one who heard it.

No sooner had the shock waves from the first blow begun to subside-gradually, like water sloshing in a pail-than the blackjack slammed into the sole of my right foot, starting the process all over again. Another smothered scream.

Just as it seemed I would pass out from pain or lack of air, or both, the towel was removed from by face. Sucking air, my chest and stomach heaving, I turned my head as far as I was able and vomited again. When I was finished, the man with the thick glasses used a corner of the wet towel to wipe my face clean, then heaved a deep sigh and slowly shook his head. With a flick of his wrist, the towel was snaked back into snapping position.

The younger man at the foot of the bed who had hit me held up Veil's painting.

"Please, Dr. Frederickson," the man sitting on the side of my bed said in the same, soft voice. "Save yourself needless suffering; no more nonsense. Tell us about the painting."

"What the hell do you want to know that you don't already know?" I sobbed, gasping for breath. My joints felt locked, welded together with pain. "You wouldn't even know about me or be here unless you'd had Kendry's phone tapped. You've already heard everything there is for me to tell."

"Who else have you discussed this matter with besides your brother?"

"Nobody."

"Are you sure? We don't want to have to hurt you again."

"I'm sure."

"We wish to know every place you've been since leaving Mr. Kendry's loft this morning."

"If you know when I left the loft, then you must know where I went. Weren't you following me?"

The younger man let his right hand drop, and the cold black leather cover of the sap brushed my sole. I cringed and closed my eyes, but no blow came. When I opened my eyes, I found my interrogator looking at the younger man with a distinct air of disapproval. "You were just a bit too quick for us in the subway," he said, turning his thick lenses back on me. "I'm afraid that lapse on our part is what necessitates this conversation. We have quite a few lost hours to account for."

"In that case, you can pick up Blackjack Barney down there and go home. From the time I left the loft, I didn't have time for anything but business. I ran in the subway because I was late. Unless you've got wax in your ears, you heard my brother and me discussing the lecture I was sup-"

"Did you give the lecture?"

"Yes."

"That's the kind of response we like. Don't concern yourself with what you think we must have heard. Just answer the questions."

"How did you know who I was, and where I live?"

"You're much too modest, Dr. Frederickson. How many noted criminology professors of your stature, so to speak, are nicknamed 'Mongo'? As a result of some of your past exploits, you enjoy a measure of fame."

"Lucky me."

"And, of course, you're listed in the directory. Where did you go after your lecture?"

"To my office."

"Which office? You have two."

"My campus office. When I said I was involved in business all that time, I meant university business. I didn't do any investigating. I had examination papers to grade. I finished up around a half past seven and came home. Who do you guys work for?"

"Where is the money you mentioned, Dr. Frederickson?"

"In the bank."

"Really?" The thick gray brows above the thick lenses lifted slightly. "I don't recall you mentioning that you'd been to the bank when I asked where you'd been."

"I forgot." The blackjack brushed the sole of my right foot. "It wasn't a big deal," I added quickly. "The bank is just off campus. I also went to the post office."

"Why?"

"I sent Kendry a letter explaining why I'd taken the painting and the money, just to cover myself. I also mailed a copy to myself."

"You should have minded your own business, Frederickson."

"You're telling me! You see, I had this peculiar idea that he might be having trouble with some nasty people. Now that I see how wrong

I was, I have a good mind to put those things back where I found them and forget about the whole thing."

He was a tough audience, and he didn't even smile. "Did you send copies of this letter to anyone else?"

"No." Garth didn't need these two jokers showing up on his doorstep. "From the post office, I went back to my office."

"You'd best be careful not to forget anything else, Dr. Frederickson," the older man said evenly. "It would be a shame for you to suffer any more agony just because you can't remember events that happened only a few hours ago. Now, has your brother seen this painting?"

"No. Even if I'd had time to show it to him, which I didn't, he wouldn't have been interested; you heard him on the phone. Why don't you just tell me what this is all about? If you do, maybe we can save time. What do you want?"

"Just continue to answer our questions truthfully, Dr. Frederickson."

"Why is the painting so important? What does it mean?"

"That's not your concern."

"Where's Veil Kendry?"

"Besides yourself, who else has seen this painting?"

"A few hundred cops, most of them police chiefs."

The man with the blackjack started to swing, then stopped when my interrogator held up his hand. But the sap remained cocked, ready to strike. The face of the younger torturer at the foot of my bed revealed nothing; he was just a man doing his*job.

"You must not try to be amusing, Frederickson," the older man said.

"It's the Goddamn truth," I breathed, wriggling my body in an unsuccessful attempt to relieve the cramps in my stomach. "The lecture I gave was to a group of police chiefs and criminologists."

"You took the painting with you to the lecture?"

"I didn't have time to go home. Everyone in the lecture hall must have seen me carrying it, but it couldn't have meant anything to anybody. I'm considered eccentric in some circles." I paused, tried to suck in a deep breath. "I'm answering your questions; I don't have any reason not to. Why don't you loosen the ropes so I can breathe a little?"

"Just a few more questions, Dr. Frederickson; you're tied to make certain we have your undivided attention. You claim that your brother hasn't seen this painting, and that you haven't discussed it with him. Wasn't he at the lecture?"

"No."

I groaned when the sap tapped harder against my left sole, but not too loudly; I didn't want the wet towel over my face again.

"But he said that he was going. Indeed, he seemed quite anxious to see and hear you."

"Some emergency came up at his precinct station, and Garth had to handle it. Look, I'm really sorry you lost me in the subway. If you'd been able to follow me around all day, you'd see that everything I'm telling you is the truth. Aside from what I've told you, I don't know anything. You're the ones who know all the important questions and answers, so I don't understand why you're hassling me. You've got the painting. I've got nothing left to give you, except the money, and if you'll be patient and wait a few hours without driving my feet up into my chest, I'll get that for you."

My interrogator nodded to his colleague, who raised Veil's painting to shoulder level for me to look at.

"What does the painting suggest to you, Dr. Frederickson?"

"I don't know what you want from me, pal," I replied with a rising anger that was thoroughly absurd for someone in my position. "For Christ's sake, it's not a Goddamn Rorschach blot. We're all looking at the same fucking painting; what you see is what I see. What the hell do you expect me to say?!"

"If you don't wish to be hurt again, keep your voice down," the older man said politely but firmly. "Just answer the question."

"It's Veil Kendry as some kind of armed angel floating over a jungle filled with soldiers and guerrillas. It's probably Viet Nam. Is that what you want me to say?"

"What associations to Veil Kendry does it call to mind, Dr. Frederickson?"

"None."

"What does the painting mean to you?"

"Nothing."

"Why do you suppose Mr. Kendry left this for you?"

"I've already answered that-"

"Why you, and not someone else?"

"Probably because he overestimated my intuitive abilities, not to mention my tolerance for pain."

"Ah, you're trying to be amusing again."

"I'm a private investigator as well as a criminologist, pal. You know that. It looks like he was trying to throw some business my way. I don't understand what you're trying to get at."

"The envelope with the money that was with the painting was clearly addressed to you, a point you repeatedly sought to make with your brother. I am suggesting that in the past Mr. Kendry may have said something to you, and only you, that would help you to understand the meaning of the painting. Furthermore, I am suggesting that in the past few hours you could have shared that information with one or more persons."

"That's one wrong from column A, and one wrong from column B."

"The connection could have come to you since your last phone conversation with your brother."

"Nope. You know, if you keep this shit up you're likely to make me angry."

"What do you know of Mr. Kendry's past?"

"When he first came to New York, he was apparently a very disturbed man. A few months before I met him, he'd started painting. It didn't quite keep him off the streets and out of trouble, but it apparently did help him keep his head straight. Now he's a big man on the art scene. He's also the best unarmed fighter I've ever met. Aside from that, nada. Zip."

"He never talked to you about his experiences in the years before he came to New York?"

"Never."

"Did he ever make insinuations?"

"About who or what?"

"About anyone or anything."

"Veil Kendry never makes insinuations of any kind. If he had something to say, about you or anybody else, he'd say it right in your face."

"You claim this man you call a friend never told you anything about his past?"

"It's the truth."

"And you never inquired?"

"I'm not the inquisitive sort. Was it one of you guys who winged a shot at him?"

"You most certainly are the inquisitive sort, Dr. Frederickson. If you weren't, the three of us wouldn't be in this unfortunate situation."

"When a friend asks me not be be inquisitive, I'm not inquisitive. Everything I've told you is the truth."

The man sitting on the edge of my bed stared at me for some time in silence. I stared back, reflecting on the fact that I had never felt more alone or helpless than at this moment, in my own bed in my own apartment, surrounded by neighbors around, above, and below me. I was cut off from everyone by pain, the threat of pain, and a wet towel.

Finally the older man stood up, turned to his partner. "I believe him," he said easily. "What do you think?"

The younger man nodded, spoke for the first time. "I think he's telling the truth. Apparently, Kendry never shared information with anybody, and he's still keeping his own council; executing this painting is as far as he would go. It's curious, but it does seem to be the case."

"Good," I said. "Now that you've got that right, let's close down this show. I'd appreciate it if you'd take these ropes off me and get the fuck out of my apartment. Go out and play in the traffic."

The man with the thick glasses looked down at me. "Do you smoke, Dr. Frederickson?"

"No," I replied quickly, glancing back and forth between the two men. I found the question decidedly ominous. "I was told it's unhealthy."

The younger man dropped the sap in his pocket and took out a can of lighter fluid. I started to yell, but the towel slapped down over my mouth. Then the older man wrapped it around the back of my head, tied it. I could no nothing but squirm and watch helplessly as the man with the cold brown eyes removed the top from the can, then thoroughly soaked the painting. This done, he walked slowly around the bed, soaking the edges of the bedclothes. He screwed the top back on the can, put it back in his pocket, and took out an expensive-looking silver lighter. He opened the cap, then flicked the lighter to produce a long blue and white flame, which he touched to a corner of the painting. The fluid-soaked painting instantly burst into flame. The younger man tossed the burning painting beneath the bed, and then, without a backward glance, the two men turned and walked quickly from the bedroom. A few seconds later I heard the apartment door open and close.

I immediately began tugging at the ropes, to no avail. Smoke was beginning to billow out from beneath the bed, and I struggled against the oxygen-greedy panic rising within me. Breathing deeply through my nose, trying not even to think of what it would feel like when the black smoke began to fill my lungs and the flames to touch my flesh, I groped with my fingers for the knots around my wrists. It was no use; the ropes were taut, and the knots expertly tied. Again, I thrashed my body and yanked with my arms and legs, trying desperately to get one limb, any limb, free. But it was not to be. The only way the ropes were going to disappear was to burn along with me, which they would, obliterating any evidence to suggest that my death was anything more than the result of a freak accident, perhaps a fire caused by a short circuit in the reading lamp beside my bed.

Smoke was filling the bedroom now, almost totally obscuring my vision. Soon, I thought, one of my neighbors was going to smell it, if that hadn't happened already, and call the fire department. Unfortunately, I'd be long gone by the time anybody reached me. Ironically, the burning bed beneath me formed a kind of baffle for the thick smoke, affording me a pocket of relatively clean air. But it was only prolonging the agony; flames were shooting up all around me, and the mattress on which I lay was growing very hot.

Sayonara, I thought with something approaching an air of resignation. I'd read somewhere that people who'd been burned at the stake usually died of suffocation before the flames finally reached them. I fervently hoped that was true, and that the same principle applied in bed as at stake. The litter of lives Garth had mentioned had finally been used up. My night visitors had nailed me quickly, and they'd nailed me good. I was going to die, and I would never know the reasons for it.

It was the last thing I thought before finally passing out from heat and lack of air.