Book of Shadows (15 page)

The growl was a low rumble in the dog’s throat.

His powerful body froze. He pulled the flesh back from his jagged teeth and waited.

On the other side of the door, Rupert Comfort inserted a key in the second lock, simultaneously turning key and doorknob.

He didn’t push the door open.

Instead he removed his jacket while looking over his shoulder at his wife, who stood directly behind him. After quickly glancing left and right in the empty hall, Rowena Comfort nodded at her husband.

With his jacket held in both hands as though it were a bullfighter’s cape, Rupert Comfort nudged the door with his toe, opening it slowly. Inches away, Louie’s barking exploded. The door continued to move slowly, slowly, and when it made contact with the dog, Rupert Comfort shoved the door forward with all his strength, driving the Great Dane back.

The Comforts rushed into the apartment, slamming the door behind them.

The Great Dane spun in a circle, his claws tearing at the gray shag rug, and when he again faced the intruders, he charged them. Rupert Comfort tossed his jacket into the dog’s face.

The Comforts leaped clear and the dog, blinded by the jacket covering its head, sped between them, crashing into an Oriental umbrella stand and knocking it to the floor. Swinging around to face the Druids Louie growled, then suddenly stopped and went rigid.

Rupert Comfort, a vein throbbing in his forehead, stood on one leg, a forefinger pointing at the dog. One of the white-haired man’s eyes was closed, the other open and unblinking.

Incantation.

One leg. One finger. One eye.

In such manner the maker of magic will gather all of his power and concentrate it on that one thing which is to be enchanted.

Louie whimpered and backed into the scattered umbrellas and canes. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck. His eyes watered. He shook his head in resistance and a howl came from deep within his chest, as if he were desperately begging for mercy. But the force that opposed him was fiercely primitive, painfully strong. The animal was being made to submit to a strength far greater than anything he had ever known.

Rupert Comfort’s nostrils flared, his breathing grew louder, and his opened eye widened. His pointed finger remained stiff, unmoving. His body trembled slightly.

His other hand was a clenched, white-knuckled fist at his side, the nails cutting into the palm of his hand.

Obey. Obey now and tomorrow.

Shifting the forefinger, Rupert Comfort slowly led Louie from the door and into the center of the room, where the cringing dog stopped, tail between his legs, head hanging down as though it had been severely beaten. The animal was terrified. And totally subdued.

Quickly gathering the umbrellas and canes, Rowena Comfort placed them back in the stand. Then she ran to her husband and caught him in her arms just before he lost balance and began to stagger. There was a tenderness in her plain face as she used a white-gloved hand to wipe perspiration from his forehead.

He squeezed the hand, carrying it to his heart.

She held him in silence, waiting for his breathing to become even again, and when he nodded his head, she knew that the dizziness had passed and he had the strength to go on. Even in a man as physically strong as Rupert, a man also strong with the magic of a Celtic priest, there would be moments of weakness. Casting a spell on the dog was a huge strain, especially since combined with the pressure they were under to find and return the book as quickly as possible.

They knew it was somewhere in New York, and they now had less than two weeks to bring it back to their village. Their grandson, their only living male issue, must not die.

He was young, unsure; but there was in the boy a feeling for Druid magic, for the old ways. Rupert wanted to teach him. Rupert wanted the boy to carry on as he himself had carried on for his father. With the death of the old man at Rupert’s own hands, it had now become imperative that a male child of his line live and be a priest with the magic of old in his heart and mind. The boy must not die because of the Americans.

Neither Rowena nor Rupert was young anymore. Rowena wondered if they would survive this trip. She would hate to die in a strange land. But if she had to die, then let it be with Rupert, for there was no life for her without him.

They searched the Shields’ apartment for the book.

As an antique clock delicately chimed three in the afternoon, a docile Louie lay in the center of the living room, his head on his front paws. Through the sliding doors near the patio, sunlight warmed a portion of the room and turned the carpet a bright gold.

Minutes later Rupert Comfort said to his wife, “It’s not here.”

She said, “That means the actress or the writer has it.”

The white-haired man nodded.

He studied the dog, who had not moved.

After a few seconds, Rupert Comfort turned the palm of his hand toward Louie and held it there for a short time. The dog lifted up its head, stared at the hand and when the Druid let his hand fall to his side, the dog put his head back down on the carpet.

Obey. Obey now and tomorrow.

When the Comforts walked past the dog and to the front door, the animal didn’t move.

The toll-booth attendant, a muscular black woman in a blue uniform and bow tie, handed Ellie Shields change from a five-dollar bill, then leaned down to peer into the station wagon. Shaking her head, the black woman said, “Lord have mercy. Ain’t seen no teeth like that since I seen
Jaws.
I bet if he took a bite outta your leg, you’d know it.”

Ellie looked over her shoulder at Louie, who sat in the back seat, long purple-red tongue dangling sideways from his open mouth. “Louie’s a pussycat. He doesn’t bite people.”

“Louie, huh? He named for Louie Armstrong or something?”

“No. He’s named for the king of France.”

“No foolin’. Well, one thing for sure. He be takin’ a king-sized chew outta somebody if he be messin’ with you, am I right?”

Ellie smiled, took her foot off the brake and slowly drove clear of the toll booth. Behind her, Louie growled softly.

Ellie looked into the rearview mirror. “Not again.”

Louie barked.

“If you don’t mind,” said Ellie with mild annoyance.

She shook her head. “Louie, you’ve been acting very strange since yesterday. If I didn’t know better I’d swear gypsies kidnapped the real Louie and replaced him with a substitute. You’d better behave yourself or I’ll leave you in New Jersey and that, my friend, is a fate worse than death.”

Shifting gears, she guided the station wagon into the center lane. A passing truck driver tooted his horn and looked down at her. Too far away to see I’m not that young, thought Ellie, who hoped he didn’t see her smile. The part of her that needed someone, a man, no longer functioned. Whether it would ever function again was a question to be pushed far into the future.

Cars pulled up on either side of her and in one, four Hispanic-looking children leaned from a back window to point and yell at Louie. Her windshield was dirty and she’d have to stop for gas on the way back. Nat wasn’t around anymore to take care of these things.

She planned to reach the farm by noon, pick up the last of Nat’s antiques, and return to the city in time for a nap and shower before meeting Marisa for dinner. The farm had been sold. It now belonged to a former advertising man with dreams of becoming both a gentleman farmer and a part-time novelist. He was enthusiastic about plans to raise corn, wheat, apples, and best-sellers—lifelong ambitions which his wife didn’t seem to share. It was she who had insisted that Nat’s antiques, those which hadn’t been sold, be removed from the farm house as soon as possible.

The antiques, too delicate and valuable to be entrusted to a mover, were best handled by Ellie. As for the farm, she had never liked it and now liked it less, blaming it for Nat’s death.

The would-be gentleman farmer had paid good money for it and had extended Ellie an invitation to visit any time she wanted to. Ellie had been politely emphatic about not ever wanting to set foot on the property again.

Well, she was coming back today, but the visit would be brief. Load up and run.

Behind her, Louie snarled and shifted nervously, his rump bumping the back of the front seat.

Ellie yelled, “Would you like to get out and walk?”

What in God’s name had gotten into that dog?

First Marisa, now Louie. Marisa had been acting peculiar lately. She’d dropped a hint about something being not quite right about Nat’s death and just as quickly had backed down from it. Then Larry’s death had upset her. Ellie hadn’t known Marisa and Larry were that close.

Marisa was back smoking again and she’d lost weight. The woman was definitely edgy and bothered about something. When Ellie asked if Robert was the problem Marisa had answered
Yes he is, in a way,
an answer that hadn’t cleared up anything as far as Ellie was concerned. What did Marisa mean by
in a way?

Robert was not Ellie’s idea of Mr. Right. What’s more, success had increased his head size, making him harder to deal with. If sex was the only thing he and Marisa had going, maybe Marisa would be better off with a vibrator.

Louie’s paws were on the top of the front seat, claws painfully digging into Ellie’s shoulder. He growled and she could feel his hot breath. What was bothering him? In the six years Ellie had owned him he’d never come close to being this irritable.

“Louie—”

Obey. Obey today and tomorrow.

The dog attacked her.

In a killing rage it sank its huge teeth into Ellie’s throat, hungrily seeking the warmth and salt taste of her flesh and blood.

Ellie screamed, shoving her foot down on the gas and turning the steering wheel sharply to the left. Behind her, a motorist jammed his brake to the floor, cursed, and fought for control of his car.

The station wagon swerved right, then left again.

Louie was now in the front seat, mauling Ellie, slashing her with his teeth and claws, tearing at her with his powerful jaws. His snarling filled the car, and the front seat, dashboard, and windows were slippery with Ellie’s blood. The force that drove the dog to kill blotted out everything except the desire to kill.

As Ellie shrieked and vainly fought the crazed dog, the station wagon jumped the divider and crashed into the back end of a trailer coming towards it. Bouncing off the trailer, the station wagon spun and hit a Volkswagen, knocking the small car on its side, sending it sliding down the highway.

And then the station wagon was off the turnpike and smashing against trees and boulders, the roar of the crash drowning out Ellie’s screams and the Great Dane’s call for her blood.

I
NHALING THROUGH CLENCHED TEETH
, Joseph Bess painfully raised himself from a stuffed chair, one hand gingerly touching his left side. After slowly crossing Marisa’s living room he stopped in front of a window and peeked through Venetian blinds at the street, four stories below.

“We let Raymond stick it to us,” he said. “That hurts a lot more than my cracked ribs, believe me. He led us on. And we ended up driving a car into an apartment-house lobby, through twelve thousand dollars’ worth of plate glass and right into a fake waterfall and a pool of goldfish. Lawyers for the building and a couple of tenants are hitting the department with suits, writs, you name it. Good old Raymond. The man put one hell of a move on us. Just turns the corner, waits, then switches on his brights.”

Bess turned from the window to look at Marisa. “He’s laughing at me. Somewhere Raymond’s laughing at me.”

She said, “You did your best. What more could you possibly do?”

“In my line of work, coming in second doesn’t pay. Everybody—the department, the public—they all want results.”

Bess looked through the Venetian blinds again.

Marisa said, “Is he—”

The detective nodded. “He is. No wonder the little bastard’s fat. He’s still eating pizza. That’s probably his third piece by now.”

Getting up from the couch, Marisa walked over to the bar. The fat teenage boy had followed her home from the studio. She’d immediately telephoned Joseph Bess at his Greenwich Village apartment, where he’d been on sick leave. Twenty minutes later he’d arrived at her building in a taxi.

In a small pizza stand across the street, the fat boy ate and looked up at Marisa’s apartment.

“Why can’t you arrest him?” she demanded.

“Because at the moment he’s not doing anything except feeding his face, which isn’t a crime.”

“He’s been following me for days.”

“Your word against his. He’ll deny he even knows you. Bet on it. I need a charge to bust him and you don’t have one. Harassment, maybe, but that won’t put the kid away.

Marisa threw her hands up in disgust. “Great, just great. So what do we do now? Stand here and watch him swallow hot grease while the seasons change?”

She poured herself a glass of vodka, drank half of it, and immediately refilled the glass. “I’m scared, Joseph. Let me tell you I am scared.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Ellie’s dead and I’m scared.”

“You don’t like being reminded of this, but I’ve got to say it. Your friend Ellie Shields’ death is a closed case. Witnesses saw the car jump the divider, ram a few vehicles, and crash into some boulders. A guy says he saw the dog—”

Marisa waved him away. “I know, I know. The dog attacked her. Except that Louie loved Ellie. He wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head. She used to play with him. I’ve seen her stick her hand in his mouth a million times. I’ve seen them wrestle together and not once did Louie hurt her. Not once.”

“The coroner says he did.”

Leaving the window, Bess walked over to the coffee table, which was piled high with books. He picked one up and opened it. “You mentioned something about not going to Ellie’s funeral. How come?”

She shrugged. “Been to enough funerals lately. Don’t want to make a habit of it. First Nat, then Larry. And now Ellie. I know, I know. Coincidence, right?”

She swallowed more vodka.

“That isn’t going to help,” said Bess. “Sooner or later it’ll wear off.”