Quoth the Raven (6 page)

“I hope he talks about blood a lot in his lecture,” the boy said. “It would be absolutely rad.”

Tibor didn’t know what it meant to be “absolutely rad,” but he didn’t have a chance to ask. Everybody on the quad seemed to be dancing to the “Monster Mash” song. A girl in a space helmet and electric pink tights chugged up and nabbed his boy, and they both disappeared.

It was, Tibor thought, just as well. He still felt a little guilty about what he had pulled on Gregor, asking him up here at first just to the Halloween party, to keep him company, and then dumping this lecture on him. Tibor had no idea how Gregor felt about lectures, but he could guess.

The book bag was hurting his shoulder, so he readjusted it. Then he got started again on his way to his temporary home. When he got to the center of the quad he looked up reflexively and saw Lenore above his head, circling and circling, her caws drowned out by the pounding bass of the music around him. Lenore was nearly tame. She never went circling through the air like that, agitated and angry.

There was something else that was strange, and he didn’t like it either. He hadn’t seen the Great Doctor Donegal Steele all day. He thought he ought to consider it a blessing—Donegal Steele was probably the first man Tibor had honestly hated since he left the Soviet Union—but he couldn’t. There was something so fundamentally wrong about it, it made his flesh crawl.

Lenore and Donegal Steele.

Tibor turned down the path that led to the front door of Constitution House. It would be all right, he told himself, because Gregor was coming. In just two days, Gregor would be on campus and everything would be fine.

When Tibor had Gregor with him, everything always was.

Wednesday, October 30

While I nodded, nearly napping,

suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping,

rapping at my chamber door.

—E. A. Poe

L
IKE EVERY MAN WHO
has ever been part of an American police force during the month of October, Gregor Demarkian was ambivalent about Halloween. In principle, he tended to like the idea: a holiday for children, stripped of its religious baggage decades ago, dedicated absolutely to silliness and sweets. On Cavanaugh Street, both the silliness and the sweets were particularly in evidence, because the adults insisted on getting in on the act—not cynically, as the adults had in so many of the cities Gregor had lived in over the course of his career, but with a childlike lack of psychological complication Gregor found astounding. There was Howard Kashinian, the perennial juvenile delinquent of Gregor’s grammar-school class and now President and Chief Executive Officer of one of the largest stock brokerages in Philadelphia, standing out on the corner of Cavanaugh and Muswell streets, dressed as a clown. Howard had a brand-new, never used, industrial-size plastic garbage can beside him, filled with Halloween candy that he passed out to anyone who asked. Lots of people asked, too. It was Wednesday, October 30, and the children were out of school in favor of a teachers’ meeting. Some of them had put on paper masks and gone to stand around Howard. Some of them had come barefaced, in their inevitable jeans and sweaters. All of them seemed to have brought their mothers. The mothers stood on the fringes of the crowd and munched away on sugar pumpkins and candy corn. Then there was Lida Kazanjian Arkmanian, the Most Beautiful Armenian Girl of Gregor’s adolescence, now grandmother to a dozen small children and mistress of an enormous town house at number 48. What Lida was doing was what Lida was always doing these days, cooking. So was Lida’s best friend from high school and best friend still on Cavanaugh Street, Hannah Oumoudian Krekorian. There was supposed to be a party in the basement of the church for the smallest children on Halloween night, and Lida and Hannah intended to be ready. Finally, there was old George Tekemanian, aged eighty-six, occupant of the ground-floor floor-through apartment in Gregor’s building. The party in the church basement might be for small children, but old George was getting ready for it, too. He was teaching himself to bob for apples. In principle, there was no reason for Gregor to be uneasy about Halloween on Cavanaugh Street. In principle, Cavanaugh Street was an Eden where the serpent had been headed off at the pass.

In practice, standing at the check-out counter in Ohanian’s Middle Eastern Food Store while young Mary Ohanian rang up package after package of honey cakes, what Gregor felt was a sense of impending doom. It was a state of mind so melodramatic, it made him uncomfortable all by itself. Surely there was nothing doomlike about Ohanian’s. There was a handkerchief ghost hanging from the back of the cash register, but it had a sheepish grin on its cloth face, as if it was embarrassed to be a spook. There was a jack-o’-lantern on the counter, but it was smiling sappily, a harbinger of gushing sentimentality, not of violence and death. It was the same with all the decorations the Ohanians—and everybody else on Cavanaugh Street—had put up. The skeletons looked ashamed to be naked. The witches had the faces of fairy godmothers. The bats were so cuddly cute they might as well have been puppies. There was a vast array of Halloween gear for sale in card shops and drugstores across America, some of it so realistically bloody and meticulously evil it made Gregor, a twenty-year veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, cringe. The people of Cavanaugh Street had chosen only those things that could have fit just as comfortably in a Christmas display.

On her side of the counter, Mary Ohanian was counting up the honey cakes for the second time, a frown crease wrinkled into her forehead, the tip of a front tooth biting into her bottom lip. Mary was a small girl, not yet sixteen and not particularly pretty, but compactly built and congenially pleasant. Gregor had gone all through grammar and high school with her father, her mother, and all three of her uncles.

“When Miss Hannaford called, she said you were to get two dozen of these, Mr. Demarkian. You only have twenty-two.”

“I know. That’s all there were on the shelf.”

“We’ve got some more in the back. I’ll get them. I don’t think you ought to give Miss Hannaford anything less than she was asking for.”

“More would be all right?”

“For Miss Hannaford?” Mary smiled slightly. “Yes, I think more would be all right. Let me get the other two, anyway. It won’t take me a minute.”

Mary disappeared through the curtain into the back, and Gregor found himself biting back a smile. “Miss Hannaford” was Bennis Day Hannaford, a woman he had met during the conduct of the case he still thought of as his first extracurricular murder. Through a complicated series of made friendships and personal dislocations, she had started to spend a lot of time on Cavanaugh Street, and now spent almost all her time here. To the people who knew her well, she was just Bennis, Bennis the Menace as Father Tibor Kasparian sometimes put it, a young woman with enormous energy, monumental enthusiasm, outrageous generosity, and a limitless capacity for work—but a crazy person, definitely, whose safety had to be guarded as carefully as an idiot child’s. To the people who did not know her, and especially to adolescent girls like Mary Ohanian, Bennis was a kind of goddess: not only WASP and Protestant, but rich, beautiful, and connected to every famous old money name on the Philadelphia Main Line. Gregor sometimes wondered what people like Mary Ohanian would think if they knew that Bennis woke up every morning of her life, looked in her mirror, and told herself she was getting fat.

Mary Ohanian emerged from the back with two more packages of honey cakes in her hand and put them on the counter.

“There,” she said. “I think you have everything. I wrote it all down.”

“So did Bennis,” Gregor said, holding up the list she had sent him out with. “Bennis thinks I’d forget to tie my shoelaces if somebody didn’t remind me.”

“Well,” Mary said seriously, “maybe you would, Mr. Demarkian. You do get a little—um—distracted.”

“I never get that distracted.”

“My father says that when you and he were in high school you came in one day with no shoes on at all. And it was February. He said you were studying for some kind of test and you forgot.”

It was true. It had been his senior year, in those days before SATs and routinely rationalized college admissions procedures, and he had been working overtime to get an A in Latin. Without that A in Latin, he had been absolutely sure the University of Pennsylvania would not have him.

Maybe it wasn’t only Bennis whose safety had to be guarded as carefully as an idiot child’s.

Mary Ohanian had put his honey cakes in a bag, along with the other things Bennis had sent him out to get: three big round loaves of bread; four jars of apple preserves; six small bottles of ground spices; two lemons; a thick brick of halvah. She had used a separate bag for the non-Armenian food, as if she were taking pains to incarnate a not-very-subtle cultural difference. In that bag were Lay’s potato chips, Cheese Waffles, barbecue-flavored Pringles, pizza-flavored Combos, Chicken-in-a-Bisket crackers, and God only knew what else. Gregor wondered what it was Bennis thought they needed all this stuff for. Back in his apartment, where she was doing the last of the packing up before they left for Independence College, there were already seven oversize picnic baskets stuffed with food.

Mary rang the last of the mess up on the cash register and said, “It comes to a hundred and two ninety-five. If you don’t have that much, you could come back with it after Halloween. Daddy and Mother wouldn’t mind.”

“I have it,” Gregor said. “I stopped at the bank machine on my way up. I knew it was going to be expensive.”

“Do you think Father Tibor eats this kind of food because he was deprived in the Soviet Union? I mean, it’s not very healthy.”

“I don’t think Father Tibor is worried about being healthy.”

“I don’t, either. It’s strange, isn’t it, Mr. Demarkian. It’s like a whole different way of looking at the world. It’s like Father Tibor thinks getting old is something you can’t do anything about, and dying is going to happen to you no matter what.”

“You don’t think dying is going to happen to you no matter what?”

Mary Ohanian looked confused. “Well,” she said, “I don’t think you ought to think about it that way. I don’t think that’s healthy.”

Gregor had a sudden urge to tell her there was nothing healthier in the world than thinking about “it” that way, that there was no other way on earth to make a life for yourself that made any sense—but he didn’t. She was very young, and he knew where the urge was coming from. He was still riding the wave of his ambivalence, and nothing—not even the ludicrousness of Father Tibor Kasparian’s taste in food—was going to talk him into a more salutary frame of mind. He got his right arm around the heavy bag, the one full of Armenian food, and his left around the light one.

“If you see Mrs. Arkmanian,” he said, “tell her we’re leaving at ten o’clock. If she comes in after ten, tell her we’ll be up at Independence by eleven thirty.”

“Do you want to leave a number she can reach you at?”

“She has Father Tibor’s number. Have a good Halloween, Mary.”

“Oh, I will,” Mary said. “I’m going to dress up as Cinderella, in my sister Evelyn’s prom dress from two years ago. I love that dress. It makes me feel pretty enough to have Michael Keaton fall in love with me.”

It makes me feel pretty enough to have Michael Keaton fall in love with me.

Right.

There was a fine curtain of gossamer spiderwebs across the top of the store’s door. Gregor ducked his head going under it, holding the bags close to his chest, and went out onto Cavanaugh Street, to the carnival that was just a vaguely ethnic version of a state fair. Down on the corner of Cavanaugh and Muswell, Howard Kashinian was doing a handstand, wobbly, threatening to fall over. Two blocks north of that, the Ararat restaurant had replaced its customary sidewalk display—a phalanx of Armenian national flags—with a huge jack-o’-lantern leaf bag stuffed solid. Even his own building was decorated for the season, although in such an incongruous way that the sight of his own front door had begun to make Gregor a little dizzy. Donna Moradanyan, his upstairs neighbor, had covered that door with orange-and-black crepe paper—tied into bows.

The bag full of junk food began to slip. Gregor jostled around until he got it positioned solidly into the curve of his arm again. Then he turned south and made himself walk briskly and purposively in the direction of home.

T
HE PROBLEM, HE DECIDED
later, as he climbed the marble steps to that crazily covered door, was in his history. It was nice to pretend that Halloween was nothing but a holiday for children, that nothing went on under the cover of it but the benign fantasies of little boys who wanted to grow up to be superheroes. It was even nice when grown-up people, who ought to know better, worked overtime to make sure their children got a cozy, unthreatening picture of the dead of night. It was not so nice when the grown-up people began to believe their own propaganda. Gregor Demarkian had not only spent twenty years of his life in the FBI. He had spent ten of those twenty years—the whole second half of his career, from the day the states of Washington and Oregon had requested federal help in catching a killer called “Ted” to the day his wife Elizabeth, ill with cancer, had entered her final crisis—chasing serial murderers. He knew far too much about the things people did to each other and more than far too much about Halloween. Halloween was, as a colleague of his had once said, the night of the werewolf. For 364 days out of every year, things went along more or less as they could be expected to go along. Even the Green River Killers, the Ted Bundys, the Sons of Sam, had their routines. On the 365th day, all hell broke loose. The rabbity serial killer you had been tracing for six months suddenly took his knife and cut fifteen people in half an hour. The teenage boy who had always seemed only to want to look like James Dean suddenly decided to ram himself and six of his friends off the edge of lovers’ lane. The nicest little old lady in the neighborhood suddenly made up her mind to put cyanide into the caramel apples she passed out to the children who came to her door.
Suddenly
was definitely the best word for Halloween.
Unexpectedly
was the second-best one.