Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (21 page)

They started down the hall to the main room. Exhibit
cases on both sides were filled with colorful tapestries. A beautiful
way to open the exhibit, she thought. She resolved to wander through
the whole exhibit before the evening was over. In the distance she
heard the sounds of an orchestra playing. A night of dancing —
suddenly she stopped. On a pedestal in the center of the hall was a
small glass case, and in it was a single item — a mask. She went
for a closer look. It was simple in design, like the mold of a face.
The top half was violet, the bottom half a fleshy pink that somehow
seemed to convey . . . what? Agony? The only decorations were tracks
of rhinestone tears from the eyes.

"That really stops you short after those
tapestries, doesn't it?" said Adam. "It’s like what you'd
find underneath if you pulled the skin off a person's face." He
read the card at the bottom of the case. "Haitian voodoo mask.
Some kinds of knowledge you’re better off without."

Her eyes were still fixed on it. Something about it .
. . like she'd seen it before but couldn’t say where, when.

Adam took her arm. "Now about the bar. . ."

She allowed him to lead her away, searching for
perspective, for what it reminded her of.

The music was louder, the crowd thicker as they
neared the museum's main room. The band was playing "Bad Bad
Leroy Brown."

"There must be five hundred, a thousand people
here. What would you like?" Adam asked.

"White wine," she said, and waited as he
pushed on the final few feet to the bar. While she stood there the
head of Adam's department and his wife stopped to say hello. They
exchanged small talk until Adam returned with their drinks.

His face betrayed him at the sight of the department
head. Theirs was a strained relationship. He was an old-line English
professor, a tweedy appreciator of Hardy and Conrad, while Adam was
more avant garde, preferring the works of people like Bukowski and
Crews.

"
Erin Fraser's done a grand job with the
exhibit, the party, the whole works. Do you know her?" the
department head said.

"I don’t believe so," said Adam.

"
Come on, we'll introduce you to her. We're damn
lucky to have her. A remarkable young woman. Tops in her field,"
he said as he began to lead the way.

"Duty calls," Adam mouthed, and they
followed the department head and his wife across the dance floor to
the far corner where another bar was located.

There, talking with a small group, Margaret saw a
young woman dressed in an evening gown with a strapless shined bodice
and a gently gathered skirt. In one hand she held a small evening bag
and a pair of schoolboy glasses. She turned toward them now at the
sound of the department head’s voice as he said, "Erin, here
are a couple of people I'd like you to meet."

The man beside her also turned, and the rest of the
department head’s words were lost on Margaret.

The man with Erin was Loring.

The shock of it made her heart race. She almost said,
"What are you doing here?"

Seeing Margaret stunned Loring. But his immediate
reaction was guilt. After all, he didn’t want her to think he had
betrayed her by going out with another woman. It was all Wiladene’s
fault. If she hadn’t meddled in his life . . . As the introductions
were made Margaret delayed shaking hands with him, going first to
Wiladene Jenkins, a beautiful black woman in a Georgio Armani outfit,
then to her husband Cornell, the star of the Sixers, and finally to
two teen-agers with the group — one named Traci, with dark curly
hair; the other a short-haired blonde named Jennifer who was dressed
in a dinner suit with a rayon piqué jacket and floor-length skirt
complete with a godet flare. When Loring’s turn came he took her
hand but gave no sign of recognition. Well, he’s in control,
Margaret thought.

"You've done a fabulous job with the party,"
said the department head.

Jennifer took a cigarette from her purse. "Yes,
hasn’t she. We're all so proud."

Erin seemed to bristle as Adam lighted Jennifer’s
cigarette.

"Thank you," she said coolly. "Excuse
me, there are a couple of details I still have to attend to.
Wiladene, could you help me?"

"Certainly," she said, and they went off
into the crowd. Loring made no attempt to follow. Let them have their
illusion that this party, this exhibit, meant something. Reality was
Margaret in front of him dressed in midnight blue.

"I think I need a refill," said Adam,
looking at his glass.

Margaret understood that he needed to get away from
his department head, and he left. A moment later Jennifer drifted
off.

The department head and his wife then saw someone
they wanted to talk to, and Margaret was alone with Loring.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Loring asked.

"Yes, thank you," Margaret replied,
thinking they sounded like lovers in a chance meeting. She shook her
head to dismiss the thought.

He looked around. "Erin says the food is from
Mama Yolanda’s. Would you like some?"

She felt his touch on her bare arm as he led her
through the crowd. It was a violation of their relationship, but how
to free herself from him without drawing undue attention. Her
apparently allowing him an intimacy gave him a feeling of power. He
was her protector. She was safe with him. When they were together
nothing bad could happen. He knew she understood this.

She looked around for Adam, but when she finally
spotted him he was on the dance floor with Jennifer.

Loring followed her gaze to Adam and Jennifer. What a
disgusting creature he was, how could she ever have married him. Some
evil spell . . .

"Your husband is on the faculty," he said.

"Yes," she said, waiting for the dance to
be over, but when it was Adam stayed on the floor.

The band began to play "Shadow of Your Smile,"
and she felt Loring's hand on her arm. "This is our dance, I
believe."

She was furious at Adam for staying with Jennifer,
but she also knew this situation with Loring was impossible . . . But
she had no way out, or so she told herself as he led her onto the
dance floor . . .

When the dance was over Loring stayed at her side,
his hand still on her waist as she looked over the crowd for Adam.
But somewhere in the closing moments of "Shadow of Your Smile"
he and Jennifer had disappeared from the floor. Well, damn it, she
wouldn't make it worse by going to find him. To check up on her
husband, for God's sake.

The music began again, she felt Loring’s hand rise
to touch the bareness of her back. Wrong, but to hell with it. She
could manage the situation. She was Margaret, Doctor Margaret . . .

Erin, the party, everything and everyone was lost to
Loring. All that mattered, existed, was Margaret, their being
together. He led her down one of the corridors, she full of thoughts
of her dissolving marriage, he full of her. She was hardly aware when
he opened a door and led her into an office with a fireplace and
closed the door.

When she abruptly realized they were alone she nearly
panicked. This had to stop. Now. When he tried to lead her to the
sofa she said, "No, Loring. . ." and put her hand on his
chest to push him, gently, away.

He resisted. Acting out his mother and stepfather. He
had her against him, trying to kiss her, reaching for her breasts.
God, Charles was so right. He is like a child. This is so crazy.
Somehow she got her hands free and grabbed his hair, pulling his head
back. "No, Loring. I mean it. I do not want this."

Slowly his expression changed, like one of those
trick cinematic dissolves, changed from lust to a dawning horror. He
backed away, like a penitent child.

"Oh, God . . . look, I understand," she
said. "It wasn't wrong of you to want . . . you were showing
that you cared . . ."

He shook his head. Too late. With this terrible
moment he had lost everything. He turned and ran from the room.
 

CHAPTER 17

MERCANTO HEARD the phone as he opened the door to his
apartment, flipped on the light and hurried to answer it. On the
other end of the line he heard Sloan’s angry voice. "Where the
hell have you been? We’ve been trying to get you for hours."

"My brother's . . . I stopped by to see him."

Silence, then in a quieter voice Sloan said, "Oh,
yeah, I forgot about that. How’s he doing?"

Mercanto resented Sloan's question. Frank’s
condition was none of his business. "So-so," he said,
nestling the phone  against his cheek as he struggled out of his
top coat, the movement making him wince. "What's up?"

"Come out to the park right away. Hortter Street
near the stables. We've got another body. Looks like it might be the
kid who shot you."

Mercanto was pulling his top coat back on as he
headed for the door.

Twenty-five minutes later he turned off Wissahickon
Avenue onto Hortter and saw four blue-and-whites, an ambulance, two
unmarked cars and a crime lab van parked along the wooded stretch
leading to the stables.

A uniformed officer with a flashlight approached to
tell him to move on. He shone the light in the window and recognized
Mercanto. "Nate, they're looking for you. Better park along the
side and go in on foot."

He parked behind the nearest blue-and-white, where
uniformed officers were milling around in the glare of the flashing
lights.

One of the uniforms said, "Nate, looks like they
found your boy. . ."

Mercanto pulled his coat closer around him against
the night chill and walked toward them. "What happened?"

"A couple of kids playing after school found him
. . . it’s bad."

"Hope you didn't eat before you came," one
of them said. Nobody laughed.

Up the hill and through the trees Mercanto could see
the glow of portable lights powered by cables from the crime lab van.
There was a special tension, it showed in their faces. Whatever it
was had to be real bad. He knew these men, professionals, not a
rookie in the bunch. Death was nothing new to them. Normally they
took it with a gallows humor. Part of the job. You either accepted it
or got out. But not tonight. Each man was quiet, very quiet.

"Might as well go have a look," he said.

As Mercanto started up the hill it occurred to him
that there was no good place to die, not even in bed with your woman.
But some places, like this one, seemed worse than others. The climb
into the woods made his chest hurt, and twice he stopped to catch his
breath. Once the thought crossed his mind of his lunch with Erin.
Something in the memory was comforting, made the unknown waiting for
him at the top of the hill somehow seem less a threat.

The portable lights lit up the crime scene like a
movie set. The Medical Examiner and another man were working on the
body. Their backs shielded it from his view. All he could see were
the legs. Sloan was off to one side talking to Captain Zinkowsky and
a woman in a down parka who would have been pretty except for the
hardness in her face. Mercanto saw the badge pinned to her parka and
recognized her from the Roundhouse.

She saw him first and pointed. Sloan turned. "You
know Mary Kane from Seven Squad," he said. "A couple of
kids found the body late this afternoon. They were torn up by it,
you'll understand when you see it."

When Mercanto looked around for the kids the woman
said, "We sent them home already. No need to keep them."

Sloan produced a plastic evidence bag. Inside was the
gun. "Recognize it?"

Mercanto took it, the pistol looked like an old West
Colt .45. The sight of it made him remember it in the kid’s hand,
the feeling of the bullet going into him. He wanted to throw the gun
as far as possible into the woods. "Yeah, it looks like the same
one."

Sloan took the gun back from him. "We found it a
couple of feet from the body. No fingerprints, we've had a lot of
rain lately, but we figure the kid must have dropped it in the
struggle. You ready to see the body?"

Mercanto steeled himself and walked with Sloan to
where the body lay, leaves and twigs rustling underfoot as they moved
along. The Medical Examiner and his assistant looked up, then moved
away to give them a clear view.

The body was on its back. A teen-age boy dressed in
jeans and a dark jacket. Short hair, like prep school kids wore. The
front was covered in leaves and dirt. What turned his stomach was the
head. Someone, something had torn a gaping hole in the neck. Dried
blood from the hole nearly covered the face, staining it dark brown
like an old-time minstrel, and in the midst of it, where the eyes
should have been, were two empty ragged holes.

Finally the Medical Examiner said, "He was face
down when we got here. We turned him over. It looks like he was
attacked from behind."

Sloan handed him a photo of the boy standing in front
of a Christmas tree. "Is it the kid who shot you?"

Even through the dried blood there was no mistaking
that face or the one in the picture. Mercanto nodded.