Odd Apocalypse
Page 28What I had imagined the DVDs contained would be a fraction as horrendous as what actually had been recorded on them.
And suddenly I knew that Victoria had lied to me when she said that, although the others assisted Cloyce in acquiring women for his pleasure, they did not share his interest in torture and murder. If they didn’t participate in Cloyce’s bloody revelries, it was because they had horrific desires of their own to fulfill.
I had thought the secrets of Roseland were at last known to me, but now I understood that there were more and worse to be uncovered. I wouldn’t search for them. I didn’t need to know. I couldn’t stand to know. Witnessing things demonic too intimately for too long would be to invite madness and worse into my heart.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I thought that I was finished here, but I found myself drawn across the bedroom toward a corner desk on which stood a computer. Intuition cast a line, hooking me and reeling me toward a sheaf of papers lying on the desk.
They were facedown, and when I turned them over, I saw that they were printouts of news stories that Cloyce had gotten off the Internet. Not recent news. They concerned the young fry cook who had brought down the killers committing mass murder at a mall in Pico Mundo, California, more than eighteen months earlier. Forty-one were wounded. Nineteen died. The police said that if the young fry cook hadn’t acted, hundreds would have been killed. The so-called hero did not think himself a hero and wouldn’t talk to the media. The only picture of him in the press reports was his high-school yearbook photo in which he looked foolish and clueless.
Cloyce had thought he needed to know me.
Knowing me, he suspected Victoria’s disappearance must be my handiwork.
Now that I was known and being sought as surely as they were seeking Victoria, freeing the boy and escaping from Roseland would be just this side of impossible.
A hand clasped my shoulder, and I thought I felt my hair turn white. But it wasn’t Cloyce. It was Mr. Hitchcock. He gave me the OK sign, as if to assure me everything would be all right.
I said, “Well, I hope so.”
He gave me two thumbs up and considerately faded away.
Forty
STANDING AROUND THE CORNER IN THE WEST WING, I listened to the searchers as they finished with the rooms off the long south hallway. They operated in pairs, and neither pair strayed far from the other.
If not afraid, they were at least damn worried. They assumed that Victoria might be dead. If she’d been killed, her ticket to physical immortality had been invalidated. And if she could be killed within the fortress walls of Roseland, so could the rest of them.
As they gathered at the end of the south wing, I heard them agree to go together to the ground floor by way of the back service stairs and then work forward from the kitchen. When the thumping of descending footsteps faded, I stepped into the south wing and hurried toward the boy’s room.
The house was huge, and their caution would ensure they made slow progress, but before long they would find Victoria Mors bound and gagged behind the boilers in the furnace room. And then they would know that I was in the house, in spite of the evidence to the contrary. Victoria and the chef would join in the hunt. Henry Lolam, stuck in the gatehouse as long as the freaks were roaming the estate, would be the only one who wouldn’t have the pleasure of putting a bullet in me.
At the boy’s room, I entered without knocking.
If he had been in one of his trances, eyes rolled back in his head, his father and the others had startled him out of it when they searched his room. He sat in his armchair, surrounded by the books through which he tried to live a life otherwise constrained.
He looked small and miserable. Evidently, I hadn’t convinced him that I could be counted upon to return.
“They’re looking for you,” he said.
“Not yet. They’re looking for Victoria, but when they find her, then they’ll start looking for me.”
“Sondra,” he said.
“What?”
“Her name back then was Sondra. I don’t remember her last name. I don’t think I ever heard it.”
“You knew her?”
“Her and Glenda—who calls herself Valerie Tameed these days. They were his mistresses. They enjoyed threesomes—you know, going at each other in the same bed.”
His understanding of sexual matters unsettled me, though I knew he wasn’t the nine-year-old boy that he appeared to be. According to the plaque in the mausoleum, he had been born in September 1916. He was now ninety-five years old. He had the knowledge of a well-read man of those years, though none of the experience.
As on my previous visit, I was again struck by his ginger-brown eyes, by a quality that might have been loneliness so profound as to be despair, suggesting an interior landscape that was cheerless and dismal though perhaps not yet desolate. I had never met another pair of eyes that by their stare alone could fill me with such sadness.
Considering how long he had lived like this, it was a triumph for him not to have gone mad. Perhaps it was whatever part of his mind remained that of a child, with a child’s wonder and stubborn hope, that kept him going.
Removing the towel from the pillowcase sack, unwrapping the hacksaw, I hesitated to ask about Madra, but I reminded myself that Timothy was not a fragile child—or at least not only a child.
“Your father shot your mother. Why?”
“She was supposed to stay with me on the Malibu estate, where he spent half his time. The other half, he was here. It was supposed to be his getaway, strictly for him and his buddies. My mother was sweet … and too submissive. Maybe she suspected he kept women, but she let him have his retreat. She never came here … until he took her favorite horse from the stables in the Malibu estate and brought it to Roseland.”
I said, “A great black stallion. A Friesian.”
“Its name was Black Magic, but they called it only Magic. He bought Magic for her. When it became her favorite horse, he decided it was his favorite, too. He was always giving her things and then taking them away.”
Holding Timothy’s right hand, I pushed back the sleeve of his sweater, and exposed the GPS transponder.
“She drove all the way up to Roseland unannounced, to get her horse back. She brought me because she thought he might refuse her, but not both of us.”
I placed his arm on the arm of the chair and explained how he needed to grip the upholstery to keep the monitoring bracelet from sliding around under the hacksaw.
The bracelet was just loose enough that I was able to press a corner of the towel between it and Timothy’s wrist. When the hacksaw cut through the last of the steel, the barrier of cloth would prevent it from drawing his blood.
He said, “She wasn’t surprised to find Paulie Sempiterno at the gatehouse. He was my father’s bodyguard for a long time. Paulie warned my father by phone before sending the two of us up to the main house.”
Undoubtedly I had at least fifteen minutes, probably twenty or more, before Cloyce and his crew would locate Victoria Mors—once Sondra.
“Mother couldn’t believe the grandness of Roseland. She knew he meant to make a first-rate retreat, but she didn’t know it was this spectacular. He had kept the plans from her. He was domineering. And as I said, she was submissive … to a point.”
After testing the tension on the blade, I adjusted the wing nut.
“Sondra and Glenda were living in the guest wing. My father told Mother that it was the servants’ wing, and they dutifully played the part of maids for the short while she would be at Roseland. Of course it was neither the guest wing nor the servants’ wing. It was really the whores’ wing.”
I might never grow accustomed to things like that coming from an apparent nine-year-old. I got up from the ottoman and leaned toward the boy to begin the job of freeing him.
“Mother saw the grooms and the trainer who came in daily to care for the horses but didn’t live on the grounds. Yet she wondered how just two maids, a chef, and a few security men could care for such a large place. And where were the gardeners for all those lawns and flowers?”
The bracelet had three parallel rows of links, like the band of a wristwatch. If the rows had been aligned, I could have sawn through the weaker recessed connection between them. The center row, however, was offset from those bracketing it. I would need to cut through somewhat more than a quarter-inch thickness.
“Father told her that it was the gardeners’ day off, the whole crew on the same day, though it was Tuesday. He said a large team of housekeepers came in three days a week, but that Sondra and Glenda were the only full-time maids.”
Bearing down on the hacksaw to let the teeth get a bite of steel, not so hard as to snap the blade, I made a long easy stroke.
“I don’t know what all he told Mother, but I think she must have known they were lies.”
I sawed only with forward strokes at first, until a score line could be cut deep enough to hold the blade as it slid thereafter in both directions.
“That afternoon, he agreed to let her have Magic. But she insisted on traveling with the horse when it was taken back to Malibu, and it was too late to arrange transport. We stayed for dinner and the night.”
The necessity to make a single score line and then to keep the blade within it required me to focus, and when I did not so much as glance at Timothy, his voice inspired images in my mind, so that I felt as if I were watching unfold the tale he told.
That fateful night, he was provided with blankets and pillows for a sofa in the parlor of his father’s west-wing quarters. His parents retired to the bedroom in the same suite.
Although tired, Timothy was also excited about being in a new place—and uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. He slept only lightly and was awakened during the night when his father, wearing slippers and a bathrobe, passed through the parlor to the door and went out into the hall.
A fan of mystery shows on the radio, the boy suspected some plot must be afoot, and he determined that he would fill the role of detective. He got off the sofa, hurried to the door, quietly opened it, and slipped into the hallway.
After a while, he came without knowing it to the guest wing on the ground floor, where hallway lights were aglow. He heard people in one of the rooms, a woman’s soft laughter and another woman whimpering.
Listening at the door, occasionally catching a muffled word along with urgent cries and groans, both male and female, that might have been sounds either of pleasure or of pain, young Timothy grew convinced that something terribly strange and of enormous importance was taking place in there.
The radio-serial heroes whom he admired were clever, bold, and intrepid. They never feared for themselves and never retreated. And because they always seized the moment, they always triumphed.
He dared to ease open the door.
Beyond lay a shadowy sitting room brightened only by what light came through the open door to the adjoining bedroom.
As by a magnet drawn, the boy found himself moving across the outer room, toward the glow of two bedside lamps with pleated-silk shades that cast a peach-colored light.
Near the threshold of the inner room, he was halted by the sight of his father in there, on the bed with Sondra and Glenda. He was too young, in that more innocent era, to know quite what he was seeing, but he might have understood if the scene had not been made more mysterious by the bondage game that featured Sondra in a dog collar, bound to bedposts with black silken cords.
Equally as weird as all that was the presence of Chiang Pu-yi, who was known these days as Jam Diu. Timothy had seen him in Cloyce’s company several times over the previous couple of years.
Later he would learn that Chiang Pu-yi was a very wealthy man with interests in Hong Kong and England. Chiang and Constantine had met in London, where both spent some days with Aleister Crowley, the practitioner of magic and the cult leader who called himself the Beast from Revelations. Each found in the other a reflection of himself, a will to power that would not be thwarted.
That night in 1925, Chiang Pu-yi sat on a chair, on the farther side of the bed from the open door, watching the threesome. He was dressed oddly. Timothy could not remember what Chiang wore because he was most struck by the fact that the man, who was much older than Constantine, looked like himself but many years younger than he had been the last time the boy encountered him.
Bewildered, Timothy stood in the thinner shadows just before the threshold for no longer than a minute, simultaneously repelled and attracted, fear growing by the moment, though fear of what, he did not know.
And then it seemed to him that Chiang’s stare had shifted from the people on the bed to Timothy. When Chiang smiled, the boy was certain he had been seen, and he fled at once.
By the time he got back to the second-floor bedroom where his mother lay sleeping, the eerie allure of the scene in the guest wing had given way to terror. Although Sondra had not seemed to be afraid, the boy thought maybe they had been killing her.
He had some difficulty waking his mother, which he would later learn was because his father had slipped her a sedative after dinner. These hours later, it still had some effect. But he did wake her and convey to her, in his childish way, much of what he had seen.
Realizing that her clouded thinking must be the consequence of a drug, Madra determined that they must leave quickly. If her husband could do such a thing to her—and be part of what the boy had seen—there might be no offense that he was incapable of committing. In the years since their wedding, she had glimpsed a disturbing fierceness in him, which he tried to conceal. Without delay, she grabbed only the boy’s coat and hurried with him downstairs.
When they left the house by the front door and did not find her Model T in the driveway, Madra didn’t know where to look for it, as there was no obvious garage. And then she realized that even if she found the car, the key might not be with it.
She knew where the stables were, however, and where to find her beloved Friesian, Magic. And the stallion didn’t require a key.
Although young Timothy was by now shaking and weak with fear and though his mother was struggling to clarify her thoughts, they were aware enough to know that Constantine should have by that time come looking for them. Later, the boy would learn that Chiang Pu-yi had been stoned and, though having seen the young snoop, had not for a while realized the implications; his mind had instead wandered into a sick fantasy about what role the nine-year-old might want to play in this debauchery.