Read Serpent Mage Page 7


  Soon we will meet, the ancient voice conveyed.

  Earth’s silence had been broken.

  Michael saw mapped across the back of his brain an infinity of shining scales and dark, murky water.

  “Enough!” he screamed out across the city. “Please! Enough!”

  The building lapsed, as dead and silent as the rest of the Earth.

  Michael gulped back saliva to soothe his raw throat and wiped the flood of wetness from his cheeks and eyes. He might be hoarse for a week. Certainly he would be hoarse when he met Kristine Pendeers to show her the manuscript...

  Everyday was back. Thoughts, concerns, schedules, plans.

  Preeda was gone, but where it had been, it left a clear track. And he had brought it on himself, by concentrating on the city and the people—the humans—living in it, by concentrating on their situation and breaking through to some sort of understanding.

  The dissonant chord of horns and strings had also pushed.

  Hopkins waited for him in the lobby, sitting on top of the counter, heels kicking at the torn upholstery.

  “See any spooks?’ he asked.

  Michael shook his head.

  “Find any more bodies?”

  “No.”

  “Now do you see why no one will live here?”

  He slipped one hand in his coat pocket, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Thought you might. You look the type that might understand.” Hopkins’ Adam’s apple convulsed in his long neck. “Thank you for that, and amen,” he said, and led Michael down the stairs to the maintenance door.

  They separated in the dawn with nothing more said.

  Chapter Six

  He did not sleep. By the time he returned to the house, there was less than an hour before Kristine would arrive. He showered and changed his clothes, then decided now was as good a time as any to do a load of laundry. He did not feel sleepy; the old patterns could be retrieved without effort, apparently.

  He hauled his clothes in a wicker basket to the service porch, across from the closed basement door, and stuffed them into the washer, then poured soap from a half empty box of detergent. He hefted the box thoughtfully. Golda had used the first half.

  Michael suddenly felt like an invader. Whether or not he had been invited, this was not his home; he did not have any real place on Earth now, and he had never found a place in the Realm. He had neither the achieved position of an adult nor the allotted circumstances of a child; what he had was an elusive, ill-defined but apparently indefinite sinecure.

  Michael was hardly so naive as to believe that Waltiri had arranged for the sinecure out of the goodness of his heart. “You’ll earn your place,” he told himself, dipping his hand into the spray of warm water in the washing machine.

  He entered the library and looked for things to straighten or put back in place, more out of nerves than necessity. The room was neat and quiet. Opening the safe, he removed the manuscript of Opus 45 and carefully slipped it into a manila envelope. The smell had dissipated, for which he was grateful. He carried the package into the living room and placed it on the polished black lacquer surface of the closed piano lid.

  Letting everything take its course.

  And when would he begin to guide the process?

  At seven-fifteen, the door chimes rang. Michael answered expectantly and found himself face-to-face with a man in a brown suit, arms folded, carrying a zippered black folder tucked beneath one. The surprise on Michael’s face must have been evident.

  “Excuse me,” the man said. “I’m Lieutenant Brian Harvey, LAPD homicide.” He held the case under his elbow and produced a badge in a leather holder, which he suspended before Michael for several seconds, letting him examine it carefully. “This house belongs to—belonged to—Mr. Arno Waltiri?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. He suddenly felt guilty. The man’s clear, steady blue eyes regarded him without accusation or any sign of emotion, but Michael’s thoughts were already racing to find some explanation for the presence of a police detective.

  “I’m sorry to arrive here so early, but I need to ask you some questions,” Harvey continued. “Your name is Michael Perkins?”

  “Perrin,” Michael corrected.

  “And you’re in charge of Mr. Waltiri’s estate.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I come in?”

  Michael stood aside and motioned for the detective to enter. Harvey surveyed the hall and living room with eyebrows lifted. His receding fair hair had been cut to a close bristle on his scalp. His skin was pink and slightly puffy, but he appeared slender and in good shape. Michael did not even think of probing his aura of memory; it did not seem appropriate under the circumstances, and he was wary of what might happen if the lieutenant suspected he was doing something unusual.

  Why so anxious? he asked himself.

  He thought of Alyons, and of the Sidhe who had taken him into the Irall—his last brushes with appointed authority.

  “We’ve encountered Mr. Waltiri’s name under some unusual circumstances,” Harvey said, standing before an easy chair. “May I sit?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Are you expecting somebody?” The lieutenant sat with the black folder resting on his crossed knees.

  “Yes, actually,” Michael said. “But if I can help you...“

  “Maybe you can. I don’t know. You made some visits to the Tippett Residential Hotel up on Sunset. Why?”

  Michael’s nerves suddenly calmed. He knew the direction the conversation was going to take. He immediately probed the lieutenant: a quiet, orderly room with stacks of paper awaiting methodical and concentrated attention. Michael liked the man; he was no Alyons. Harvey was smart and cautious and thoroughly professional. Michael had no reason to hide anything from him but no reason to divulge anything, either.

  “I heard about the bodies,” Michael said. “Maybe it was ghoulish, but I wanted to have a look.”

  “A very early morning look. Mr. Ronald Hopkins gave you access to the building about four hours ago.”

  “He said he was the former owner.”

  “Did he tell you the place was haunted?”

  Michael nodded. “Something to that effect.”

  Harvey smiled pleasantly. “Just happenstance, whim, that you went there, then.”

  Michael returned the smile.

  “Do you know anything about the bodies found in the Tippett?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. Harvey’s eyes widened with interest, and he nodded encouragement to continue. “One was a very large woman. The other was a mummy.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Hopkins said they were named Lamia and Tristesse. Sadness.”

  “You found that intriguing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you about the note found with them?”

  “He said there was a carved stone tablet with their names on it.”

  “He didn’t see the tablet himself?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  “Did you see the tablet?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “No, and neither did photographers from the papers, or anybody outside my department. I have photographs of the bodies. Could you identify them?”

  Michael shrugged. “It should be easy to tell—”

  “What I’m asking, Mr. Perrin, is whether you know of any connection between Mr. Waltiri and these women?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just coincidence that you’re interested in the building at this particular time.”

  Michael said nothing. Harvey opened the folder. “You were missing for over five years. Your parents notified the police five and a half years ago. When you returned, you didn’t offer any explanations. Could you have spent this time doing something in connection with Arno Waltiri?”

  “He’s dead,” Michael said.

  “Yes. He died before you...left the scene. Did he give you any instructions, any last-will-and-testament requests?”
<
br />   “Yes.”

  “What were they?”

  “I am to care for his estate and prepare his papers for donation to an institution.”

  “I mean, did he give you any instructions before you left?”

  Michael shook his head. Let the detective interpret that whichever way he wanted.

  “Did you know these two women?”

  The simplest answer, Michael decided, was none at all.

  Harvey waited patiently and, when Michael didn’t reply, sighed and said, “Do you know of any connection between them and Waltiri?”

  “No.”

  “Then why was Waltiri’s name on the stone tablet, along with theirs?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The lieutenant produced a glossy eight-by-ten photograph from the folder and held it out with fingers at the top corners for Michael’s inspection. Michael took the photo and sat in the chair across from Harvey’s. The photograph showed a block of stone about ten inches square and several inches deep, judging from the ball-point pen placed on the floor beside it for scale. On the tablet was carved

  Lamia

  Tristesse

  Guardians past need

  Victims of Arno Waltiri

  “Can you see why we might be suspicious, why we think there might be a connection?” Harvey asked. “One of my younger officers knew that Waltiri was a composer and that he had died. I took it from there. Eventually, you made the connection seem much stronger.”

  “How did the women die?” Michael asked.

  Harvey shook his head and lifted on hand. The other hand slipped the photograph back into the folder. “We don’t know. The mummy had been dead for some time. If you’re concerned about my not believing a very strange story, well, don’t be. I’ll listen to anything.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Michael said.

  Harvey leaned forward. “The fat woman was shedding her skin. It was loose, like a sack. And the mummy. ..” He cleared his throat and looked troubled. “Had a very odd affliction. Too many joints. Some sort of freak. The doctors told me freaks like that don’t happen, not in this world. But you never know. The doctors could be wrong. We thought they might be circus freaks. Were they ever in the circus?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael said.

  Harvey took a deep breath. “There’s stuff you’d tell me, but—”

  The chimes sounded again.

  “Your visitor,” Harvey said.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it murder?” Harvey asked, staring at him intently.

  “I don’t know,” Michael said.,

  “You’re not holding something back because you’re involved?”

  “No, I’m not,” Michael said. “It would be difficult to explain. Perhaps later—we can talk? If you’ll tell me more, I’ll tell you...” No need to dissemble. “I’ll tell you as much as you’ll believe. I don’t want to hide anything. Their being in the building was a surprise to me. And to answer your question—yes, I did know them. Not well, and not...here. But I knew them.”

  Harvey took another deep breath and stood up. “Later today?”

  “Fine.”

  “Four o’clock this afternoon, I’ll call you here.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re not leaving town, Mr. Perrin?”

  “No.”

  “Better answer your door.”

  Michael opened the door. Kristine stood there, smiling and radiant and expectant. The contrast was so sharp Michael felt another brush with Preeda. Harvey stepped up behind him, said hello pleasantly, and glanced at Michael as he walked in an S around them and out the door. “Four o’clock,” he reiterated.

  “Who’s that?” Kristine asked. Harvey crossed the lawn and opened the door to an unmarked sky-blue car parked in front of the Dopso house.

  “The police,” Michael said.

  Kristine gave Michael a sharp, discerning and altogether intrigued look. Michael smiled and invited her in.

  “Are you in trouble?” she asked lightly, entering the house. She absorbed the interior with a series of slow, entranced sweeps of her eyes.

  “No,” Michael said. “I don’t think so.”

  “This place is wonderful,” she enthused. Then she glanced over her shoulder and gave him an unconsciously beguiling Mona Lisa smile. “I hope you don’t think I’m star-struck, but could I have a tour?”

  “My pleasure,” Michael said. He conducted her through the first-floor rooms, deftly avoiding the service porch and the library, then took her upstairs. She absorbed everything quietly, as if she were on a long-overdue pilgrimage.

  “I know so little about him,” she said. “There’s not much biographical material available—some interviews with his colleagues, and what I’ve learned from Edgar Moffat. In some ways, Waltiri was the quintessential forties film composer—don’t you think?”

  Michael hadn’t given the question much thought. “I suppose so,” he said. Most of his attention was focused on her, with an embarrassing concentration he hadn’t felt since he had been alone with Helena in the Realm. (And where was she, now?)

  Kristine examined the framed prints hanging in the upstairs hall. “From Germany,” she said. “They’re old—they must have belonged to his family.”

  Did Arno Waltiri ever have a family, or a true human past? If not, he had assembled the evidence scrupulously.

  “You only knew him a few months?”

  Michael nodded.

  “And he sort of adopted you?”

  “We were friends,” Michael said. “My father built furniture for him—his piano bench, that sort of thing. He came to a party at our house, and I met him there. Golda, also.”

  “Edgar tells me Golda was a darling woman.”

  “She was very nice,” Michael said.

  “Where did he do his composing?”

  “There’s a music library downstairs. Where the study used to be.”

  “And you mentioned a basement, where you found the manuscript?”

  “Yes...” Michael said slowly. “I’d like you to see the manuscript first. And there’s the attic—a lot of memorabilia is stored up there.”

  “You’re being selectively mysterious, Michael.” The glance she gave him was both intrigued and wary. It suddenly occurred to him that whatever childish pleasure he might derive from being mysterious could not possibly equal the pleasure of her continued company.

  He would prefer to be completely open with her. Spill the beans to everybody. To Harvey, to Kristine. Clarkham comes knocking at the door...spill the beans to him, too.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Michael said, looking at the carpet. They were near the stairs, and he took the first step down. “So I’ll start with the manuscript.”

  He had left it on the piano. They returned to the living room, and Michael removed the manuscript from the manila envelope, handing it to her. She glanced at it with some shock and reluctantly took it from him, holding it on the tips of her fingers.

  “It looks as if it’s been soaking in something,” she said. She rubbed a finger lightly across the shimmering surface. “This is the way you found it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is hard to read. What caused the paper to change?”

  “Smell it,” he suggested. She lifted it to her nose.

  “Mmm,” she said. “That’s nice—I like that. Perfume? Soap or something?” She shook her head before he had a chance to answer. “No. Let me guess...” She sniffed it again, closing her eyes and almost hugging the manuscript to her. “That’s really lovely. I could smell that all day.”

  “The scent was much stronger when I first found it,” Michael said.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “It’s the music, I think.”

  She gave him a hard look. “I’m not that star-struck.”

  Her reaction took him aback. “I don’t have any other explanation,” he said. “Have you ever smelled anything like it?”

  She wrinkled her b
row in thought, then shook her head. “Maybe he brought the paper from Europe. Before the war. And they don’t make it any more. Were there any other copies—you know, performer’s copies?”

  “Just this one. After what happened, he may have had other copies destroyed.”

  “Okay. May I see the office and basement now?” With some reluctance, she returned the manuscript to him, and he replaced it in the envelope. Morning light through the arched front windows caught the envelope, and he noticed the faint beginnings of discoloration, influence passing from the manuscript to the envelope. “We can try to get it photocopied,” she said. “If you trust me with it, I’ll take it to the school...”

  “I trust you,” Michael said, “but I think I’ll use this copy. For the time being.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  The music library was dark and cool. Michael switched on the desk lamp and opened the shutters on the rear windows, admitting light filtered through green clumps of giant bird-of-paradise at the rear of the house.

  “All of his master tapes and records,” Kristine said in awe. “This is wonderful. There must be hundreds of scores here.” She passed before the cases filled with tape boxes and old oversized lacquer master disks in bulky cardboard sleeves. “Have you listened to them?”

  “Not to these, not yet,” Michael said.

  “Ohh... I wouldn’t be able to wait, if I were you. This is priceless. We have to get them copied. These could be the only recordings.”

  “I’ve been thinking about buying new sound equipment and doing that,” Michael said. “But I’ve really only just started getting organized.”

  “You’re not a trained conservator,” she said. “Are you?”

  “No,” Michael admitted.

  “That’s what this really needs. A musicologist and a conservator.”

  “I’ll take whatever help I can get.”

  “I think I can convince the department this is important. What’s in the basement?”

  “More papers, manuscripts,” Michael said.

  “I’d like to see them, too.”

  “I’ll show you anything you want,” he said. “It really isn’t mine to conceal...if you see what I mean.”

  “No,” she said. “What do you mean? Is there something all that mysterious about old papers and records and tapes?”