Bill Pronzini - Zigzag

Erskine said, “I assume from your name that you’re Catholic, so I guess you know what it is.”

Yeah, I knew. It was a perversion of the host, the body of Christ, used in Catholic communion — a black host for a black mass. Even though I no longer embraced the faith, this thing had an unclean feel on my skin. I dumped it back into the envelope, tossed the envelope on the floor. A few tiny grains of black stained my palm; I scrubbed it off on the knee of my pants, kept scrubbing even after the residue no longer adhered to the skin.

“Where did you get it?”

“It was on the floor in the hall Friday night,” Erskine said. “Must’ve been slipped under the door.”

“Before or after the Vok figure appeared?”

“Probably before. Marian found it the next morning.”

“It couldn’t be the same host Vok shoved into your hand in the hospital?”

“Hardly. I threw that one in the garbage as soon as we left the room, for Marian’s sake as much as for mine. It... well, you can imagine how frightened she was. To her it meant Vok really was in league with the devil, that he was capable of using the powers of darkness to destroy me, perhaps even to...” He let the rest of the sentence hang.

“To what?”

“Steal my soul.”

More supernatural nonsense. “Come on now, Mr. Erskine.”

“That’s Marian’s perception, not mine.”

“How does she imagine something like that could happen?”

“I think you’d better ask her.”

We went out through the side French doors onto the terrace, angled across it and along a wide brick path to the summerhouse. It was as large as a bandstand, surmounted by a dome with little windows in it and partially shaded by a half circle of evergreens; four of its hexagonal openings were covered now by rattan shades. Purple and white flowering shrubs flanked the entrance to a waist-high level; their mingled scents were sweet on the balmy spring air. The structure’s position was such that the woman sitting inside wasn’t visible until Erskine and I had gone two-thirds of the way across the lawn, and it was only when we stepped up inside that I had a clear look at her.

She was not what I’d expected, either. Something of a surprise, in fact. At least a dozen years older than her husband, maybe more; it was difficult to tell because the dusky light in there veiled her face and upper body. Even so, it was obvious that she was in poor health. Small, frail — she could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Pale, blotchy skin. Too-red lipstick that gave her mouth the look of a bloody slash. Hair a dark auburn, expertly dyed and cut. Earlobes heavy with diamond earrings. The smoothness of her cheeks and forehead indicated a facelift or two, but when she leaned forward into a shaft of sunlight I saw dark smudges under her eyes and lines like tiny fissures radiating out from around her mouth.

A thick-cushioned chaise lounge, one of several pieces of wrought-iron furniture that matched the ones on the terrace, was what she was reclining on. On a low table at her side were a cut-glass crystal decanter and tumbler, both half-full of what might have been brandy. Even though no breeze stirred the warm air in there, her torso was wrapped in a heavy knit sweater and a patterned afghan covered her from the waist down.

Erskine went to her, laid a solicitous hand on her shoulder; she reached up to cover it with one of her own as he introduced us. The look of him standing there put the words trophy husband into my head. Well, why not? That kind of marriage happens often enough among the rich, trophy husbands as well as trophy wives.

Marian Erskine let me have her other hand; it felt thin and dry in mine, like old seamed leather. But when she said, “Thank you for coming,” her voice was a strong contralto that belied her fragile appearance. However much of the liquor she’d had, it hadn’t affected her speech or dulled her large, dark eyes. Her gaze was steady, direct, without any discernible sign of pain or distress.

“Peter explained everything to you? In detail?”

Erskine said, “Just as we discussed, Marian,” and I said, “Yes.”

“And you’re still here.” She made a sound that might have been intended as a laugh but came out as a dry cough. “I was afraid it would all sound so bizarre to a man in your profession that you wouldn’t want anything to do with us.”

“I deal in facts, Mrs. Erskine. But I try to keep an open mind.”

“That’s all we ask. You will help us, then?”

“I have some more questions before I make a commitment.”

“Of course you do. About my concerns that there may be a supernatural explanation for what has been happening — that Antanas Vok’s revenant has returned to carry out his vengeance against my husband.”

“Yes.”

“Peter dismisses it as utter nonsense.”

“That’s not quite true,” Erskine said. He seemed less in command in her presence, almost defensive. “I have an open mind, too; you know that, Marian. It’s just that—”

“Just that you don’t share my regard for the paranormal. Well, you’re no different from most people.” She looked at me again. “I’m not what you’d call a true believer, either, you know — that is, one who embraces all aspects of the paranormal and supernatural without question. I have many questions, many doubts. My interest in the occult is more academic than anything else, though I suppose Peter told you that when I was younger I believed for a time that I had a psychic gift.”

I nodded, and she went on, “There are enough documented cases of preternatural phenomena throughout history to have blunted if not completely destroyed my skepticism. I very much want Peter to be right that what we’ve seen is a living person guised as Antanas Vok, not his evil spirit returned from the Other Side. But until that is proven to my satisfaction, I can’t and won’t discount the revenant possibility.”

I said I understood. “About Vok. You had no idea of his beliefs until the incident in the hospital?”

“None whatsoever. That he was a practicing Satanist and I have some knowledge of the black arts is a macabre coincidence.”

“About this revenant concept. Is such a spirit supposed to have physical powers? Could one, for instance, carry around an object such as the black host you found?”

“I can’t answer that with any certainty, of course,” she said, “but I would think that it is possible. The powers of darkness are considerable, much stronger than we can possibly imagine. Physical objects surely can be made to materialize if not actually carried.”

“How would a revenant go about harming a living person?”

“There are a number of ways. One would be to haunt his victim openly, terrorize him until he sickens and dies.”

“Like a voodoo curse is supposed to work?”

“Yes, though without such trappings as pins and dolls.”

Erskine said, “That wouldn’t have any effect on me. You have to believe in that kind of thing before it can harm you.”

“Don’t be too sure, Peter.”

“What are the other ways?” I asked.

Marian Erskine gave another dry cough, reached over to pick up her glass and sip from it. “Cognac,” she said when she put it down. “I shouldn’t, but it steadies my nerves.”

“Not too much,” he warned her. “You know what the doctor said—”

“Damn the doctor!” she said with such sudden vehemence that it started her coughing again. “And don’t treat me like an invalid child; you know how I detest that.” She pushed his hand off her shoulder, helped herself to another sip of cognac. He backed off a step, looking hurt.

I said to prompt her, “Other ways, Mrs. Erskine?”