Ed Gorman: Voodoo Moon

He gunned the rest of his pop and said, "Mother Nature's calling me. I'm gonna take a pee in the woods over there."

I went up the incline to where the asylum had once stood. Judging by the width and length of the foundation, it had been a large wooden building. The charred chimney indicated that it had been three stories tall. The place had the air of ancient ruin, a tumbledown monastery in the south of France, perhaps. Until you looked at the ground, anyway. Gold Miller beer cans and red Trojan condom wrappers and crumpled Camel cigarettes told of some very modern teenagers. A crow was perched on the top of the chimney, gleaming sleek and black. He did not seem unduly impressed with the human activity going on beneath him.

Laura and Tandy continued their blocking. The camera sat atop a small boulder. Tandy saw me and waved. Her fiery hair was made even more fiery by the sunlight, fierce red Irish hair that marked women capable of magic in ancient Celtic warrior tribes. In her blue turtleneck and fawn-colored suede jeans, she was as elegant and elegiac as always-elegiac because, like all women possessed of magic, there was an air of sorrow about her that never quite faded. I could see it-even feel it-even from this distance.

I sat next to the camera. Watched them. Laura was doing a much better job than the kid had done. I understood now why she'd been so unhappy.

"Let's try one," she said.

She came over to get the camera.

"Hi, Robert!" Tandy called to me and waved again. I waved back. Laura hefted the camera. Got it ready to shoot.

"I told the kid you wouldn't say anything to his boss."

"He's an idiot, Robert."

I shrugged. "Maybe he'd be an idiot in Chicago. But out here he's probably just fine."

She laughed coldly. "You should be a union representative, Robert. They always say things like that."

"He's getting married in the spring."

"Isn't that just ducky?" She smiled sarcastically.

"You're a hard woman." I tried to kid the line but we both knew I was serious.

"I know I am, Robert. And I intend to stay that way in order to protect my sister." She paused. "I don't know why the hell she called you, anyway. Nothing personal."

"Of course not."

"She's the star now. She doesn't need to share the spotlight anymore. And anyway, things are going just fine."

"I can see that."

"Except for that incompetent fucking cameraman. And I am going to tell his boss."

Then she went to work.

"Over thirty years ago, on this ground where I'm standing, was an experimental, cutting-edge psychiatric hospital called the Sterling Institute, named after its founder, a psychiatrist named J. K. Sterling.

"The hospital treated many of the most violent criminals in America, studying them, trying to quantify them as to types of psychological disorders. Sterling was cited here and in Europe as one of the most important medical men of his time. He was regarded as the Freud of criminology.

"Here is what's left of his hospital. A burned-out hulk over which crows and coyotes and the occasional wolf now have domain. His career came to a violent end one day over a quarter a century ago when a patient named Renard-a sadomasochistic rapist and murderer-slashed Sterling's throat and then doused much of the first floor with gasoline and set it ablaze. More than twenty patients and staff perished in the fire.

"A manhunt found Paul Renard the next day, hiding in a cave. But he managed to elude them once again. He was never found. There were rumors he made it to Europe; rumors he's now living in South America; even rumors that he's living in Brenner again. In disguise, of course. Most officials seem to think he's dead.

"The land around the remains of the asylum seems barren compared to other land nearby. It even seems several degrees cooler-a clammy kind of chill-when you stand near the charred foundation-like that of Poe's description in 'The Fall of the House of Usher.'

"I'm here at the request of a local teenage boy who is about to go on trial for first-degree murder in the death of his girlfriend. The boy, Rick Hennessy, claims to be possessed by the spirit of the killer Paul Renard. He claims he explained this many times to a counselor his parents had sent him to but that the counselor refused to take him seriously.

"The Hennessys have asked Mind Power to come here to this small Iowa town and talk with Rick Hennessy and see if we can help him in any way. We thought we'd give you a look at the notorious asylum from which Paul Renard escaped nearly thirty-five years ago, leaving twenty people dead in his wake.

"Now, we go into town and talk to the Hennessy boy."

"Cut!" Laura said. "Great, Tandy! Let me check it on playback. But I think we've got it."

Tandy brought her microphone over to Laura and then turned and looked at me. Her smile was a heartbreaker.

She was five-four and maybe one hundred pounds. Next to her, Laura, all of five-six and maybe one-ten, looked like a giant.

The way she walked gave an impression of struggle, as if everything she did were difficult. And maybe it was. She was child-size in an adult world.

She was three, four feet away when I noticed the difference in her face. Five years ago, she could have posed for those sentimental paintings you see of young saints-fresh of complexion, innocent of gaze, and with a kind of radiance that truly did reflect the soul.

That was all gone. The smile was still there, and so was the quirky, impish beauty and gentle but powerful eroticism. But there was a frantic quality to the gaze and no radiance at all.

It was the weight loss and the attitude of the gray-green eyes. She probably hadn't lost more than four or five pounds, but on her the loss was noticeable. The bones were too sharp, especially the facial bones, and up close there was a cynicism and distrust in the gaze that would have been unthinkable when I'd first met her. She reminded me of the few models I'd known, all coffee nerves and cigarettes to repress the normal need for food, and a sense of anxiety that was almost violent.

She said, "Hug?" But it was more formal than truly friendly.

"You bet."

She slid into my arms. I felt as if I were holding somebody who was seriously ill. I'd given my favorite aunt a clinging hug the night before she died in the hospital. The cancer had worn her down to bone. There was some of that in holding Tandy now.

"It's really good to see you, Robert. I'm glad I called you."

"I don't think Laura is."

She squeezed me. At least her strength was intact. Her arms were strong and agile.

Then, "Oh, God, I forgot about him." She eased away from me and said, "I'd better go say something to him."

She was talking about the cameraman. He was down leaning against his truck. I followed her. There was a breeze suddenly, cool but fragrant with smokiness. Jack-o'-lantern weather. Beasties and ghoulies weather. Thousands of miniature Draculas prowling the streets for candy bars and taffy apples-hopefully the kind without razor blades secreted inside.

She said, "I'm sorry if my sister was a little rough on you."

His male pride took over. He shrugged, the gesture saying it didn't matter to a master like himself. That amateurs could do what they wanted. No skin off his nose. Or ass. Or balls.

"She's under a lot of pressure."

He started thinking about his job. Forgot about his pride. "Your friend here says you won't mention this to the boss. How she took the camera from me."

"I'll make sure she doesn't."

"A guy in a production company in Des Moines told me anytime I want a job all I need to do is call him."

"I'm sure you're very good. She's just a little nervous is all."

He nodded uphill to Laura. She was checking things on playback. "How much longer she gonna be?"