Edward Lee: Incubi

“So I told him I’d go. There’ll be other people there too. Two guys, a poet and sculptor I’ve never heard of. Oh, yeah, and Amy Vandersteen’s going to be there too.”

“You’re kidding!” Veronica almost yelled. Amy Vandersteen was one of the biggest feminist directors in Hollywood. All at once, Veronica felt jilted. Why hadn’t she been invited?

“Well, I hope you have a good time,” she said.

Ginny could tell by the tone of her voice. “You’re mad, aren’t you? You’re mad I got invited and you didn’t.”

“I’m not mad,” Veronica scoffed. She was mad, all right. It made no sense, she realized, but she was madder than hell.

“I didn’t mean to gloat, Vern. I won’t go if you’re mad.”

“That’s silly. Go. Have fun. Tell Khoronos I said hi.”

“I will, Vern. ’Bye.”

Veronica slammed the phone down. But why should she be so riled? It was stupid. Or—

It wasn’t just the idea of missing out. It was Khoronos. She wanted his attention, his presence, his shared interest. It was a cryptogram that implied she was less worthy than the other people. Not good enough. Fuck! she thought.

Depression assailed her.

She went through the day’s mail, to get her mind away. Bills and junk mostly. A renewal for ARTnews . But the last letter looked like a wedding invitation, gold letters on fine paper. There was no return address. She opened it and read:

Dear Ms. Polk:

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. In the few moments we spoke, I came away feeling edified; we share many commonalties. I’d like to invite you to my estate for what I think of as an esoteric retreat. Several other area artists will attend. It’s something I’ve been doing for a long time — call it an indulgence. It’s a creative get-together where we can look into ourselves and our work. If you’d care to join us, please contact my service number below for directions.

Sincerely,

Erim Khoronos

Veronica squealed in joy.

When she looked up at the lilacs again, Jack was gone. Ice melted in his empty glass, and he’d left the keys to her apartment on the bartop. How long had she been recounting the events which had led to her invitation? Her eyes were wet; she knew how Jack would take this, but what could she do? She had to be honest.

Craig, the barkeep, brought her another drink. His long look told her he knew exactly what had happened.

“Jack’s a great guy,” he said.

“I know.”

“So you two are finished?”

Experience , she thought, or was she really thinking of Khoronos? “I haven’t experienced enough in life,” was the only answer she could summon.

“What kind of experience? There are all types,” Craig said.

“That’s just it. I don’t really know.”

Craig poured earthquake shooters for some rowdies at the bar, then drifted back, twirling a shaker glass. Craig and Jack were good friends. This was hard.

“You think I’m a bitch,” she suggested. “You think I’m stupid and selfish for dumping Jack.”

“No, Veronica, if you don’t love him anymore, then you have to move on, and let him move on. It’s the only honest way.”

Do I still love him? she asked herself. The question was turmoil. She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she wanted to know. “Maybe I just need some time away. Maybe things could work out for us later.”

“Do you think you really want them to?”

“I don’t know.”

Veronica tried to think of Jack, but all she could see behind her eyes was Khoronos.

The phone sounded like a woman screaming.

I’m dead , he thought.

That’s how he felt when he woke. The room’s darkness smothered him. He felt entombed. Buried in black.

Veronica , he thought.

The phone screamed on.

“Cordesman. What is it?”

The voice on the other end wavered, as if in reluctance or dread. “Jack, it’s me. We’ve got a bad one.”

Me was Randy Eliot, Jack’s partner. A “bad one” meant only one thing in shop talk.

“Where?” Jack asked.

“Bayview Landing…I mean, it’s really bad, Jack.”

“I heard you. How bad?”

“It looks like something ritual. I don’t know what to do.”

I’m still half drunk , Jack realized. “Call evidence, call the M. E. Seal the unit and don’t let any newspaper people near the place.”

Randy sounded drained. It must be bad, because ordinarily the guy didn’t flinch at the tough stuff. The last time they pulled up a floater, Randy was munching chicken gizzards from the Market. He chucked when the floater burst and spilled fresh maggots onto the pier.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Just sit tight,” Jack said. “I’m on my way.”

He hauled on old clothes, grabbed his Smith, and popped six aspirin. He refused to look in the mirror; he knew what he would see. Bloodshot eyes. Pale, thin face and paler body. He’d stopped working out years ago. His hair hung in strings to his shoulders. He drank too much and smoked too much and cared too little. He hadn’t always been like that. Was it the job? Or did he simply think too little of himself to cope?

Veronica , he thought.

Jack Cordesman was thirty-three years old. He’d been a county cop since twenty-two, and a homicide detective since twenty-eight. He’d been shot once, decorated four times, and had the highest conviction rate of any homicide investigator in the state. There was a time when he was considered the best cop on the department.

They paid him $46,000 per year to wade in the despair of the world. To protect the good guys and lock the criminals up. By now, though, after so many years, he didn’t even know which was which. Crime rates soared while correctional budgets were slashed. These days they were paroling guys for parole violation. One night, Jack delivered a baby in a parking lot. An hour later he gunned down a man who’d raped a thirteen-year-old girl at gunpoint. The baby died three days later in an incubator. The rapist had lived, gotten five years, and was out now on parole. Good behavior.

The truth of what he was condemned him to himself; Jack Cordesman was part of the system, and the system didn’t work.

A bad one , he recalled Randy’s words. He drove his county unmarked through the city’s stillness. They got about half of the city’s homicides because the city cops were too bogged down by rapos and crack gangs. He’d seen bad ones before; most were drug-related. Snitches chopped up like cold cuts, dealers machine-gunned for moving on the wrong turf. These crack people didn’t fool around. Once they’d firebombed an entire apartment project just to make a point.

Then there was always the ghost of the Longford case. Jack had watched the tapes he bagged as evidence. He thought he’d seen it all until the day he stared at that screen and watched grown men ejaculate into children’s faces. One of the scumbags had been chuckling as he rubbed a scoop of Vaseline between a little blond girl’s legs. And Longford himself, a millionaire, an esteemed member of the community, sodomizing a five-year-old boy…

Jack fired up a Camel and pushed it all out of his head. What was the use? If you didn’t shrug, you went nuts. If you let yourself care, you were finished. Those were the rules.

Then the thought crept back: Veronica.

It wouldn’t leave him alone. Loss? Rejection? He didn’t know what it was. He tried to be mad about it, because that seemed the macho way to be. Sad was pitiful. There’d been tears in his eyes on the way home that night . Yeah, real macho, he thought. Just a big crying pussy .