Edward Lee - Incubi

She started to get up.

“No,” he said. He knew. He knew what she wanted. Was her desire that easy to see? “There are still some ruminations that remain. Am I right?”

“You’re always right,” she said.

“I’ll leave you now, but first I have a question.”

She sat back down, looking at him in wait.

“It’s preeminence that we’re talking about, isn’t it? Not just great art, but preeminent art.”

“I…”

“Ms. Polk, anyone can create a work of art that succeeds. But few can create a work that…”

Transposes , she knew. He didn’t even have to say it.

His voice darkened. “Ms. Polk? Does your painting transpose?”

She was shivering. “Yes. It does. I know it does.”

This was the first time she’d ever really seen him smile. Just the faint, if not sarcastic, half-smiles only gestures of smiles. But this… He was smiling at her now, smiling with her glory and her happiness. His smile made her feel bathed in sunlight.

“May I ask its title?” he said.

“ The Ecstasy of —” but something severed her answer. She’d thought about this for days, hadn’t she? The Ecstasy of the Flames or The Fire-Lover . But these weren’t titles, they were frivolities. At once she recognized that they were trite and stupid and inferior, not true titles at all.

She stared fixedly at the painting, and then she knew.

“It’s called Veronica Betrothed ,” she said.

When Jack awoke, he thought he must be dreaming. He wanted a drink bad — certainly. Nevertheless, he felt wonderful. He felt…bright.

Faye was not in bed with him, but her scent lingered in the sheets. Whatever shampoo she used, or soap, made him dizzy. He pressed his face in the pillow and breathed. It was almost erotic. It was almost like…

Veronica, he thought.

Last night replayed in his mind like a forbidden film. She had let him pretend, to help him feel better, and that now made him feel bad. He knew that Faye liked him, and he knew that he liked her. But he’d used her to be someone else. He’d method-acted a lie. Feeling false was one thing he couldn’t stand.

The shower purged him. The cool water took some of the bite out of his need for a drink. “I haven’t had all I want,” he said to the mirror, toweling dry, “but I’ve had all I can take.”

He put on slacks and a decent shirt, and skipped the tie. Why should he wear a tie if he wasn’t working? His enthusiasm slowed, though, as he descended the stairs. What would he say to Faye? He didn’t even want to think about it. When he walked into the kitchen, she was hanging up the phone.

“Morning,” he said ineptly. “Who was that?”

“I gave LOC your number,” she said, and sat down to a cup of steaming tea. “They’ve been trying to locate a rare book for me, about the aorists. They found it.”

But Jack didn’t know if Noyle even wanted her on the case.

“It’s what they call ‘precaution printed material.’ It’s rare and not in good shape, so you have to make an appointment to see it. You have to wear gloves and stuff. My appointment’s at noon.”

“Before you waste your time…” Jack began.

“I already called that guy Noyle. He said, ‘The county very much appreciates the expenditure of your time and efforts, Miss Rowland. However, your services are no longer required, and we’ve terminated the subcontract with your department.’”

“The dick,” Jack muttered. “I’d like to kick his prim and proper ass right off the city dock.”

“I’m going to read the book anyway,” Faye said.

“Why?”

“Curiosity, I guess. It would be like not finishing the end of a story. Oh, and some guy from the National Enquirer called. He wanted to talk to you about the ‘Satanic Murderers.’”

“He can talk to my middle finger,” Jack remarked.

“I told him you’d been kidnaped by aliens with Elvis tattoos and were presently indisposed.”

“Outstanding,” Jack approved, and started for the Mr. Coffee.

“And don’t look at the newspapers if you’re in a bad mood.”

Asking first would’ve been redundant. His frown spread as he glanced at each paper. The front page of the Sun blared: “Ritual Slayings Plague Historic District.” The state section of the Post : “Satanic Cult Kills Three So Far in Bay Area. And the Capital : County Captain Fumbles Ritual Murder Spree, Three Dead in a Week.”

Jack didn’t bother outbursting: he’d done enough of that in Olsher’s office. Instead, he sat down with Faye, and sighed.

“You forgot to shave,” she observed.

“I didn’t forget. I remembered not to. Why should I shave — I’ve been relieved of active duty. Shaving’s a big pain in the ass. Women have no idea.”

“Tell that to our legs and armpits. And what’s this?”

She was holding up the $25,000 receipt Stewie got from the two guys who’d picked up Veronica’s painting. “Stewie thought I might be able to get a line on where Veronica was by running the signature. Can’t make out the name, though. It looks like Philip something.”

“ Philippe,” she corrected, pronouncing it fee-leep .

“Can you make out the last name?”

“Faux,” she said. Fo. “It’s French. And a little bit odd. Faux means false or fake. Some name.”

Jack lit up and popped a brow. Philippe Fake , he thought. “Stewie thinks he works for the guy who invited Veronica to the retreat.”

“What happens if you can’t locate her?”

“It’ll mean bad news for her career. Stewie’s got a bunch of galleries wanting to do shows of her work. If you jerk those kinds of people around you get a bad name for yourself. Stewie’s afraid her credibility will be damaged if he can’t confirm the shows, and he can’t confirm the shows until he talks to her. And the funny thing is the phone number on the invitation was a transfer through a message service to a portable phone.”

“That doesn’t make much sense, does it? Why wouldn’t this rich guy just use his home number?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Jack admitted. He glanced at his watch; it was going on ten. “You’re going to LOC at noon? Let’s get something to eat, then you can come to the courthouse with me.”

“What do you need there?”

To see how far my lack of ethics goes, he thought.

It was only a two-minute walk to the City Dock. Jack got his usual cop’s breakfast: a big foil of fried chicken livers. Faye got a hot dog. They sat on the dock and ate, watching the boats.

He tried to look at her without being obvious. The morning lit up her nearly waist-long hair. She was pretty in her silence and faded jeans. Randy had told him she was in her early twenties, but just then, with the sun on her face, she looked like a precocious teenager. He remembered how beautiful she was nude, how soft her skin felt, how warm she was.

“The aorists were very methodized murderers,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Everything they did they did for a specific reason. Not like all this satanist stuff today, mostly disgruntled kids looking for a sense of identity. The aorists believed that faith was strength. Murder was a gesture of faith. They believed that the more severely they disserviced God, the more powerful they’d become in recompense from Satan.”

“But I thought you said they worshiped lower demons.”

“Yes, apostate demons is the term. Satan’s brethren, Satan’s sons. They were like antithetical patron saints. It was all oblatory.”