The Wolves of Midwinter twgc-2 Page 38

  Reuben watched in silence as Phil and Laura fed on the remains. He felt a subtle pride in their perfect instincts, their easy power. A subtle peace descended on them.

  He didn’t fear for them any longer as he had feared for them when they were human. It penetrated to him slowly and sweetly that Laura was now unassailable against the mortal enemies that lurked in the shadows for every female human. And Phil, Phil was no longer dying, no longer neglected, no longer alone. Morphenkinder. Newborn. And how harmless was the night around them, the foggy night pressing up against the glass; how transparent, how easily fathomed, how positively sweet. He was elated and curiously calm. Is this the calm the dog feels when he gives that rattling sigh and lies down by the fire?

  What would it be like to remain in this body forever, to enjoy this brain which never hesitated, never doubted, never feared? He thought of Jim weeping alone in the bedroom at the Fairmont; he could not conceive of the agony Jim had been enduring. He knew what he knew, but he didn’t feel it now. He felt the singular instincts of the beast.

  The entire pack enjoyed an easy equality. At one point—as they went back to consume every last bit of bone and flesh—Frank and Berenice had tangled together, obviously making love. What did it matter now? The others looked away respectfully or simply didn’t notice, Reuben couldn’t quite tell. But a powerful surge of passion consumed Reuben. He wanted to take Laura but could not bear to do this in front of others. In a dark corner he embraced her roughly and tightly. The soft fleecy fur of her neck drove him half mad.

  He watched Phil prowling the house by scent afterwards, finding even more money hidden in old armoires and in the plaster walls. His fur was brown but there were streaks of white in his mane. His eyes were large and pale and shining. How easy it was to recognize each Morphenkind, though to the crazed victims they had no doubt looked indistinguishable. Had the world ever registered particular descriptions? Probably not.

  His mind ran to rampant humor suddenly, to the thought of a picture album of the pack. He felt himself laughing and he felt a little dizzy, yet certain of every step he took.

  Surely Phil was feeling the sublime strength of the wolf body, so securely clothed in fur, and the bare pads of his feet moving over carpet or floorboard indifferently. Surely he was feeling the subtle warmth moving divinely through his veins.

  A fortune was packed eventually into another garbage sack. Like pirates’ treasure, Reuben was thinking, all this filthy drug money—it’s like the chests of pearls and diamonds and gold in the Technicolor pirate movies—and these filthy drug dealers, are they not the pirates of our time? Who is likely to take it, this treasure, without asking a single question? St. Francis at Gubbio Church, of course.

  Never before had Reuben seen victims devoured like these. Never had he known such a protracted feast. Easy to swallow hair and gristle. There had been time enough to suck marrow from bones. Never before had he tasted the soft mush of brains, the thick muscle of hearts. Consuming a human head was a bit like tackling a large and thick-skinned piece of fruit.

  In luxurious silence, he had lain back on the bare boards of the living room floor finally, the music from the attic pulsing in his temples, letting his body continue to turn the flesh and blood of others into his own. Laura lay down beside him. As he turned his head, he saw the tall shaggy figure of his father staring out of the long narrow front window as if at the distant stars. Maybe he’ll write the poetry of it, Reuben thought, which so far I haven’t been able to do.

  And we are all kindred now, he thought. Morphenkindred.

  A short growl from Margon told them finally that it was time to move.

  For a quarter of an hour they roamed the house, gathering up more random stashes of money. It had been hidden behind books in the bookcases; and in the kitchen stove; and in the bathrooms in plastic sacks in toilet tanks, and even slipped in bundles under claw-foot tubs.

  Giant plasma television screens smiled and talked to no one. Cell phones rang unanswered.

  Again, they lapped up the blood spilled here and there as best they could. Not a knucklebone left. Not a hank of hair. Down the back steps they crept to enter the cellar laboratory, where they smashed everything in sight.

  Then away they went as they had come, human once more, dressed in their dark garments, slipping through the dark alleyways with their big sacks, back to the waiting cars. The houses were asleep around them. Their preternatural ears could still hear that rock music pounding in the distant attic. But the big Victorian was a lifeless shell, its front door wide open to the street. How long would it be before someone wandered up those granite steps?

  29

  IN THE EARLY HOURS of Monday, Jim had left the hotel. The bellman remembered: about four o’clock.

  Reuben had no chance to talk to him, tell him things had gone splendidly, that he had no worries now.

  Better he be left in peace, Reuben thought. He went to sleep alone in the king-sized bed of the Fairmont suite.

  The raid was all over the local news when he awoke.

  Before noon, alerted by two different deliverymen to the matter of open doors and bloodstains in the hallway, police searched the mansion, quickly discovering the smashed drug lab on the lowest floor. Caches of cell phones and computers were removed by law enforcement, along with numerous papers and a small arsenal of weapons, including semiautomatic guns and knives. The television reporters were speculating that Fulton Blankenship and his felonious associates may have been kidnapped and murdered in an ongoing drug turf war.

  Meanwhile, Jim had called Grace and Phil to let them know he was going down to Carmel for a day and night to try to clear his head. He needed a time of retreat and meditation, and had to be left entirely alone. Grace was relieved to hear it and called Reuben at once.

  “Jim always goes to Carmel when he’s upset,” said Grace. “I don’t know why. He checks into some little media-free bed-and-breakfast down there and goes walking on the beach. That’s what he did before he decided to join the priesthood. He went down there for a week, and came back determined to give his life to the church.” There was something sad in Grace’s voice. “But the police are telling me there’s nothing more for him to be worried about. What do you think?”

  “I think I better stay here for a while,” said Reuben. He confessed he was at the Fairmont. He wanted to wait until Jim came home.

  “Thank God,” said Grace.

  And thank God she didn’t insist he come the Russian Hill house.

  By Tuesday, the police had publicly connected Blankenship to the murder of the young priest in the Tenderloin, based on “abundant computer evidence” and blood-spattered shoes and weapons found in Blankenship’s house. Father Jim Golding had been the intended target. There was no doubt. There was no doubt either now that the basement lab on Alamo Square had been producing the killer Super Bo which was flooding San Francisco and its upscale suburbs and accounting for so many overdoses and deaths. Meanwhile a preliminary study of the bloodstains in the mansion indicated that numerous victims had perhaps died on the premises though all bodies had been removed.

  Reuben didn’t want to wait for Jim any longer. He was too worried. He drove south to Carmel. Laura would have come down from the north to go with him, but he said no, that he had to find Jim and talk to him on his own.

  That afternoon and evening Reuben walked up and down Ocean Avenue, in and out of shops and restaurants, looking for his brother in vain. He visited every inn and bed-and-breakfast. He visited the Catholic church and the Mission church. No Jim. He walked up and down the cold windswept beach until dark.

  As the lights of the town came on, a great white fog moved in over the white sand. Reuben felt small and cold and miserable. When he closed his eyes, he didn’t hear the wind, or the sounds of passing traffic, or the roar of the waves banging the shore. He heard only the sound of Jim crying miserably in that suite at the Fairmont before the massacre, before the Twelfth Night feast.

  “Dear God, please do
n’t let him suffer for this, for any of it,” Reuben prayed. “Please don’t let this hurt him, his conscience, or his will to go on.”

  Wednesday morning, Grace called to say no one had heard a word from Jim, and this included the parish office and the archdiocese. Everyone was being very understanding. But she was near out of her head with worry. Reuben continued his search.

  Billie called that night to tell him about all the rumors that Father Jim Golding of St. Francis at Gubbio was starting a Delancey Street–style hospice and rehab program for teens. “Now you listen to me, Reuben Golding,” she said. “You may be the most brilliant informal essayist since Charles Lamb, but I want an exclusive on this. This is your brother. You get to him and find out if this is going down. I hear he’s got a million-dollar donation for this rehab center. We need a long in-depth article on the entire program.”

  “Well, I’ll do that, Billie, when I find him,” said Reuben. “Right now nobody knows where Jim is. Oh, my God. Listen, I have to get off the phone.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.” He couldn’t very well tell her that he’d just remembered the drug money in the green plastic garbage bag in the trunk of his Porsche.

  And all this time it had been parked here and there on the streets all over Carmel!

  On Thursday morning, well before sunrise, he headed back up to San Francisco. He was at the St. Francis at Gubbio parish office when it opened. He plunked the heavy garbage bag down on the receptionist’s desk. “Miss Mollie,” he said to the elderly woman, “this is an anonymous donation for the rehab center. I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I can say.”

  “And that’s all you have to say, Reuben,” she replied, not even looking up as she reached for the phone. “I’ll call the bank.”

  Hell, I’m a reporter, Reuben thought as he walked out, hoping and praying he’d find Jim in the church. They can’t make me divulge my sources. Jim was nowhere to be found. And a call to Grace soon confirmed that no one had heard from Jim. She was relieved to hear that Reuben would stay at the Fairmont for now.

  Sometime after noon, he was awakened in the Fairmont suite by a call from Felix.

  “Listen, I know your brother’s missing, and I know how concerned you are,” Felix said. “But is it at all possible for you to come home now?”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “There’s a little girl here, Reuben. She says she’s run away from home, that she wants to see you. And she won’t talk to anyone but you.”

  “Oh, my God, this is Susie Blakely!” said Reuben.

  “No, it’s not Susie,” said Felix. “This little girl is about twelve. She’s English. She has a beautiful English accent, as a matter of fact. It’s just a joy to listen to this child talk. Her name is Christine. She’s quite the little lady, though she’s been crying since she arrived. She was wet through as an abandoned kitten! She took something like four buses to get to Nideck and then the Forest Gentry found her walking along the road in the rain with her backpack. And in patent leather slippers. Elthram carried her up here. We’ve been doing our best to comfort her. She was at the Winterfest, I mean the Christmas party, Reuben, and I do remember seeing her there with a schoolteacher, but this little girl will not tell us her last name.”

  “Wait a minute. I know who this is. The schoolteacher, her mother—she was wearing a beautiful old-fashioned hat in the village. She’s blond, with long hair.”

  “Yes, that’s the woman. Exactly. She came with a whole class of schoolchildren from San Rafael. But I don’t know the name of the school. And she was wearing the most charming vintage Chanel suit. Quite an unforgettable woman. Very pretty. Who is this girl, Reuben?”

  “You tell her not to worry, you keep her there, please, Felix, take care of her, don’t let her leave. And tell her that I’m coming, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  30

  IT WAS THE LONGEST JOURNEY between San Francisco and Nideck Point Reuben had ever made. And all the way there, he prayed that this was the gift from God to Jim that it seemed.

  It was dark by the time the Porsche pulled up to the front door, and he ran up the steps.

  Christine was in the library, sitting very primly on the Chesterfield in front of the fire. She’d had her supper, though Lisa said at once, the child had scarcely touched it. And Christine was crying again, with a damp knotted handkerchief twisted in her hands.

  She was small-boned, dainty, with straight blond hair that hung down her back, trimmed only with a black grosgrain headband. And she wore a pretty A-line navy blue dress trimmed with white cuffs and collar. Her stockings were white and she wore black patent leather pumps. She was quite dry, of course, Lisa explaining that all her clothes had been washed and pressed. “She is the tenderest creature,” said Lisa. “I have a bedroom ready for her upstairs, but she can come sleep in the back with us if you want.”

  The girl didn’t look up when Reuben came in. He sat down quietly on the Chesterfield beside her.

  “Christine Maitland?” Reuben whispered.

  “Yes!” she said, staring up at him. “You know who I am?”

  “I think I do,” he said. “But why don’t you tell me more about who you are?”

  She sat very still for a moment and then she crumpled into soft, violent crying. And for a long time he just held her in his arms. She turned and rested against him, sobbing, and then after a long while, as he stroked her hair, he began to speak.

  He told her gently that he thought he knew her mother, that if he remembered correctly her mother’s name was Lorraine.

  She said yes to that in a small, broken voice.

  “You can tell me anything, Christine,” he said. “I’m on your side, honey. You understand?”

  “My mom says we can never talk to my father, never tell him about us, about me and my brother, but I know my father wants to know!”

  He didn’t ask the obvious question—which was, Who is your father? He let her go on.

  And suddenly it all came pouring out of her, how she wanted to see her father, how she’d run away from her house in San Rafael to see her father. Her twin brother, Jamie, didn’t care about their father. Jamie was so “independent.” Jamie had always been “independent.” Jamie didn’t need a father. But she did. She did with all her heart. She had seen her father at the Christmas gala and she knew he was a priest, but he was still her father, and she just had to see him, really, really had to see him. And on the news they said terrible things about her father, that someone had tried to kill him. What if her father died without her ever talking to him, without ever knowing he had a daughter and a son? Couldn’t she stay here until her father was found? “I am praying and praying for them to find him.”

  In a quaking voice she laid out her dreams. She’d live at Nideck Point. Surely there was a little room where they could put her, and she wouldn’t be any trouble. She’d walk to school. She would do chores to earn her food. She’d live here in this house, if there was just the smallest place for her, and her father would see her, and he would be happy to see her, to know he had twins, a daughter and a son. She knew he would. And she could live here and see him in secret and nobody would ever have to know that he was a priest with two children. She would never tell another soul. If there was just the smallest room, the smallest room in the attic or in the basement, or in the servants’ wing out back. They’d taken a little tour at the party, and they’d seen the servants’ wing. Maybe there was a really, really small room out there that nobody else wanted. She wouldn’t be any trouble at all. She didn’t expect anyone to help. If only Reuben would tell her father, just let him know.

  Reuben thought for a long moment in silence, holding her tightly, still stroking her hair.

  “Of course you can live here, you can live here forever,” he said. “And I will tell your father right away that you’re here. Your father is my brother, as you know. I’ll tell him just as soon as I
can. I’ll tell him all about you. And you’re right. He’ll be happy, oh, happier than you can imagine to know you’re here. And he’ll be happy to see your brother, Jamie. Don’t you worry about this.”

  She sat still staring at him as if she were out of breath. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She was amazed. She was a lovely little girl as far as he was concerned, and he was once again fighting back tears. She was precious, adorable … all that. She embodied those endearing words and more. She was sad, however, terribly sad. He couldn’t remember if her mother was half as pretty. If she was, then she was a beautiful woman.

  “You really think he’ll be happy,” she said in a timid voice. “My mother said he’s a priest and it would be terrible for him if people knew.”

  “I don’t think that’s true at all,” he said. “You and your brother were born before he ever became a priest, isn’t that right?”

  “My grandmother wants us to go back to England,” she said, “without us ever talking to my father.”

  “I see,” Reuben said.

  “She calls my mother every week, telling her to bring us back to England. And if we go back to England, I’ll never see my father again.”

  “Well, you’re going to see him,” Reuben said. “And you have grandparents here, your father’s parents, who will be happy too.”

  Reuben and Christine sat there alone for a long time in silence. Then Reuben stood up and prodded the oak fire. There was a wild explosion of sparks up the chimney and then a steady leaping orange flame.

  He knelt down in front of Christine, looking up into her eyes. “But honey,” he said, “you have to let me call your mother. You have to let me tell her that you’re safe.”

  She nodded. She opened her little black patent leather purse and took out an iPhone. She punched in the call to her mother and gave Reuben the phone.

  As it turned out, Lorraine was already on her way to Nideck Point. She had been hoping and praying she’d find Christine there. “This is all my fault, Mr. Golding,” she said in a lovely British accent, quite as lilting and fluid as her daughter’s. “I am so sorry. I’m coming to get her now. I’ll take care of everything.”