the lack of it—filled the place. Considering she had never set foot in my apartment, it seemed odd that it should feel empty without her. Considering I had never laid a glove on her, it was even odder that I should want her so much.
I leaned back in the leather chair and closed my eyes. I must have dozed off. In a dream I opened my door, and she was standing in the hall. She was wearing a filmy red gown, one of those Frederick’s of Hollywood jobs with a split up the side. I reached out to draw her into the room. She came close enough to kiss me on the cheek, then slipped out of my grasp and disappeared around the corner of the hall. The hall became a maze. I followed her, turning one corner after another. Every once in a while I caught a fleeting glimpse of the red gown. She stayed elusively out of reach, but all the while I could hear her laughing.
I woke up in a cold sweat. It was just after three. I stumbled off to bed telling myself that there’s no fool like an old fool—an old fool with delusions of adequacy.
Chapter 9
W e were at 4543 Gay Avenue by nine-thirty the next morning. During breakfast we had attempted to explain to Carstogi the importance of bringing Suzanne around. He wasn’t wild about seeing her. He still wanted us to take him to Brodie, but sober, he wasn’t quite as anxious for a confrontation as he had been the night before.
No one answered our knock, although the doorknob turned in my hand when I tried it. The house was empty. No dirty dishes filled the sink. The beds were made. Someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to clean the place up. We got back in the car and drove to Faith Tabernacle.
Carstogi’s reluctance surfaced as we climbed the steps to go inside. Pastor Michael Brodie wielded some residual power that made the younger man, if not downright scared, at least more than a little wary. It’s the old talk-is-cheap routine.
The church proper was open but empty. We found Suzanne in the Penitent’s Room, kneeling on the stand before the open Bible. Peters and I dropped back while Carstogi approached her.
“Sue?” he asked tentatively. “I’m sorry about Angel. I just heard.”
Suzanne didn’t so much as look up. There was no sign of recognition or acknowledgment. He stood over her, clenching and unclenching his fists in a combination of nervousness and frustration. A range of emotions played over his face—grief, anger, rejection. He knelt beside her and touched her arm. Her body tensed at the touch but still she didn’t look up. “Please, Sue,” he pleaded gently. “Come back with me. Let’s start over again, away from here, away from all this.”
The door to the study swung open and Pastor Michael Brodie charged into the room. He grabbed Carstogi by the collar and hauled him to his feet, shoving him off-balance and away in the same powerful motion.
“Satan is speaking to you through the voice of a devil, Sister! Pray on. Your immortal soul is hanging in the balance.”
Carstogi recovered and came back swinging, his face a mask of fury. He was pretty well built in his own right, with the broad shoulders and thick forearms of a construction hand, but Brodie outclassed him all the way around. With the ease of a trained fighter, Brodie fended off first one blow and then another before sending Carstogi crashing against the opposite wall. By then Peters and I moved between them. Peters helped Carstogi to his feet and bodily restrained him. The younger man’s nose and lip were bleeding. Brodie may have looked like he had gone to seed, but looks can be deceiving. Carstogi was no match for him.
Brodie turned on me. “Get out,” he snarled. “You’ve no right to bring an infidel into a place of worship.”
“She’s his wife,” I said.
“She’s his widow!” he shot back. Brodie lunged toward Suzanne. For a moment I thought he was going to hit her. Instead he knelt in front of her, his face inches from hers. “Do not be tempted to leave off your
I leaned back in the leather chair and closed my eyes. I must have dozed off. In a dream I opened my door, and she was standing in the hall. She was wearing a filmy red gown, one of those Frederick’s of Hollywood jobs with a split up the side. I reached out to draw her into the room. She came close enough to kiss me on the cheek, then slipped out of my grasp and disappeared around the corner of the hall. The hall became a maze. I followed her, turning one corner after another. Every once in a while I caught a fleeting glimpse of the red gown. She stayed elusively out of reach, but all the while I could hear her laughing.
I woke up in a cold sweat. It was just after three. I stumbled off to bed telling myself that there’s no fool like an old fool—an old fool with delusions of adequacy.
Chapter 9
W e were at 4543 Gay Avenue by nine-thirty the next morning. During breakfast we had attempted to explain to Carstogi the importance of bringing Suzanne around. He wasn’t wild about seeing her. He still wanted us to take him to Brodie, but sober, he wasn’t quite as anxious for a confrontation as he had been the night before.
No one answered our knock, although the doorknob turned in my hand when I tried it. The house was empty. No dirty dishes filled the sink. The beds were made. Someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to clean the place up. We got back in the car and drove to Faith Tabernacle.
Carstogi’s reluctance surfaced as we climbed the steps to go inside. Pastor Michael Brodie wielded some residual power that made the younger man, if not downright scared, at least more than a little wary. It’s the old talk-is-cheap routine.
The church proper was open but empty. We found Suzanne in the Penitent’s Room, kneeling on the stand before the open Bible. Peters and I dropped back while Carstogi approached her.
“Sue?” he asked tentatively. “I’m sorry about Angel. I just heard.”
Suzanne didn’t so much as look up. There was no sign of recognition or acknowledgment. He stood over her, clenching and unclenching his fists in a combination of nervousness and frustration. A range of emotions played over his face—grief, anger, rejection. He knelt beside her and touched her arm. Her body tensed at the touch but still she didn’t look up. “Please, Sue,” he pleaded gently. “Come back with me. Let’s start over again, away from here, away from all this.”
The door to the study swung open and Pastor Michael Brodie charged into the room. He grabbed Carstogi by the collar and hauled him to his feet, shoving him off-balance and away in the same powerful motion.
“Satan is speaking to you through the voice of a devil, Sister! Pray on. Your immortal soul is hanging in the balance.”
Carstogi recovered and came back swinging, his face a mask of fury. He was pretty well built in his own right, with the broad shoulders and thick forearms of a construction hand, but Brodie outclassed him all the way around. With the ease of a trained fighter, Brodie fended off first one blow and then another before sending Carstogi crashing against the opposite wall. By then Peters and I moved between them. Peters helped Carstogi to his feet and bodily restrained him. The younger man’s nose and lip were bleeding. Brodie may have looked like he had gone to seed, but looks can be deceiving. Carstogi was no match for him.
Brodie turned on me. “Get out,” he snarled. “You’ve no right to bring an infidel into a place of worship.”
“She’s his wife,” I said.
“She’s his widow!” he shot back. Brodie lunged toward Suzanne. For a moment I thought he was going to hit her. Instead he knelt in front of her, his face inches from hers. “Do not be tempted to leave off your
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