Lullaby

Chapter 38

At the offices of Helen Boyle Realty, the doors are locked, and when I knock, Mona shouts through the glass, «We're not open.»

And I shout, I'm not a customer.

Inside, she's sitting at her computer, keyboarding something. Every couple keystrokes, Mona looks back and forth between the keys and the screen. On the screen, at the top in big letters, it says, «Resume.»

The police scanner says a code nine-twelve.

Still keyboarding, Mona says, «I don't know why I shouldn't charge you with assault.»

Maybe because she cares about me and Helen, I say.

And Mona says, «No, that's not it.»

Maybe she won't blow the whistle because she still wants the grimoire.

And Mona doesn't say anything. She turns in her chair and pulls up the side of her peasant blouse. The skin on her ribs, under her arms, is white with purple blotches.

Tough love.

Through the door into Helen's office, Helen yells, «What's another word for “tormented”?» Her desk is covered with open books. Under her desk, she's wearing one pink shoe and one yellow shoe.

The pink silk sofa, Mona's carved Louis XIV desk, the lion-legged sofa table, it's all frosted with dust. The flower arrangements are withered and brown, standing in black, stinking water.

The police scanner says a code three-eleven.

I say, I'm sorry. Grabbing her wasn't right. I pinch the crease in my pant legs and pull them up to show her the purple bruises on my shins.

«That's different,» Mona says. «I was defending myself.»

I stamp my foot a couple times and say my infection's a lot better. I say, thank you.

And Helen yells, «Mona? What's another way of saying “butchered”?»

Mona says, «On your way out, we need to have a little talk.»

In the inner office, Helen's facedown in an open book. It's a Hebrew dictionary. Next to it is a guide to classical Latin. Under that is a book about Aramaic. Next to that is an unfolded copy of the culling spell. The trash can next to the desk is filled with paper coffee cups.

I say, hey.

And Helen looks up. There's a coffee stain on her green lapel. The grimoire is open next to the Hebrew dictionary. And Helen blinks once, twice, three times and says, «Mr. Streator.»

I ask if she'd like to get some lunch. I still need to go up against John Nash, to confront him. I was hoping she might give me something for an edge. An invisibility spell, maybe. Or a mind-control spell. Maybe something so I won't have to kill him. I come around to see what she's translating.

And Helen slides a sheet of paper on top of the grimoire, saying, «I'm a little occupied today.» With a pen in one hand, she waits. With the other hand, she shuts the dictionary. She says, «Shouldn't you be hiding from the police?»

And I say, how about a movie?

And she says, «Not this weekend.»

I say, how about I get us tickets to the symphony?

And Helen waves a hand between us and says, «Do what you want.»

And I say, great. Then it's a date.

Helen puts her pen in the pink hair behind her ear. She opens another book and lays it on top of the Hebrew book. With one finger holding her place in a dictionary, Helen looks up and says, «It's not that I don't like you. It's just that I'm very, very busy right now.»

In the open grimoire, sticking out from one edge of it is a name. Written in the margin of a page is today's name, today's assassination target. It says, Carl Streator.

Helen closes the grimoire and says, «You understand.»

The police scanner says a code seven-two.

I ask if she's coming to see me, tonight, in the Gartoller house. Standing in the doorway to her office, I say I can't wait to be with her again. I need her.

And Helen smiles and says, «That's the idea.»

In the outer office, Mona catches me around the wrist. She picks up her purse and loops the strap over her shoulder, yelling, «Helen, I'm going out for lunch.» To me, she says, «We need to talk, but outside.» She unlocks the door to let us out.

In the parking lot, standing next to my car, Mona shakes her head, saying, «You have no idea what's happening, do you?»

I'm in love. So kill me.

«With Helen?» she says. She snaps her fingers in my face and says, «You're not in love.» She sighs and says, «You ever hear of a love spell?»

For whatever reason, Nash screwing dead women comes to mind.

«Helen's found a spell to trap you,» Mona says. «You're in her power. You don't really love her.»

I don't?

Mona stares into my eyes and says, «When was the last time you thought about burning the grimoire?» She points at the ground and says, «This? What you call love? It's just her way of dominating you.»

A car drives up and parks, and inside is Oyster. He just shakes the hair back off his eyes, and sits behind the steering wheel, watching us. The shattered blond hair exploded in every direction. Two deep parallel lines, slash scars, run across each cheek. Dark red war paint.

His cell phone rings, and Oyster answers it, «Doland, Dimms and Dorn, Attorneys-at-Law.»

The big power grab.

But I love Helen.

«No,» Mona says. She glances at Oyster. «You just think you do. She's tricked you.»

But it's love.

«I've known Helen a lot longer than you have,» Mona says. She folds her arms and looks at her wristwatch. «It's not love. It's a beautiful, sweet spell, but she's making you into her slave.»