Jorrie’s right eye dimmed; he could still see in blurred pieces. The dude was dragging Mike-Man toward the van, grabbing either side of the knitting needle as though it were a convenient carrying handle. The blonde was grinning down at Jorrie, buttoning up her jacket.
“Thanks for stopping to lend a hand. It was very charitable of you.”
Jorrie couldn’t move.
“Hey!” the dude said. “I like those boots.”
The blonde shrugged. “Help yourself. It’s not like this hayseed’s going to be needing them anytime soon.”
Jorrie felt his fine hard leather shitkicker boots pulled off his feet. The dude stepped into them. “Nice fit, fella. Thanks.”
The blonde departed to start the van. The dude, whistling “Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses,” dragged Jorrie to the vehicle and threw him into the back.
His consciousness seemed adrift in a sea of dull pain. He felt heaped atop things. The van doors slammed shut. Jorrie’s one eye moved against its nerves. Mike-Man’s body lay limp upon several more bodies. One fella’s head had been crushed. Another fella lacked a head altogether. On the other side, though, Jorrie felt movement. His eye darted. More bodies lay atop one another, only these were alive. Three of them at least, all girls who’d been tied up and gagged. They squirmed together in shared terror.
The dude climbed into the passenger side. “Not a bad night,” he commented, taking a glance into the back.
‘Sure.” The blonde pulled onto the road. “But you’re going to have to be more thorough in the future, Lemi. He’s still alive.”
“Huh?”
“The guy with the boots. He’s still alive.”
“Oh. Well I’ll fix that splickety-lit.”
“That’s lickety-split, Lemi. Jesus.”
“Whatever.” This Lemi dude climbed into the back, ducking his head. He was still whistling. Jorrie gave a crushed grunt when he took the first kick in the middle of the spine. Suddenly his legs felt like dead meat. Next, the fine hard point of the boot rammed into his neckbone, quite effectively fracturing the #2 and 3 cervicular vertebrae, hence transecting the spinal column. Jorrie Slade’s brain went out like a light.
Candles flickered behind him from sconces set into rock. The Factotum stepped forward to the nave. It was damp down here, and strangely warm. Seepage trickled. The stone floor bore the vaguest shapes: blood, no doubt, decades old. The blood of all the people who’d been murdered here. Did their ghosts linger as well?
Ghosts, the Factotum pondered. He could have laughed.
He wore a garment akin to a priest’s black cassock, but the Factotum was no priest. He might be called a priest of sorts, yet only in the darkest connotation. The back of his bald head reflected the wavering candlelight—tongues of gentle flame squirming over skin. Beneath the cassock, his naked body felt purged, revitalized. He felt strong again. He felt good.
He breathed in the nave’s damp vapor. Untainted, fresh. When he closed his eyes, a smile touched his lips, for he saw things—the most wonderful things. Things like exaltation, glory, reward. In the onyx-black shapes behind his eyes, he saw tenacity and the sheer, crystal promise of infinity.
Such a blessing, he thought. His heart felt afire.
Such a blessing to serve.
— | — | —
CHAPTER SIX
“Carriage House, here we come!” Dan B. rejoiced.
“Hey, Vera?” Lee asked. “You think this Feldspar guy’ll let me have beer on the house?”
“I can’t wait to see this place!” Donna excitedly joined in. “I’ve seen pictures of it. It’s like a big Gothic mansion!”
Vera smiled.
Dan B. drove—the big Plymouth wagon he and Donna owned—and Lee rode next to him, tracing the upstate maps. Vera sat in the back with Donna. They were all the essentials Vera would need right off; secondary help she could hire from Waynesville. A large move-it! truck, which Vera had contracted for them, followed the wagon up the narrow winding roads of the northernmost edge of the county.
None of them had hesitated at Vera’s offer; Feldspar’s perks, cash supplements, increased salaries, and guaranteed employment contracts were irresistible. “Why not?” Dan B. had remarked. “This city’s getting old anyway. Besides, it’d be selfish for a chef of my extraordinary skills to deprive the rest of the world of his delights.” “Free room and board in a renovated suite!” Donna had exclaimed. “I’m there already!” And Lee: “Did I hear you right, Vera? You’re asking me if I’ll wash dishes for twelve bucks an hour instead of six? What do you think?”
The four of them quitting The Emerald Room without notice did not exactly elate the general manager, but there was no love lost there. He was an uncouth slob who frequently harassed the younger waitresses and had a propensity for leaving boogers on his office wall. Good riddance to him. The next day Vera had rented the truck and hired the movers. “What about your stuff?” Dan B. had asked when they were finished loading up. Vera hadn’t answered; she wasn’t ready to even talk about it much less actually return to the apartment and face Paul. He probably wouldn’t care anyway, she suspected. He’ll probably be happy when he finds out I’m gone. Instead, she’d bought some clothes and sundries with some of the money Feldspar had given her for coming on. She’d get her things from the apartment some other time, if at all. What did she really need, anyway? Her room would be furnished; the company was providing a car. Everything else she needed she could buy. Not ever seeing Paul again was fine with her; the few appliances they’d bought mutually he could have. And the old Tercel could sit in the Mr. Donut parking lot forever as far as Vera was concerned.
Talk about starting with a clean slate, she reflected.
The countryside was beautiful, plush, even in the grip of winter. Its openness seemed unreal, like a long-forgotten dream. The northern ridge rose as an endless expanse of pines, oaks, and firs. South, for miles and miles along State Route 154, farmland denuded of its fall harvest stretched on to an equal degree of endlessness. City life had smothered her; its smog and rush hour and asphalt and cement had veiled her memory of the countryside’s spacious beauty and peace. R.M. at The Emerald Room had been a good job but, she realized now, it had entombed her. There is life after the city, she amused herself with the thought. A better life.
“Come on, man, get with the map,” Dan B. complained at the wheel. “We almost there yet or what?”
“How about eating my shorts?” Lee returned, his lap full of a clutter of maps. “This thing says—”
“We’re about an hour away, Dan B.,” Vera verified. “It’s pretty much a straight shot up the route. Would you relax?”
“I’m excited, I can’t help it. I can’t wait to see the place.”
Neither can I, Vera wondered. If Feldspar was exaggerating, she’d know soon enough. A complete renovation of Wroxton Hall would cost millions. If Feldspar’s company had that kind of money to pump into refurbishments, she couldn’t imagine what kind of money he’d be able to sink into advertising and promotion.
“I don’t quite understand it all,” Dan B. queried. “This place is going to be like—”
”A country-styled bed and breakfast type of place,” Vera answered. “With a separate restaurant to cater to locals. Feldspar wants to target upper-market businessmen and rich people—a weekend get-away-from-it-all sort of thing. But he also wants a full-time restaurant to cater to the better-off people in the area. That’s where we come in. Feldspar says it’s cost-no-object; we’ll get to do pretty much what we want. He’s more concerned with the hotel operations himself. He’s entrusting the entire restaurant to me, or to us, I should say. The whole thing sounds really great, but what we have to remember is the only reason he’s paying us all this money is because he doesn’t want the headache. What he wants is a state-of-the-art dining room without having to worry about it himself.’’