whither Willow? Read online

  Liz smiled and Bryan breathed deeply and choked again on the muffin. He took a large swallow of Coke to wash it down.

  Sam looked at his watch. "Okay, let's go. It's almost 1 o'clock and we should get things ready before the movers arrive."

  Sam jumped to his feet and pulled Liz to her feet and she started right away to clean up. Bryan stared into the corner where he had laid the wire and small microphone. Everything looked perfectly normal. You couldn't see a thing.

  They were back at Willow Towers by 1:30 and began to carry smaller furniture to the truck, Liz directing the operation. At 3:30 the movers arrived and by 6:30 they were sitting in the kitchen at Laurentian Tower sipping chilled Spumanti.

  "Sam, you've been just wonderful," said Liz. "I don't know what we'd have done without your help. Now you and Bryan can sit in the living room, on our brand new sofa, and I'll whip up something for dinner in our brand new kitchen."

  They ate egg salad sandwiches and Noah’s sausage with cheese until 7:30 and Sam left before 11 o'clock. Bryan and Liz were tired and went to bed soon after, Liz falling asleep almost immediately. Bryan lay still, staring at the streaks of light shimmering on the ceiling from the window. There was a full moon and the room was quite bright.

  Sam and Liz had been - almost normal. They had laughed a lot and they had enjoyed the move. He could hear Liz breathing steadily at his side; he turned his head and watched her mouth open slightly, then he slipped quietly out of bed and went to the closet. The door squeaked once and he held his breath. There was no sound except the ticking of the clock in the kitchen. He reached up and carefully slid his briefcase from the shelf and removed the small battery operated tape recorder. He slid the phono plug out from under the carpet, plugged it into the back of the tape recorder and placed the recorder in his briefcase, careful not to break the thin wire as he closed the briefcase. He leaned the briefcase against the wall just inside the door, out of the way. That was where he usually kept it, in the last apartment. Liz wouldn't touch it. His briefcase would stay there until needed. Inside was the tape recorder, connected to a thin wire which ran across the room to the button microphone under the shag rug. He closed the closet door, it squeaked one last time, then he walked to the bedroom. He paused at the bathroom door, reached inside and flushed the toilet, then continued to bed.

  "Mmmm ..." moaned Liz, turning over and putting her arm across Bryan's chest.

  "Just went to the bathroom, sweetheart," he whispered, smiling grimly.

  The lights on the ceiling danced. The moon was now visible just at the edge of the window.

  CHAPTER 23

  Best Friends

  It took just three days to paint the trim and put up the wallpaper and decide on an arrangement of furniture which they all agreed upon - even Sam. Liz seemed to spend more time discussing the colour of paint and design of wallpaper with Sam Jaffre than with Bryan. Sam wasn't working, but never seemed to be in need of money. Indeed, he usually brought something for the apartment every time he dropped by - which was every day.

  They had just finished a delicious dinner of herbed pork with a thick creamy sauce that Sam insisted upon eating with a spoon. Liz was delighted. Bryan was quiet. The two of them seemed altogether too friendly.

  "Okay, you two go to the living room and I'll clean up," said Liz, rising from the table and starting to gather the dishes.

  "No. Bryan and I will clean up. You go to the living room," said Sam with a grin. Liz chuckled and left the kitchen without comment. "A great gal. You're a lucky guy." Sam was staring at Bryan, a strange look in his eyes. Then he abruptly rose and began clearing the table.

  "Yeah ... lucky," muttered Bryan. Maybe there wasn't a strange look in Sam's eyes after all. Maybe Bryan just hadn't studied his face that carefully before. Sam was a large, muscular man, in his early forties Bryan thought. He could have been a wrestler or a bouncer. Although he had a broad face with high cheek bones and a ruddy complexion he also had a quick and ready smile and his eyes twinkled when he spoke, and when he did speak it was forceful, confident, resonant.

  "Sam, what are you doing for a living these days?"

  Sam piled the dishes in the sink and turned on the hot water. "Writing. Always wanted to be a writer. Mystery stories. Lots of ideas from cases I've been on. Should have the first story finished by the end of the year." Bryan grunted and pulled a towel off the rack and started to dry the dishes.

  "Got enough money to last until your story is published?"

  "Sure. Dad died last year. Left me and mom some money. Helped, in Italy. Still got some. Don't need much."

  Did Sam always talk in half-sentences?

  "The police. Think of going back? More cases? More stories?" said Bryan.

  Now he was talking in half-sentences ... must stop that.

  "Nope. Got enough."

  "We ... I mean Liz and I ... we're pleased that you've become such a good friend, helping with the moving, picking the wallpaper and all that." Bryan wasn't sure he was all that happy with the arrangement, but it somehow seemed the right thing to say.

  "Best Friends. We're best friends," said Sam. "That's what best friends are for."

  They finished cleaning the dishes and pots and piled them on the counter. Only Liz knew where they belonged so they just left them on the counter. Liz was reading when they entered the living room. She looked up, then put the book away, sliding it under the sofa out of the way and smiled at them both.

  "Well gentlemen? Finished?" Liz smiled and shook her head, a familiar sort of jerky motion that seemed always to arrange her hair neatly down her back. "Sherry? On the table."

  Did she get that half-sentence thing from Sam? Bryan walked to a chair then paused, thinking.

  "Aargh. I've run out of tobacco," he said with an exaggerated groan. "Why don't you two enjoy your sherry and I'll just pop over to Fornell's Variety and pick up some."

  "No smoking in the apartment, Bryan," said Liz with mock anger. "Remember? Not in our new apartment." She laughed and Sam joined her. They looked comfortable, together on the sofa.

  "In that case I'll be a little longer," moaned Bryan. "I'll just sit on the front steps and have a puff." He walked to the closet and pulled out his coat, then dropped it on the floor. "Ooops. Clumsy." Liz and Sam chuckled.

  "Watch out going down the stairs. Don't fall," laughed Liz.

  Bryan smiled and reached inside the closet to get his coat from the floor, opened his briefcase and pushed the Record button on the tape recorder, then carefully closed the briefcase, leaving it behind a closed closet door.

  "I'll be careful, mommy," he said, and left.

  He could hear them laughing as he closed the apartment door behind him.

  ***

  Bryan went to the office the next day. Liz was surprised. Why wouldn't he work at home? His desk had been set up in the extra bedroom which they used for a study. Even his scraps of paper had been piled on his desk - his deep and important mathematical discoveries, brought with care and much fanfare from Willow Towers, in a small cardboard box.

  He had to return a library book. He would be back for lunch. He'd drop by Marco's and bring home a pizza. Before he left he cautiously went to the closet, opened his briefcase, disconnected the wire which ran to the microphone, pushing it into a corner of the closet, then he straightened, clutching the briefcase.

  "Bye, sweetheart," he said, loudly.

  When he got to the office he opened the briefcase and pulled out the small tape recorder, setting it on his desk. He held his finger poised above the Play button for some time before pressing. Nothing but a scratching sound. He grunted, pushed Stop, then Rewind, then Play. It began to hum and he turned up the volume:

  Bryan. So clumsy. So simple. It was Liz speaking.

  Suspect anything?

  Nothing. Phoned Andy McNaughton. Confirmed the exam proctoring.

  Baden Furniture?

  Thought he saw a tear - swivel chair. Noth
ing more.

  Seems preoccupied.

  No. That's Bryan. You know. Absent-minded professor.

  Like you?

  Liz laughed.

  Not like me.

  The half-sentences. They both spoke in half-sentences.

  Meeting on Friday. It was Sam talking.

  Yes. At the WILLOW. Ten o'clock.

  Bryan?

  I'll look after him.

  How?

  Sex. He'll sleep. I'll leave.

  Sure?

  Sure. Always happens. Sleeps like a baby.

  I'd like that - sleep like a baby.

  Patience.

  There was silence and Bryan turned up the volume. Was that Liz? What were they doing?

  Sam. Wait. Soon.

  Bryan twisted the volume control. It broke. The tape recorder clicked and began to hum. Bryan poked it and the tape began to spin on the reel. Damn! A broken tape. He pushed the Stop button and leaned back in his chair. They were in this thing together, Sam and Liz, his wife Liz, his wife.

  What were they in together? The meeting tomorrow night - at the WILLOW, the old apartment building. He would have to go there and see what was happening. Friends of the Willow. Wasn't that what old man Brubacher had called it? It was a meeting of the Friends of the Willow. Cassandra Kumar, or was it Brubacher, was she one of the Friends? The dancer, naked on the table, covered in - what? Streaks of mud? Who were the others? The willow tree was involved, somehow. The willow tree deaths. The boxes in the basement, filled with willow baskets. They were parts of the old willow tree. Liz and Sam were Friends of the Willow. Some secret cult, evil. That's what old man Brubacher had said.

  What was he to do? What could he do? Would the police believe him? Would anyone believe him? He was alone in this - Liz wasn't there to help, to plan, to provide encouragement and lead the way. She had always been so strong. He had always relied on her - too much, perhaps. Now she was ... she was the enemy. She and the tall, muscular sergeant. What could he do - alone?

  He jumped when there was a knock on the door. Bryan quickly opened his desk, pushed the tape recorder into the drawer and closed it.

  "Yes? Hold on - just a second." He leaned toward the door.

  "Bryan? Is that you?" It was Bruno.

  "Come in, Bruno. Just cleaning up my desk. It's a mess and now that classes are over I have a little time. Guess it'll take me until next term to finish." Bryan laughed, a shaky little laugh.

  Bruno was Italian and short and a ladies man. He often dropped by to expound on the techniques of lovemaking, his latest escapade, and trout fishing. They had been friends for years.

  "I thought you just moved into a new apartment," Bruno said. "Why aren't you home, painting and hanging wallpaper and arranging furniture? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

  Bryan pointed to a chair and Bruno sat down, reaching for the jar of hard mints which Bryan kept on his desk. He never took one; always three. He didn't suck them; always chewed them. Could he talk to Bruno about the willow thing? Maybe.

  "Bruno. I want to tell you something," started Bryan.

  "Let me tell you about this girl - she's beautiful. Met her at the faculty club last week. Works in Classics - assistant prof. - smart as a whip." Bruno chomped on the mints and Bryan heard them crack, one by one. "Beautiful. Likes me - crazy about me."

  Was Bruno talking in half-sentences? Had he always talked like that? Bryan couldn't remember. Damn this memory. I must read that book again; how to remember places and names and the value of . Bruno kept talking.

  "Follows me ... like a puppy. Beautiful. Going to Luigi's tonight. Prosciutto, melone, linguine, vino rosso ... the whole bit."

  Why the half-sentences?

  "Then we go to my place. Turn on the record player. Turn off the lights. Turn on the charm."

  Enough. Bryan got up and Bruno stopped talking, then said, "Well, gotta go. She's waiting for me. Ciao." Bruno waved as he left.

  Bryan looked at his watch: 11:37, time for lunch.

  When he left the building the sun had broken through the clouds and the sky was filled with airplane trails. He drove to Marco's and ordered a large pizza with bacon and green peppers.

  "Professor Laker? Your pizza. $11.95. Chili peppers?"

  He stared at the young girl in the white uniform behind the counter. He vaguely remember her from a calculus class. "Beg your pardon?"

  "Pizza. $11.95. Chili peppers?"

  Half-sentences. Was everybody talking in half-sentences these days? Maybe they were and he had forgotten, didn't remember. He paid for the pizza and left. When he got out of the car and started to walk toward the apartment building he noticed that he had driven to Willow Towers by mistake; force of habit. He turned to leave and noticed the sign above the door.

  It said: friends of WILLOW.

  The words friends of had been added recently. It didn't say friends of the WILLOW. Just friends of WILLOW. He shook his head and drove slowly back to Laurentian Tower. Liz was reading and slipped her book beneath the sofa when he entered.

  "Hello dear," she said. "Get the pizza?"

  Bryan nodded vigorously, even though he knew she couldn't see him in the hall. He placed his briefcase in the closet, thought about connecting the tape recorder then remembered it was still in his desk at work. Damn!

  CHAPTER 24

  sister of WILLOW

  "And yet shall I bring Ahriman to my side," she moaned, "and Ahura-Mazda shall see it and weep, for we shall be victor in this struggle."

  Cassandra smoothed the long black gown that fell directly from her shoulders to the floor, and walked slowly to the window. The dark shadows beyond began to move, to coil, to rap gently, and she touched the glass and they danced to her hand.

  "And the Friends of Willow shall rejoice that night, for a child shall be taken, unborn, with soul unclean ... and I shall be one with my sister."

  A black branch spun wildly and she smiled and walked to the door and out to the porch. It was still dark although the sun had risen, for the giant tree cast a somber shadow over the house. Cassandra walked to the tree and the branches parted and she entered the lightless vault.

  "Willow, my sister," she cried, raising her arms. "We shall prevail."

  A hairy limb wound gently about her waist and Cassandra was lifted within the shadowy dome, her hair rising in a wild tangle, her eyes flashing scarlet. Luminescent shapes arose from the ground, shimmering in the gloom, encircling her slim body.

  "Soon, my sister, we shall engage the Gods and have thee released. Soon, my sister, we shall stand together, defiant and free."

  There began a faint hum, rising in pitch until it screamed with an urgency born of anger, of fear, of frustration.

  "Soon, my loved one, I shall place a soul in His hands and He shall release you." She began to shout. "Ahriman, Prince of the Night, hear me well, for I shall lay before thee a soul!"

  And the glowing shapes shivered and embraced her, caressing, fondling.

  ***

  Barbara Finney was short and stocky with hair straight and black, cropped just to her neck. Her dark complexion seemed even darker in the dim room and her eyes were almost black. She lit up a cigarette, crossed her legs, pulled her triangular nurse's cap from her head and drank the last of her tea. Smoking was permitted in the small lounge and some one had provided a tea kettle and pot. She stared straight ahead at the wall, inhaling deeply. She couldn't remember much of the day. Everything was a bit hazy. She had come to work early and checked the schedule and talked to the night nurse and then the doctor on call. But something was on her mind, bugging her, from way back in her head, talking to her in whispers. It had been there all day. It was there yesterday too, and the day before that. Indeed, the voices had whispered to her for weeks.

  Last month she was on holidays. She remembered that. Perhaps the voices she heard, they started when she had visited her uncle on his farm, just outside of town. Her paren
ts were in Europe, their yearly pilgrimage to the great churches and cathedrals of France and Italy and her uncle had called and asked her to visit. She said she had holidays: two weeks. He said come stay with me. His wife had died years ago and he was alone and she had agreed. She needed the rest and it would be a cheap vacation.

  It was idyllic. Every morning Uncle Kite would fry a mess of bacon and eggs and they would sit and eat on the porch and watch the sun come up. His name wasn't really Kite, but that's what they had called him since he was a boy and no one saw any reason to change it. When Barbara thought of it, she didn't know his real name. When she asked him one beautiful sunny morning, between the first and second cups of coffee, he just laughed and scolded her for being too nosy. He often scolded her, laughing and scolding, with his eyes lit up and winking like a bonfire, shaking his finger, then laughing again and giving her a big hug and saying he was just joking and how much he appreciated her coming to visit an old man with no one to talk to - or to scold.

  Each evening after dinner she would go on long walks, along the country roads which surrounded the farm, pausing to pick wildflowers, listening to the sound of jays and watching the purple martins swooping over the fields. The sun would dip slowly into a reddening sky and the shadows would lengthen and the wind would come up warm and sweet, lifting her long black hair and rushing gently across her cheek.

  Every day she would take a different road, following it until it was almost dark, then returning back along the road until she saw the warm amber lights of the farm house in the distance and the smoke spiralling from the chimney against the starlit sky.

  It was during the second week that she got lost. The road seemed familiar, but they all looked much the same: dirt road flanked by fields of corn or wildflowers or green woods of aspen and birch.

  Then she saw the house in the distance. She had never noticed it before, with its warm orange windows of light, and the tree. A giant tree towering by its side.

  It was too dark to try to find her way back to Uncle Kite and she might get more confused as the night progressed. She would phone her uncle and he would pick her up in his red truck, smelling wonderfully of pipe and he would scold her as he always did and take her back. Then he would bring out the dusty bottle of red wine and they would sit on the porch and watch the stars, saying nothing, just watching and listening to the frogs in the duck pond and the crickets in the field. Then he would cough and poke his thumb over his shoulder at the house and she would get up and kiss him on the cheek and go to bed. Uncle Kite would sit awhile and puff his pipe. Then he would visit the washroom. Then he would go to bed.