The year is 2012 and in the small village of Collinsport, two individuals who have traveled through time have returned. For Angelique Collins and Tony Peterson the object of their quest still eludes them. And yet, Tony Peterson finds his brief time aboard the Orient Express in the year 1933 has brought him ever closer to the Crimson Pearl.
It was a chill October night and along Holborn Street there was very little traffic and even fewer pedestrians. At 9 o’clock on a Tuesday, especially toward the end of the tourist season, affords only a few sightseers and less citizenry on streets of Collinsport – until, a week from now when the Collinsport Film Festival and Halloween, arrives with their invitations to traverse the streets and wander the sidewalks, to stroll along the wharf and the pier, as the small coastal city officially closes out the season.
But tonight there was the nighttime hush in the air.
As sound carries.
He sighed and listened.
You could hear a faraway train.
The click of a car door.
Tony Peterson standing on the corner of the intersection of Holborn and Ellsworth, watches the cab which had just pulled to halt down the street. He could see the interior light come on and the rear door opening as an attractive woman exits the automobile. She struggles a bit with her carry-on bag; she’s apparently returning from somewhere – a business trip? A romantic rendezvous? An out-of-town funeral? Why did he think that? She closes the door, which sounds unusually loud in the hushed tranquility of the night, and then, steps up to reach in the driver’s window in order to pay the cab driver, which in most cities, she would have done already –seeing as how it’s much safer. But this is Collinsport – a city which is far too deceptive.
He watches now as the woman steps over to a storefront business, which of late had been forced to rent out its second floor as an apartment. The woman used a key and let herself in – just as the dim tail lights of the cab glow bright red and then dim again the car pulled off toward the southeast, toward the bay.
The avenue is quite again.
He frowns. Why had he decided on the solitude of the empty street?
He could have driven his car to the Aspinwall Hotel rather than park it on the street, where he has strategically positioned it as if doing some domestic surveillance. But, for some very odd reason the closer he drove toward the hotel the more he felt the need to feel the night air, to walk the darken streets. He was more than certain there were those looking for him. The least of which was Evan Hanley. Rarely had he not returned his calls. He did not even want to consider the numeral indication of the number of voice messages had he received from Tilly Brewster? And then, there was Angelique.
Or, Cassandra of whom he seems to have a sudden dim recollection which seems at times to be triggered into memory to only fade. “No doubt the side-effects of being whisked through time, Tony,” was her explanation when he tried to discuss it with her . . . but it was more than fantasy. He was certain. The one constant of course being he knew her to be Angelique – even when he remembers her as Cassandra. And even odder is his fleeting remembrance is connected to Roger Collin’s: he has this odd belief that Cassandra was somehow Roger’s trophy bride – but, it’s all a jumble of recollections he can’t seem to bring into crystal clarity – there are of images of being with her at the gazebo, of a small flame, the flame of a cigarette lighter, the haunting sensory memory of her perfume, the taste of her lips . . . and somewhere, he knows there was murder. There’s always a murder. But whose? It all eludes him – perhaps she is right. Perhaps it is that voice from the train, it haunts him, even now coming back from the Orient Express and 1933. He’s begun to suspect he has lost some small measure of his sanity, or, and this is even more disturbing, perhaps time itself has been effected. Which explains his memories of a Cassandra, who supposedly never was . . . . Perhaps he has been bifurcated – in time – effected by some anomaly, a word he equates to Star Trek – is he out of time – out of place or in a place and a time that is not his time, or his place, and yet feeling the tether of distant memories.
He stood for a moment, hands in his trouser pocket’s allowing the wind to whip about his jacket, his tie, as he took another look back down the street to watch the light go on in the second floor apartment.
What would be the first things she would remove? Her shoes. Yes. And then—well, her fingers would be at the waistband of her skirt. He grimaced at the images entering into his imagination – he could so easily make his way down the street, there’s no body around – there’s never any body around this time of night on the Street’s of Collinsport in October, at least nobody who isn’t up to something untoward. Yes, how easy it would be to pick the lock and lightly slip up the stairs, approach the door to her apartment . . . where he could . . . .
He is suddenly startled now by the ring of a telephone.
It’s a loud antique ring—one he has not heard in years.
He turns to look back behind him where he sees an old public phone – which was ringing.
Ringing for him?
He steps over and his hand hesitates for a moment as he reaches out for the receiver.
Who even uses a payphone anymore?
Weren’t they an anachronism – in fact, did, his hand still having yet to touch the receiver, Collinsport even have payphones. How long has it been since he had actually seen one. Everything had gone mobile.
And yet, here was a public phone and it was ringing.
For a moment he questioned if there was even a phone there – or was it another fantasy like Angelique said. Hell, he had just been on the Orient Express playing cards in 1933 a few days go. And so, what if there is phone – and by it’s ringtone – it’s out of the past – or he’s misplaced again in time.
He feels foolish just standing there with the phone ringing – hesitating to answer.
He snatches the receiver up and places it to his ear.
“Hello. Tony?”
Oh, my good goddamn—it is, was, whatever it was that spoke to him on the train – only, it is different now . . . . it is far more familiar . . . he knows he has heard it before – the voice, and yet he can’t seem to place it . . .
“I know what you are wondering.” And then upon the word ‘wondering’ he suddenly realizes that he the voice he hears is speaking with the voice of an actor, his favorite actor, the voice of Christopher Walken, “You’re wondering, what she is doing right now.”
“W-what?”
“Yes. Just down the street. Up those stairs.” The voice growing now ever more suggestive. “Just how many to you think they are? Stairs. How many, Tony? Ten, eleven? Maybe thirteen. But—thirteen—is unlucky. That’s what they say. Isn’t it?”
Tony Peterson grips the phone until his knuckles grow white as he looks at the worn, dirty, push buttons of the dialing mechanism.
“What do you say Tony?”
Can this be real, or is he hallucinating.
“All alone. Up there – in that second floor apartment. Undressing. What do you think Tony?”
“W-hy do you care what I think?”
“Oh, but Tony. I do. I care. I care very much. You see . . . I have come to cherish our little conversations. Don’t you? Because what I find fascinating . . . is what you want . . . is really so simple. And yet – much too complex. In the grand architecture of what is to come. I mean, it is a simple truth. She cares for another. I know. That’s painful, But, then again. . . she’s always been painful. Angelique. Or should i say Cassandra? Which one is it? You don’t know. Maybe she’s not who you think she is . . . to begin with. Trust me. That’s why I say, let’s make a little visit down the street. Up there. On the second floor. “
“Your insane.”
“An interesting concept. And yet, you are the one talking to me on the phone. So? Back to the question at hand. Do you think she uses a shower? Or, is she partial to baths?”
“Stop this.”
“Just a moment.” There is a silence on the other end of the phone, and then: “Yes. A woman to your own heart Tony. She’s partial to baths. She’s drawing one now. Her fingers – they are slowly pulling down the zipper along the black of her dress. The material’s . . . . parting now . . . . to reveal – what is that – yes, it is the strap of her brassier.”
Tony holding the phone finds himself glancing over his shoulder, back toward the second floor window’s illumination.
“You don’t mind that I call it a brassier, do you Tony? I know it’s old fashion. Quaint. But, I do like the sound of the word. The way it causes a slight pucker of the lips, slides over the teeth. Do you like the sound of it Tony?”
“Stop – stop this – leave me alone.”
“I am certain that is what she would say . . . .” The voice continues, “Just think Tony, the bathroom mirror. All steamed up. With the hot breath of her bath, damp against the tile. Which is oddly cool to the touch. Wet. And her? Laying there in the water. Allowing you to see . . . all of her . . . but, you have already thought about that. Haven’t you Tony? How easy it would be. To pick the lock. You are good with locks aren’t you Tony? And then, up the stairs—of course, you’d have to be careful. The third one creaks you know. And in the warm water, after the long day, she will of course find her eyes growing heavy. It’s okay, you can open the door. Slowly – as she will just be starting to doze, just a bit, so that when you step over . . . and look down at her . . . she might not even be aware, until – you place your hands around her pretty, little neck.”
“Leave me alone.” He slams the phone hard on the cradle.
It rings again.
He stands looking at it as it continues to ring.
He looks around and then snatches it up again, “I said for you to stop calling me.”
“Tony, Tony, Tony . . . you know – I can’t do that. You and I – we are bound . . . together, now. We are about to make history. Or, perhaps, it is better to say, we are about . . . .to undo history.”
He slams the receiver once again on the cradle.
The phone almost instantly rings again.
He stands looking at it as it continues to incessantly ring.
His hand hesitates and yet, he snatches up the receiver.
“It’s not like you haven’t killed before. Or, perhaps, you don’t remember.”
Tony Peterson drops the receiver and steps back from the payphone.
Only now he is startling aware that the device is a long forgotten, neglected, piece of Americana. It is a shockingly battered remnant of a telecommunication device from years past. The face of the phone has been abused by a multitude of hands, which have not only effaced the terminal block with deep scratches and terrible scars, but with a collection of nearly indistinguishable initials gouged into the metal, as well as a series of vulgar graffiti – but what frightens him is the sight of the metallic cord as it ways from where he has let go of what he thought was the hand receiver which ins in really nothing more than a metallic cord blooming a frayed wild-flower of wires.
There is no handset.
And so he steps back slowly – finger tips touching nervously one to another – what is happening to him.
Instinctively, he glances around to see if anyone has been watching him as he is acutely aware that he has been standing at a antique payphone, long out of service, talking to himself.
Thankfully the street is dark and barren – the only movement coming from down the street at the front of the Aspinwall. And so with a furtive ducking of his head should there be any surveillance cameras (which is much too paranoid an idea, he knows, Collinsport with CCTV hook-ups leading to CPD or, perhaps some secret governmental agency entirely aware of just what has been going on in Collinsport, Maine for all these years, some junior-grade, late night agent monitoring his screen, turning in his military-grade olive, metal chair to another agent, pouring his fourth cup of coffee, (Might what to get Colonel Prestall down here to have a look at this), as Tony quickly moves away from the phone, which suddenly begins to ring again. He feels like a drug dealer walking through a inter-agency stake-out, his shoulders hunched, hands stuffed into his suit jacket pockets, suddenly feeling as if he were heading toward some cheap restaurant, Hopper’s Night Hawks, rather than toward the historic Aspinwall Hotel, which had originally been his destination, and he would have been their already, getting out of the car to toss his keys to Steve Catesby. . . flashing that knowing smile of his, the smile he has rarely flashed since meeting Angelique, who has so consumed his life . . . rather than having found himself hauntingly distracted by the too attractive woman and the homicidally suggestive phone call . . . from a phone whose handset has been torn away.
Inside the Aspinwall Hotel, at the luxurious bar a slight man, dressed in a suit of white linen, sits upon a bar stool, his elbows resting comfortably upon the mahogany as he slowly spins a small, power blue, paper cocktail umbrella between his thumb and forefinger, and smiles wickedly at the young, bartender, as she places a martini before him, “Ah, yes, my dear. I can assure you, it is far more than a myth. The Suicide Forest.”
She looks at the oriental gentleman who, more than just one of her regular customers, has all put taken up residency in the hotel, “So what? You have been there?”
“Oh yes, on several occasions.”
He inspects the martini and then dramatically lifts the glass as if it were extremely fragile so as to take a sip. He looks up to the young brunette and gives her a wide-toothed smile of appreciation, “Once again, Miss Burrows, perfection.”
She returns his smile at the complement, careful not to smile too widely, so as not to be misconceived and flirtatious – but she has come to find the man utterly fascinating. He seems to be an encyclopedia of . . . of everything. “So—like what? This forest’ She steps closer and leans on the bar, “Is it all dark and creepy . . . big gloomy trees swaying in a haunting wind . . . “
“You have been there, Miss Burrows?” He gives a look of mock chastisement, “You have neglected to inform me of your global adventures.”
“Global adventures?” She sighs, “I only get those listening to you, Mr. Cairo. But, no – no global adventures for me. Just the TV and the flicks. It’s just that I would suspect the forest to look like something out of a David Lynch movie?”
“This David Lynch, he is a maker of films, yes. “
The girl nods, “Yeah, Twin Peaks, well that’s a TV show on DVD, but Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway. I so love Naomi Watts.”
Peter Cairo takes another sip of his drink. “I am not sure if it is much like this David Lynch, or Naomi, of whom you speak.” He places his martini glass down perfectly in the center of the cocktail napkin on the bar before him. “But, to me it is rather beautiful. Aokigahara Jukai. This is it’s true name.”
She tries to pronounce it and he smiles at her mispronunciation – and repeats it for her slowly.
‘”It means, The Sea of Tress. It sits at the bottom of Mount Fuji.” His fingers once again pressed together, moving, in order to spin the power blue, paper cocktail umbrella, absently, “A fabulous three-thousand-hectare forest of Japanese red pines and oaks, tiger-tail spruce and boxwoods, beech and bamboo, and, of course, Himeshara. Do you know Miss Burrows, Aokigahara Jukai is home to over two hundred species of bird. But, what I find so fascinating is the silence.”
“The silence?” She frowns, “With all those birds?”
“Yes. The trees you see,“ He adjusts his glasses, “Grow so densely together, they block the winds that rush down from the slope of Mount Fuji – and even with the varied species of birds – it is all so eerily silent you see.”
“Well—that or it’s haunted.” Mindy Burrows surmises, “They say, if you go in there you don’t come out. I mean, I have heard that the Japanese government actually has signs up asking people if they are thinking about suicide not to do it . . . there – you know, in the forest.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Maybe it’s in the soil or something . . . something that must make you like suddenly want to commit suicide.”
He continues to idly finger the cocktail umbrella, “Maybe.”
“But, I figure it must be haunted.”
“Oh, so?” Cairo says with that odd smile of his, “Some would say no. I would say, yes, Miss Burrows, it is haunted. You know – the forest it was but a mere tourist attraction, until a Japanese mystery writer by the name of Kuroi Jukai used it as a setting in one of his books. In the book, two young lovers, decide that Aokigahara Jukai would be just the perfect place for their planned suicide. And that is when the Sea of Trees began to became to known as The Suicide Forest. People having read the book and contemplating suicide decided to go into the forest to do so. And so, I would agree with you Miss Burrows, it is haunted – but, by ghosts? Perhaps not. Perhaps, rather by an idea. By a book. By a meme.”
“A book?”
“Oh, yes.” Cairo nods, “There are many just such books Miss Burrows. One must be very selective of what one reads. There are many filled with much evil.”
“An evil book?”
He nods and does not smile, his countenance having become very serious.
Beyond the bar, one of the mullioned, frosted-glass, double doors of the Aspinwall Hotel opens and Tony Peterson enters. The doorman, standing at his station, which gives the appearance that he is about to make some official pronouncement on behalf of the hostelry as one enters, seeing as it is a small lectern with a brass lamp (the whole cherry-wood station being on wheels, so that it could be moved about in order to accommodate the amount of a traveler’s luggage, arriving or departing, and which contains a eclectic collection of pens, rubber bands, paper clips, multi-colored post-its, a screwdriver and wrench, a roll of duct tape, a small black nylon, collapsible umbrella, various brochures regarding tourist attractions, a worn city map of Collinsport, and a folded copy of today’s Collinsport Star), looks up from his Sports Illustrated to see if the new arrival needs assistance. Even as Beatrice Sanderson, the night manager, distracted by the assortment of electronic key cards she seems to be filing in some indeterminate order, as Peterson approaches, “Good Evening sir, Welcome to the Aspinwall,” she says almost by rote; before she looks up, “Oh it’s you Peterson.”
“But you came out of it alright, Mr. Cairo.”
He smiles slyly, “Did I?” and winks.
“Beatrice.” Tony answers with a smile, “I missed the sign, Abandon all hope.”
“Yes – well for you Tony. It is certainly beyond all hope.” She continues with her sorting, “What can I do for you? Someone’s key card?” She holds one up and lifts a brow, “It’s going to cost a bit more than last time – since you don’t seem to know what a telephone is.”
He looks at her strangely – what does she know about the telephone: “I believe you have a Mr. Cairo, Peter Cairo, registered here.”
“He is at the bar, this time of night, he is always at the bar. Trying not to flirt with Mindy again.”
“Perhaps so,” His fingertips releasing the umbrella, “But, what of those I took in with me.”
Mindy Burrows frowns at the thought and then lifts an eyebrow, “Oh, go on, Mr. Cairo.”
He gives her a curious smile.
“Mr. Peterson, so good to see you.” Cairo remarks suddenly to the reflection of Tony Peterson approaching in the mirror behind the bar’s glistening array of liquor bottles arrayed behind Miss Burrows, “And how was your trip?”
“Eventful.” Tony replies looking at the bartender and then back to Cairo.
“Oh, yes, I most assuredly would think so.” He adjusts his glasses, “Miss Burrows, this is Mr. Peterson, an acquaintance of one of my clients.’
“Hello,” Mindy looks at Tony, who is truly very easy on the eyes. “Would you like a drink?”
“Scotch—on the rocks.”
She nods and turns to pour him a drink.
“I assume by your presence you seek some assistance.” Cairo, having not turned on his bar stool, says still speaking to Tony’s reflection.
“You would be right.”
Cairo puts down the paper umbrella and for a moment contemplates the reflection of Peterson before he turns to look at him, “And how may I be of humble service?”
“Can we talk— somewhere in private?”
Peter Cairo lifts his Martini and steps away from the bar as he waves a hand toward one of the large sofas in the lobby. Behind him Mindy, having poured Peterson his drink, places the glass on a cocktail napkin and slides it toward him. “Please be so kind as to charge it to my room, Miss Burrows.” Cairo stops to give her a graceful bow.
Tony reaches to take up the drink from the bar but stands for a moment looking at the young bartender. She’s suddenly very pale and her throat is slit, blood gushing down the front of her uniform.
“Something wrong with the drink?” She asks, her teeth falling out of her mouth.
“The water’s getting cold Tony. “ The voice whispers.
“N-no—it’s fine” Peterson replies picking up the old fashion glass, his hand slightly atremble.
Peter Cairo takes note Tony Peterson’s hand as he lifts his glass and looks at him quizzically. He then turns to step over to the lobby, making his way around one of the large sofas. He unbuttons his white suit jacket and places a cocktail napkin down upon a large, low table before him as he takes a seat and sets the Martini down so that it occupies the perfect center of the napkin. “All is well with Angelique?”
“As far as I know.” Tony says as he sits on the other sofa.
“As far as you know?” Cairo’s interest growing.
“Angelique can be rather secretive.”
Cairo smiles reflectively and places his palms together, almost prayerful, “Oh so—I would agree. But, Mr. Peterson, why have you come to me?”
“What do you know?” Tony asks.
Peter Cairo places a hand to his chest, “What do I know? Whatever do you mean, Mr. Peterson?”
“I know you work for Grant Douglas and we both know that Grant Douglas is Quentin Collins.”
“I have many customers Mr. Peterson.” Cairo replies with a sudden stern look, “Most of whom are quite confidential. Something—in your chosen profession—I would have suspected you have some comprehension.”
“As well as Angelique.” Peterson continues.
Cairo nods, “Yes, on certain occasions I have been engaged on her behalf.” He agrees, aware that Peterson has been told as much by her.
“Look I know you’ve procured some rather unsavory . . . “
“Antiquities? I am a merely a businessman Mr. Peterson. “
“A businessman who knows things.”
“Things Mr. Peterson.’” He leans forward to pick up his Martini and sips. “I know many things.”
“Don’t play inscrutable with me, Cairo. What do you know about a goddamned Pearl!” Tony says loudly, so loudly that Beatrice Sanderson at her desk looks over at them.
Outside the Aspinwall a SUV pulls to a halt in front of the hotel and a woman gets out even as she continues her conversation through the open window of the white Escalade to the driver within, who looks to the rear view mirror as if in hopes of spotting some escape. “I’ll take the suitcases, you take the car to the parking lot.” Her accent being decidedly from New Jersey, “I don’t trust valets,” the valet overhears as he stood watching the woman opening the back of the SUV and removing several large suitcases.
Cairo looks at Peterson, “A pearl? If I am not very much mistaken, was this not the very object for which you and Mrs. Collins under took your, shall we say, little excursion?”
Outside the Aspinwall the valet watches with interest as the woman struggles to get two rather large suitcases out of the back of the SUV. “I’ll check in, and you just park the car,” she says through the back of the SUV, just before she slams the back of the vehicle closed and quickly snaps the retractable handles of the suitcases upward, and then begins to pull them with some difficulty toward the front doors of the hotel, where the doorman, opening them, gives the valet a quizzical expression, as he allows her admittance.
“May I give you hand with those.” He asks.
“No. No, everything is fine, I have it under control.” She replies banging the side of one of the suitcases against the door.
“You damn well know it was . . . .” Peterson answers and finishes the remainder of his scotch in a long, harsh drink.
Cairo, aware of the distraction coming from the main lobby, returns his attention to Tony Peterson in order to observe the tremble of the empty glass. He lifts a languid hand, “My dear, Miss Mindy, “ He calls over to the bartender, “If I may. Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee for my friend. A strong one I would suggest. And, perhaps also one for me as well.”
“I don’t need a cup of coffee, Cairo.”
“I am inclined to disagree, Mr. Peterson. You seem quite agitated.”
The blonde woman sighs as she struggles with the two large suitcases, making her way toward the dark mahogany of the reception desk, where the night clerk has yet to look up, either engrossed in whatever is on her terminal, or just very well accomplished at ignoring whatever transpires beyond the periphery of the front desk, “Excuse me!? Ma’am!
As if surprised to find the woman standing before her, Beatrice Sanderson looks up from her terminal, “Good Evening, welcome to the Aspinwall. Do you have a reservation?”
“My husband and I have a reservation, yes. It’s Carol Flynn. Eff-El-Why-En-En.” Carol Flynn explains, “Not Eye-en-en. Most people get that wrong.”
“You’d find yourself more than a bit agitated too if only 24 hours ago you were aboard the Orient Express – and the year was 1933.”
Cairo offers that odd smile of his, “I have yet to avail myself of such a rather unique method of travel. Especially, when there is so little guarantee of achieving a successful outcome.”
“That’s why I am here.”
“Oh, so..” Cairo replies as he crosses his legs and adjusts the crease in his white linen trousers. “And may I be so bold as to ask once more? Why are you here Mr. Peterson?”
Cairo suddenly looks up with a smile as Mindy sets down two cups of coffee before them, “Milk and not creamer, Mr. Cairo,” she tells him.
“Oh, thank you Miss Mindy. Most thoughtful.”
“Anything else, Mr. Cairo.” She asks removing their cocktail glasses from the table.
“Nothing at the moment.” He replies with the warm smile.
At the front desk Beatrice Sanderson types rapidly on her keyboard, “Flynn,” she repeats as she scans the listing upon her terminal.
“Yes. It’s our anniversary you see. Tony and I have been married for ten years now.” Carol Flynn remarks as she now turns to look at the historic lobby of the Aspinwall.“
As she continues typing Beatrice, eyes still upon the terminal, nods: “Congratulations.”
“Oh thank you.” Mrs. Flynn replies as she continues her inspection of the hotel lobby, “Our son Quint is staying with my sister in Hoboken. Jacqueline.” She looks at the night manager, and reads the small golden name tag: Beatrice. “Well, we all call her Jackie, seeing as how she doesn’t like Jacqueline. She think’s it recalls Mrs. Kennedy – although, I say, if anything recalls Mrs. Kennedy it would be Jackie, as everyone knows her not so much as Jacqueline but rather as Jackie O. Which was just horrible that she married that man. You know, Beatrice? But then again, just how many people even think of Jackie, today, god rest her soul, if you know what I mean. Now, Caroline, of course. I mean, she’s alive an all. An ambassador to something right?”
“Perhaps Mr. Peterson it would far more advantageous to discuss this matter with Mrs. Collins.” Cairo replies with a casual glance back toward he front desk.
“Look, both of us are well aware of just how furtive Angelique can be, and so, what I need—I need to know what you know about this pearl she is looking for.”
Cairo, interlocking his fingers, sits for a moment observing Tony Peterson’s demeanor, it is obvious the gentleman has had a long, sleepless night, “If I may, Mr. Peterson, this pearl of which you speak, it is perhaps crimson in hue?”
“You know damn well it is.”
Cairo reaches for his cup of coffee, lifts it, placing the finger tips of his left hand against the warmth of the china, in order to help support it, as it takes a steady hand to drink a cup of coffee wearing a white linen suit. “Yes. And so—have you seen it? Or, have you merely heard it’s voice.”
“Voice?” Peterson asks, “What voice?”
“Come now, Mr. Peterson.“ He places the cup gently back in the center of its saucer, “You are obviously in some state of distress. I would go so far as to hazard that you have not slept well since you and Mrs. Collins returned. No doubt, I would guess, you are hearing voices as well.”
Tony Peterson observes three bullet holes as they suddenly appear in the white linen jacket, blood beginning to spread from their entry point, even as he hears the voice: “Of what use to us is this Oriental? I ask you? Is he going to tell you anything? Anything you really need to know? No. You only need to listen to me. To my voice. Now, in regards . . . to the stopping power of a 9mm—“
“What is the matter Mr. Peterson?” Cairo asks as he replaces his coffee cup to the saucer.
“Nothing.”
The bullet holes and blood are nowhere to be seen.
“I will need to see some identification. Photo id.” Beatrice Sanderson says automatically.
Carol Flynn places her purse on the counter and opening it begins to fish around inside for her wallet, “We drove five hours to get here. Can you believe that? Five Hours!”
“Fascinating,“ Beatrice remarks as she takes the driver’s license and credit card Mrs. Flynn removes from her wallet and hands over.
“It would have been shorter, as I tried to tell Tony, but the man has a mind of his own, especially when he gets behind the wheel of the car. And so, we are on the road for five hours, because Tony just had to take that “shortcut” in Vermont.”
“It’s always Vermont.” Beatrice says absently as she takes a gold security card-key and puts it in the device in order to activate it. ““You will be in room 237 Ma’am.”
“237” Mrs. Flynn repeats.
“Yes, the red room.
“Although—I am partial to a Smith & Wesson myself.” It is hard to determine if the voice is somehow disembodied and speaking from beside him – or if it is entirely within his mind. “Bam! You know. And the head, it explodes. Just like a gourd.”
Mrs. Flynn takes the key, as well as he driver’s license and credit card back from Beatrice, “Keep on the highway Tony, it’s a sure bet, I told him.” She opens her wallet to slip the license back into its slot covered with a worn, discolored transparency, “But he just had to try and take this shortcut. And then, all of a sudden, he’s like why not stay in Vermont? Vermont, I said? Why? What’s in Vermont? And so, Tony says he used to visit there when he was a kid. And I say, well what was it you so enjoyed there as a kid? And he says, he can’t remember a thing about it! And then I say, so why would we want to stay in Vermont? I mean, if you can’t remember anything special about it as a kid, when you visited it. ” She puts the credit card away. “Why would you want to go there now. I mean, my sister always says if you make a plan you should stick to it.”
Tony? Did she say Tony? Is she hearing the voice as well. Is it speaking to her.
This has to stop.
He’s got to find the Pearl – it is the only thing that will take away this insanity.
Beatrice Sanderson leans on the counter of the front desk, “Have you ever been to Vermont Ma’am? I have. There’s nothing there!”
Dropping the wallet back into her purse, “Precisely. Jacqueline – I think I said that’s my sister – well she says, Collinsport is just the place to visit this time of year. Maine she says, Carol, you mean you have never been to Maine? You simply must go. And at this time of the year, there is all the seasonal color. Well, New England is New England, right? Color is color, right? But, Jacqueline says, Collinsport, it’s even more fascinating that Kingsport. A real haven for artists and after all it’s the end of the season. The rates will be better. “
Insanity – can anything take away insanity?
Cairo looks at him with a growing interest.
“Look, Cairo, it’s like I said. What I need— “ He leans forward, conspiratorially, “What I need from you is I need to know what you know about this Pearl.”
“Ma’am, the rates are always the same here at the Aspinwall.” Beatrice Sanderson informs the misinformed Carol Flynn.
“Oh? Well, that is not what my sister says. And my sister would certainly know about that – so I would guess there are other hotels?”
“Yes, Ma’am, there are quite a few motels, and then there is of course the Collinsport Inn – very old, very quaint.”
“Which I would guess means—it has creaking floors and that old building smell.”
“Well, there is that, yes, ma’am. But it does have a better rate this time of the year, although it will drop a bit further after the Collinsport Film Festival.”
Carol Flynn rolls her eyes and throws a hand up, not really listening, “Well, I certain don’t want some old smelly hotel. And motels you say? The rooms are so cramped. And the bathrooms – I don’t have to tell you. Paper thin walls, And of course you have to listen to the traffic going by all night long. And, besides, Tony is a light sleeper. Do you have an AAA discount?”
“We have AARP.”
Mrs. Flynn looks up, “Well, we’re certainly not that old.”
“Mr. Peterson.” Cairo offers once again that perplexing smile, “There are few occult antiquities as heralded for their mysterious notoriety as is the Crimson Pearl. In fact, there is very little known about its origin, and even less about its history. Other than myth. And, more importantly, perhaps lies. Legend has it that the Pearl was first brought to the New World, to Collinsport, to be exact, by Isaac Collins in 1690. It would seem that he discovered it upon his voyage as he and his wife journeyed from England and the Severn Valley.”
“They brought it from the Severn Valley?”
“I do so hate that stuffy, closed up smell some old buildings get, you know. Some Bed & Breakfasts are okay – but some have it – I can certainly tell you. Oh, I do not even want to talk about that horrid week-end in Connecticut. I have such a sensitive nose. I’ll just have to explain this rate business to Tony. And I will have to call my sister about this . . . but anyway . . . we have a plan and we’ll just stick to it. So—Jacqueline tells me that Collinsport has this great view of the ocean. Of course, we live in Newark, and I’ve been to Atlantic City more times than I can count, but, can this place really be that much better? I mean I would think there isn’t much of a beach, it being all rocky. Is there even a boardwalk?”
“There is a pier,” Beatrice nods, “Some people used to jump from it.”
Carol Flynn, rummaging within purse, which she had placed atop the front desk, to scatter a few local brochures which emphasize some local tourist attraction, glances upward, “They allow swimming from the pier?”
“Suicides mostly, had one not too long ago, actually. A young girl. From the Girls Academy. St. Andrews School for Girls. But as for the ocean, you mostly just see the bay. “
“The bay?” She asks as she briefly looks at the scatter of brochures she has caused, deciding she doesn’t want one.
“Frenchman’s Bay. You can see the ocean, but you have to drive up the road a bit.”
Cairo’s interest is piqued, “Oh so. You are aware of the region known as the Vale of Berkeley?”
Peterson shook his head, “I have heard Evan Hanley mention it a time or two – nothing good of course.”
“Of course.” Cairo smiled, “But, not to be confusing you, the Pearl, it was not brought upon the voyage undertaken by Isaac Collins in his hasty departure of the Severn Valley. Rather, as the story goes, its discovery occurred upon their rather remarkable passage to the new world. Remarkable not so much for the fact that it would seem the only passengers aboard the Stockbridge, were Isaac Collins, and his wife, Annabelle – who was as they say with child – but, by all accounts given in the log of the Captain, a infamous smuggler, one Captain Aloysius Mallory – whose exploits are altogether unsavory, I can assure you – recorded that in all of his experience, he had never before sailed across a more becalmed sea.”
“It was a clear, steel-blue day. With a mild, mild wind.” The voice suddenly says.
“That is, until quite suddenly in the midst of a most extraordinarily brilliant day, a steel-blue day as the captain remarked in his log, when, seeming out of what one might call a clear, blue sky theStockbridge suddenly sailed into a most perplexing and astonishing blizzard.”
“Blizzard?” Tony repeats.
“My wonders are to behold,” the voice tells him.
“Temperatures dropped dramatically.” Cairo continues, “Snow quickly covered the decks. Sailors seeking shelter. And in that instant, Annabelle Collins is said to have gone into labor.”
“That would be Caleb Collins?”
“So the family history would record.” Cairo nods, “And, when Isaac hastily returns to the upper deck, the snow has subsided leaving the ship’s decks covered in drifts. And upon one of these, so the Captain records, Isaac Collins discovers a red pearl. A blood red pearl.”
Mrs. Flynn turns for a moment to assure herself that her suitcases have remained undisturbed and then returns her attention to the night manager, “Jacqueline says that your little village, or town, or whatever –I mean, is it incorporated? I am not sure, I don’t think I remember seeing the sign, I assume there is a Welcome sign, oh well, no matter, she says, Collinsport has some of the finest seafood in Maine.”
“Certainly better than in Vermont.”
“And so, what would be the best place for seafood?” Mrs. Flynn asks.
“Every place.”
Her fingers return to idly pull at the pearls of her necklace, “Yes – but if you were to recommend a place. A place that isn’t very crowded, as it is a bit late, you know, having been on that shortcut through Vermont, as I said. Now – not some place that is too expensive. And, oh, you have to understand, my husband, Tony, he has high blood pressure. So, it would have to be some place with not so much sodium. But, any place would be fine, if it’s really good, we’re not that picky, but, I can’t stand anyplace that has live lobsters on display. I mean, it’s just barbaric!”
“So salt less vegan seafood where they don’t waterboard the lobsters.” Beatrice sighs.
“Oh, not Vegan.” Carol stops pulling on the pearls of the necklace, “My brother in Yonkers, he lives with a vegan, and I never can cook for him. He tells me, no meat. I get that. He tells me, no fish, I get that. He tells me no eggs, no milk? What’s with that?”
“Maybe he has a thing against eating chicken menstruation.”
“Well anyway,” Mrs. Flynn leans in now to whisper conspiratorially, although the whisper can still be heard all the way across the room. “I cooked him a veal and told him it was tofu.”
And she suddenly bursts out in raucous laughter.
Cairo briefly glances back toward the front desk.
“Ma’am please,” Beatrice leans forward, “It is the evening and guests are trying to maintain conversations.” She nods to Cairo and Peterson sitting at the sofas.
“And still awaiting.” The voice in Peterson’s head replies, “Can you imagine? How long? How long it has been? Being passed . . . from hand to hand. Each person. A link in a chain. Centuries. Waiting. Waiting for you. Think of it. Each person a link . . . bringing me . . . to you. And now, we’ve got to sit and listen to some ancient history?”
Mrs. Flynn wipes a tear from her eye, “Sorry. Sorry,” still chortling to herself. “It’s all this liberal political correctness – that’s what my sister says. You know, my son, Quint, is a genius, and he applied for this group, the Odyssey of the Mind. Well, would you believe it, they don’t accept him!
“I am sorry, Cairo, I don’t really need a f**king history lesson. Not tonight. What I need – what I need is to know just what this godd***ed thing is supposed be – what it’s supposed to do?” Tony’s voice rising with his growing anxiety and the increasing irritation with the voice in his head.
“And so my son! Broken hearted. Of course I had to ta—“ And Mrs. Flynn looks over at the two men sitting on the large comfortable sofa’s, before she conspiratorially leans once more to speak to the night manager, “Can you believe how rude some people are?”
“Amazing,” Beatrice Sanderson replies wryly.
“Where was I?”
“I say Mr. Peterson, I find your confidence in my knowledge most gratifying,” Cairo smiles and adjusts his glasses, “But, as to the Pearl’s true purpose, I must confess my knowledge can be nothing more than mere – conjecture. The Crimson Pearl has become the subject of legend. By all appearances, it would seem that the power of the Pearl would be in its ability to somehow bestow upon those to whom it chooses good fortune . . . until, it decides otherwise, and then those to whom it has given great fortuity, it bestows the sudden terrible burden of quite considerable commiserations.”
‘So, you are saying that what Angelique has been diligent searching for is nothing more than some good luck charm?”
“As I said, that would appear to be the power of the Pearl – but, my supposition, as well as that of several more infamous occultists, I might add, as well as the lovely Mrs. Collins, is this is merely subterfuge. We suspect the mysterious object d’art has a far greater purpose. You see, the Crimson Pearl is, I fear, an arcane artifact of the Great Old Ones. And their motivations – alas, are beyond our mortal comprehension. And so I can not help but believe the Pearl is much more than merely a crimson hued lucky charm of calcium carbonate. In fact, I purposed, it is in reality a powerful living entity. Perhaps, what today is termed an Artificial Intelligence, which bonds with a subject of it’s choosing, for some deeper, and far more sinister purpose. If, as I suspect, the Pearl has begun to communicate with you, Mr. Peterson, then it has begun the process of transitioning from whomever it has currently established a relationship.”
“If I am hearing it now, then – it must be in Collinsport.”
“Most assuredly so.” Cairo agrees.
Peterson leans forward and taps nervous fingers on the edge of the low table before him, “This transitioning . . . just precisely what do you mean by that?
“You have to ask that question?” The voice asks mockingly.
Behind them, the uniformed doorman nods to the beleaguered man entering the hotel.
Mrs. Flynn, with a grand flourish, turns and greets him: “Oh Tony! What took you so long!? I’ve got the keys to our room,” She waves the gold key-cards, “Let’s settle in first; and then go out for dinner. Beatrice, here, says there’s seafood places everywhere in this town.”
He smiles and nods to Beatrice as he takes hold of the suitcase handles and rolls them over to a luggage trolley, where he beings to place them on board.
“As I said earlier, Mr. Peterson – it is believed that the Pearl forges a bond with whomever it chooses for it’s own nefarious purposes. And so, if one were to hear the voice of the Pearl, then this would be an indication that the Pearl has initiated a transition. Thus, whoever the Peal currently maintains a relationship with that relationship is regrettably coming to an end even as a new one begins.”
“But, I heard it on the train.”
Cairo’s expression suddenly grows concerned, “You are certain of this?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Flynn gives Beatrice a disingenuous smile and moves over to speak to her husband, in what she assumes is her best conspiratorial voice, which lacks all surreptitiousness as she can be overheard by the doorman and Beatrice, “Tony, we are going to have to speak to the manager of the hotel in the morning, there is some mix up with the rates.”
“Yes dear” He nods as he rolls the trolley over toward the elevators.
They enter and the doors close as Beatrice looks at the closing elevator and mutters to herself, “New Jersey bitch can choke on a tofu lobster,” as she returns to her terminal, and brings up the Netflix screen she had minimized.
“It is very important, Mr. Peterson. You must think back to that rather unfortunate moment for Mr. Peeters. Other than Mrs. Collins, who precisely maintained a close proximity to the body?”
Peterson ‘s brow furrows as he concentrates, “There was a fussy Englishwoman pretending to be a recluse. A Miss Caldwell She shared an compartment with Peeters. And then . . .there was of course Angelique, she was closest to him . . and, then . . . there was a nun – who was just suddenly there in the passageway, moving away from the water closet in fact . . . “
“A Nun?”
“Yes—“
“A most attractive nun? With fair hair?”
Tony nods, “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Oh so. And who else, Mr. Peterson?”
“Well—oh, wait, I remember, the French woman, yeah, there was Armelle Ménard.”
“Armelle Ménard?’ Cairo sits forward. “Of this you are absolutely certain?”
“Oh yes – she was on the Express with some French dandy.”
Cairo’s eyes have grown intense, “Prior to your busman’s holiday upon the Orient Express, there has never been an actuate accounting of those individuals, who could have been afforded the opportunity to purloined the Crimson Pearl, from the rather unfortunate Mr. Peeters. Whom I understand was a very interesting fellow, by all accounts. Most unfortunate, as I am sure he would have had a most illustrious career. But, his fate is sealed in history, But the records of the incident have not. They have been obscured by having been amended and possibly even clandestinely redacted by various interests over the years. And now, it would appear . . . so has been the list of passengers. For you see by all accounts, there is no record whatsoever of Armelle Ménard having been on board.”
“What is significant about that?”
Cairo’s face once more reveals that odd smile of his, “Oh, just about everything, I would suspect.”
The elevator doors open and the Flynn’s reappear in the lobby.
“Excuse me Beatrice?” Mrs. Flynn says approaching the front desk as she fishes about within the cavern of her purse, “ I am sure, as you say, there are seafood places everywhere here in Collinsport, but, as my sister says, one has to be careful when dining at a seafood restaurant, owing to the fact just about everyone in New England has some kind of a seafood establishment. You see, that is why my sister calls most of them establishments, rather than restaurants, because a restaurant she says has a reputation to uphold and so they adhere to proper sanitary conditions and use only reputable food services and suppliers, whereas with all these other fly-by-night seafood establishments, one can never be too sure, just who the owner is, or, heavens, who even supplies their seafood or whatever their sanitary conditions are – My, Carol, she says, you would be surprised at the number of silverfish they cook with the cod.” Mrs. Flynn laughs loudly, “And so, it you would be so kind, would you direct us to one of the better seafood places you mentioned – remembering of course, Tony’s dietary restrictions.”
Beatrice lifts an brow and inhales deeply; “Go out the door . . . four blocks straight . . . left for 3 blocks . . . and then . . . go down the alley . . . next to the flower shop . . . .it’s a small hole in the wall place at the very end.”
“I don’t know . . . You can’t trust these hole in the wall places.”
Mrs. Flynn’s husband opens his mouth to make a comment, but the woman keeps talking.
“My brother got food poisoning at this sushi place in New York. I bet they don’t even wash their hands in a place like that!”
“Ma’am.”
“Oh—yes.” Mrs. Flynn replies her finger’s playing with the strand of her pearls.
“Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”
“Alright, I’ll give it a try. But if my Husband gets food poisoning, I’m going to have a talk with your manager. Come along Tony.”
And Beatrice is overjoyed to see them turn from the front desk, but it is short-lived.
“Oh, the Elevator, it does not seem to go down to the parking garage.” Mrs. Flynn remarks turning back to look at the night manager.
“No, Ma’am, you have to take the service elevator to the garage.” Beatrice explains, “We don’t allow ingress, via parking, with our elevators, as they service our rooms. Security precautions.
‘Oh, that is nice.” Mrs. Flynn says with a bit of odd satisfaction, “Tony, we are going to have to tell Jacqueline. She would love this place. There is of course the issue with the rate, but we can get that all straightened out tomorrow with the manager.”
Her husband nods as they walk toward the elevator leading to the underground parking garage.
“If you will allow me to make a few inquires, you may reassure Mrs. Collins that is quite possible I may be able to still obtain the object of her desire.” Cairo informs Tony Peterson.
“Great,” He hands over his business card, “Call that number.”
Cairo takes it and looks at him with bemusement, “Or perhaps, it is your desire?”
“Just find the Pearl for us.” Peterson says and rises from the sofa.
“Of course, if I were to be successful, obtaining the object in question, it would of course necessitate certain transactions regarding, shall we way, antiquities – whereas, I would expect a more monetary compensation.”
Tony, buttons his jacket, ‘I would expect nothing less, Mr. Cairo.”
“Object? Did he say object? I am . . . at the very least—an object d’art. Makes me sound like a strand of pearls, around some dowdy bitch’s neck. Like that bitch at the desk. We could show her . . . and her sister . . . a good time. What do you think? Shall we call her up. Hey, Jacqueline, we’re just about to string your sister up—like a set of bad pearls. And then – we’re coming over to see you. Can’t wait to dine on your tofu. If we have time. I am amazed. I have to say. An object? I mean, I would have expected a bit more respect. From an reputable antiquities dealer. One who should know better. Are you sure you can trust him? He looks a bit shady to me. What do you think? Put a 9mm round in his fat little head – and I bet we’d get some respect.’” The voice begins to speak to him once more,
Tony makes his way toward the front of the hotel.
“Seafood? You know. What a great idea.” The voice continues as Tony turns and makes his way toward the service elevator. “Serve her up like a lobster.”
He stands in the elevator trying to figure out why he is heading down to the underground parking lot, since he left his car back several blocks from the hotel.
And he can’t think of a good reason why he did that either.
The doors open and the sounds are loud as they echo off the concrete walls of the underground parking lot.
“Yes, that’s what we’re going to do dear.” He hears the voice of Carol Flynn, “Now let me drive, you’ve been driving all day.”
His hand reaching to slip his fingers around the grip of his 9mm Glock.
Peter Cairo stands looking at his reflection on the glass of the window that looks out into the hotel courtyard, as his call is answered.
“Pereira’s Curios and Antiquities. We deal in only Genuine object d’arts Pereira speaking, how may I be of service.” The voice says with spry enthusiasm.
“Only genuine object d’arts you say?”
“Oh, it is you.” All trace of enthusiasm missing.
“I understand, from good authority, you have very recently come into possession of a certain rare volume – one of which, the very existence has been much maligned. Long considered nothing more than a hoax.”
“I can assure you Pereira deals only in rare and genuine antiquities.” The voice on the other end of the phone conversation replies with some irritation.
“Yes – of course, seeing as how that the scroll painting of Leng was no doubt an exception.”
“How was I to know that the Korean courier was working with the Russians, who were doubling for the Moldavians?”
“How indeed. But, be that as it may, Mr. Pereira, I have need of the Book of Whispers – the genuine Di Vinci and not one of the numerous Turnbull fabrications.”
“That could be arranged, although, you must be advised I have another rather anxious customer—“
“Oh so.” Cairo replies as he motions to Mindy, who has stepped over to the sofas and the low table to remove the cups of coffee – the two cups of coffee which neither Peter Cairo or Tony Peterson seemed to have touched,. “That would not be Joseph Salpêtrière by any chance? Yes? I thought so. He has been in search of the an original Whispers for sometime now has he not?” He smiles at the bartender, “Mindy, another of your marvelous martini’s if you would be so kind,”
She nods.
“And so you see . . .”
“I see Mr. Pereira that I have an urgent need for the Di Vinci Whispers – and, owing to that most regrettable incident in Saigon, shall we say, that you are more than indebted to me. Yes? Excellent. I see we are of like mind in that we can regard this as recompense.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone conversation for a long moment as Cairo looked over to Mindy at the bar.
“Who will be handing your end of the transaction.”
“A Mr. Corso will take possession, after, of course, he has validated the volume. Yes – Good Morning, Mr. Pereira,” he says, owing to the differences in time zones.
The headlights of the SUV sweep across the parking garage and illuminate Tony Peterson as he steps out into the aisle to watch the automobile heading toward him. The woman is saying something to the man at the wheel, who turns from her in time to suddenly see the man standing in the way of the SUV.
Tony lifts the Glock and fires.
The first bullet enters the windshield with a jagged hole and a cracking spider-web of glass. The man’s head explodes in a rain of blood as Carol Flynn screams, her hands rising to her face. Blood and brain matter showering her like Jackie Kennedy, he thinks.
The next two bullets enter the passenger’s side of the windshield and Mrs. Flynn looses her looks.
Blood sprays the interior of the white Escalade.
The vehicle lurches to one side and slams into a concrete pillar with a jarring halt.
The horn blaring.
“Let’s go get that lobster.” The voice says.
Tony turns to walk back toward the service elevator.
He presses the up button.
The service elevator doors open and he enters.
The white Escalade’s tries squeak on the pavement as it takes a sharp turn in passing as the elevator doors close.
Carol Flynn turns to look at her husband, “Did you see that? Oh, my, he gave me such a fright. Goodness. I mean, for a moment there I thought he was going to just walk out in front of us. And he had such an odd look in his eye – I can tell you. There was something definitely wrong with him.” She pulls the SUV out of the garage and on to the street before the Aspinwall. “And so, I want to visit a couple of antique shops tomorrow, right after we talk to the manager. Jacqueline says their prices here are much better than down in Kingsport. Gosh, my heart is still fluttering. Will you look, my hand is still trembling — I cannot believe that man — just walking out in front of the car like that. What do you think he was doing? I certainly hope it isn’t some kind of an omen.”
Cue Music End of Scene