Darkest Instinct jc-4 Page 12

  Instinct, however, had told him to again, like the last time, keep his mouth shut and his eyes open during the meeting. The letter from the killer was passed through everyone’s hands that last time-even the cooking and accent page editors-before it had finally reached C. David Eddings’s fingertips. He didn’t expect any change in the pecking order today. Still, he was in; he was part of it all. How many men in Miami could say that?

  As he filed into the room behind the other editors, C. David Eddings saw that Glenn Merrick’s secretary, Sally Hodges, a busty, middle-aged woman for whom Eddings had nursed a crush since coming to the paper, stood in back of Merrick with an overhead projector, replacing a blown light, it appeared. And next Eddings noted that there were strangers among them-very stem and serious looking customers, a dark-skinned handsome man and a strikingly interesting woman with silky auburn hair which created a fishnet and lattice effect about her shoulders, hooding a pair of dark, alluring eyes.

  Sally looked up from what she was doing to give Eddings one of her bejeweled smiles. Eddings wondered if she was smiling out of politeness or genuine interest. He’d never gotten up the nerve to find out.

  Merrick began by introducing their guests: Eriq Santiva, chief investigator for the FBI, and Dr. Jessica Coran, M.E., FBI. Merrick informed them all that Santiva and Coran were now spearheading the manhunt for the Night Crawler.

  “‘ Bout time we got some clout in on this.”

  “ Damn sure not going to see any results from the Miami morons in uniform,” said another.

  “ Welcome to our city,” said the lone female editor. “I hope you don’t judge us by what’s going on out there in the streets, or by what’s said in this room.”

  “ Of course not,” Santiva said, nodding and smiling at the assembled editors. “I wish to thank you all, and especially your editor-in-chief, Mr. Merrick, for showing such civic duty, calling me the moment anything having to do with the killer broke.”

  Even Eddings got the underlying message, that Santiva and Merrick had had a serious talk at some previous point, and that Merrick dare not screw around with Santiva on this matter.

  Jessica Coran quickly added, “Without your cooperation, gentlemen, catching this fiend will be far more difficult.”

  “ What’re the chances he’ll be stopped?”

  “ Just how far along are you in the investigation?”

  “ Got any suspects? Anyone good?”

  The questions were like live ammo coming at the FBI people. “We’re not here for a news briefing, gentlemen!” shouted Glenn Merrick over his people. Nancy Yoder, the accent page editor, replied with an explosive, “Oh, pooh!” Merrick next announced what they all already knew, then asked that Jessica hold up the note from the killer for all to see. She reached into her black valise and pulled forth a plate of glass which had been sealed to a second plate. Between the two plates lay the now flattened communique, the second to have been sent to the Herald by the Night Crawler. The ridges where it had been folded and stuffed into an envelope could still be seen. Jessica held up a cellophane bag which housed the envelope. The editors studied both the note and the envelope from their seats.

  The killer’s note was on ordinary white bond typing paper; nothing special or of particular importance there, and certainly no helpful, easy or telltale clues such as a mast or letterhead, though the postage seal on the envelope told them it had been forwarded from Key Biscayne, extremely close to the location of the last two missing girls believed to have fallen prey to the killer, a girl by the name of Tammy Sue Sheppard and another named Kathy Harmon.

  “ This time we don’t piss off the authorities, right, Agent Santiva?” suggested Merrick. “We work with you, in full cooperation, not against you.” He eyeballed his people and added, ‘ That means we keep our goddamned mitts off the note, and-”

  “ Whataya getting in return for our-” began Lawrence, who was instantly cut off by Merrick.

  “ And there’s no time lapse between when one of these damned notes appears on the city desk and when we contact Agent Santiva here. Understood, gentlemen? This is how we react to a city emergency. Understood, everyone?”

  “ We get an exclusive, Glenn? I mean when the case is solved, right?” asked Lee Blake, the city desk editor.

  “ We have had assurances to that effect, and I’m not going to jeopardize that in any way. That means no leaks from here, either. I mean you don’t tell your wives, your lovers, your mothers, your fathers, your priests or your bookies; you got that?” Merrick fairly screamed the order.

  “ What’re they saying, Glenn? That it’s somehow our fault this creep’s still at large? Screw that shit.” muttered Blake from around his cigarette, his small eyes sunken amid the heavy face and leathery skin.

  “ Wasn’t your fault that last time, Glenn,” soothed Lawrence. “None of us had any reason to believe the authenticity of that first letter when it arrived on Blake’s desk that day.”

  “ Are we any surer of the authenticity of this one?” asked Nancy Yoder, her hands rising skyward.

  “ Well, it’s definitely the; ame handwriting; we’ve had an expert-Santiva here-tel. us so, and since the cops and the FBI are operating as if the first communique is indeed from the Night Crawler, we’re doing the same here,” explained Merrick.

  “ Why not copy the damned thing so we can all have a working copy, Glenn?” asked city editor Blake.

  “ Yeah,” agreed some of the others.

  “ What’s with you people?” Merrick barked. “Do I have to paint a picture for you?”

  “ That might help,” replied a belligerent Blake. “It’s our story, Glenn.” “G’dam’it to hell, I don’t want copies of this thing getting all over the freakin’ building and finding its way over to the bloody Times like the other bastard thing did before we’re given the go-ahead from Agent Santiva to print it, all right, Lee? And God save the son of a bitch who’s selling us out if I ever catch ‘im.”

  “ Paranoia becomes you, Glenn.”

  “ It’s got me this far.”

  “ Where’s the letter postmarked from?” asked Nancy Yoder.

  “ Yeah,” agreed Lawrence. “Last one was from goddamn Palm Coast.”

  “ This one’s in our backyard-actually, our front yard, if you want the truth,” replied Merrick.

  “ Where, damnit?”

  “ Key Biscayne, across the bridge.” Merrick’s blunt reply sobered the editors. The bridge was right outside their window. “Christ,” muttered Lawrence. Yoder took a deep breath, grabbed for her water glass and gulped.

  Blake began to grind his teeth, gnashing like an angry woodchuck before saying, “Isn’t that where that teen disappeared from the other night, Key Biscayne, out at Razzles?”

  “ That’s right. We’re speaking to witnesses on that situation now,” Santiva assured them.

  “ Eye witnesses?”

  “ Anyone actually see this guy?”

  “ Can we talk to the witnesses?”

  The reporters’ questions rifled anew.

  “ We haven’t as yet determined the reliability of those involved; they’re emotionally involved-young friends of the missing girl,” Santiva explained, holding his hands up as if under arrest. “But as soon as we know something worthwhile… useful, that is… we promise to cooperate with you as you have cooperated so generously with us.”

  “ That’s our deal, gentlemen, lady,” said Merrick to his people.

  While the chatter continued, Jessica carefully resettled the glassed-in note into her black valise along with the cellophane bag holding the envelope.

  It was earmarked to travel, within the hour and by jet, to Quantico, where the psychic fingertips of Dr. Desinor would pass over the physically and psychically “clean” document before it was to be turned over to the Documents Division for further graphoanalysis and scientific analysis. Santiva had taken extreme care in his preliminary and cursory viewing of the note to establish its genuine nature, keeping it under glass the who
le time. It was duplicated through the glass for Merrick’s secretary Sally, who’d created a single opaque replica.

  Sally now closed the curtains, dimmed the lights and flicked on an overhead projector, the beam creating a square window of light against the north wall. She next placed the opaque replica of the letter onto the overhead and the alleged words of the killer were beamed against the wall. It read:

  “ Whataya all make of it?” asked Merrick.

  Lee Blake studied it and sighed heavily before pronouncing the little ditty, as he called it, in incredibly bad taste, “and even worse poetry.”

  “ Looks like something maybe Jeffrey Dahmer might’ve penned before he was wasted in prison last year,” suggested Nancy Yoder. ‘“Cept he’d have said boys instead of whores.”

  “ Wrong,” muttered Eddings, unable to keep silent a moment longer. “I know this poem, and the killer’s use of it is really quite… quite… ingenious.”

  But Eddings was being talked over by the others, ignored by the others. Bill Lawrence had been visibly shivering in reaction to what he’d read across the beige wall. Merrick looked for responses from each of the three additional editors around the table, but none were speaking in sentences, just a lot of grunts and “jeezes.” Each followed suit until Merrick was left again to look to C. David Eddings, a man he’d been trying to build a case against so he might fire the twerp before any chance of a pension kicked in.

  “ Well, damnit, what’re you trying to say, Eddings? Eddings?” pressed Merrick while he smelled blood. Eddings took a moment for a second glance at the enlarged document on the wall. Even Jessica and Santiva, outsiders, could sense the tension between Merrick and Eddings.

  Bill Hynek, the sports editor, attempted to reprieve Eddings by clearing his throat and saying, “Looks like the guy’s a loony, Glenn, a real crazoid, if you ask me.”

  “ You mean the author of this trash or Eddings?” teased Merrick in a cold and irreverent manner.

  Eddings mouthed the words off the wall a third time, ending with, “I know these words… this poem. I know it, Glenn. It’s familiar to me…”

  Merrick’s voice filled with venomous rancor now. “What in hell’re you talking about, Eddings?”

  “ Hellering,” replied the small, balding man.

  The others instantly attacked the little man.

  “ Who’s hell-raising?”

  “ What’s a hellering?”

  “ Is that anything like a herring?”

  “ A red herring in this case, no doubt.”

  Lee nervously laughed and said, “Eddings is a hell- raiser, aren’t you, C. David? Eddings, you got to lay off those liquid breakfasts.”

  “ What would you know about herrings?” Nancy Yoder nastily remarked, causing more laughter.

  “ Hellering,” he repeated. “I’m telling you this is a poem, circa something like 1938 and written by e. j. hellering, who was first to use no capitals, even before our American counterpart, e. e. cummings, did it. He was what you might call a little-understood, little-read English poet, but in his day, he had a large underground following. His poetry was not considered fit for polite society.”

  “ I can see why,” replied Hynek as the others stared down the long table at C. David Eddings.

  “ A little-known English poet,” chanted Lawrence and Yoder together.

  “ Oh, yeah,” chimed another as if he’d known all along.

  Merrick said, “You mean this guy can’t even be original? He’s copying a poem out of a book?”

  “ All I know is that it’s from an entirely lowercase poem by e.j. hellering, one I think entitled ‘all sacrifice to the stars.’ “

  Jessica and Eriq were instantly interested in what C. David Eddings had to say, each on edge now, Jessica asking Eddings to continue. “Well… what I remember of it…” Eddings caught the look of pride in Sally’s eyes, glinting in the semidark- ened room. “I mean, I believe it has four verses, maybe five.”

  “ You think you can get your hands on a copy?” asked Santiva.

  “ Sure… sure, the library’s full of hellering.”

  Nancy Yoder twittered again at this.

  Merrick ordered, “Do it then, now.”

  “ Try the Internet, Eddings,” suggested Blake. “It’s the quickest way to information.”

  “ Not bloody likely,” replied C. David. “If they’ve got any of hellering listed, it’d probably be his more-favored poems. This one’s fairly arcane and a little too strange for even the ditto heads-the Internet dudes and dudettes.”

  Eddings stiffly stood and marched from the room, daring only a quick glance back at Sally as Santiva and Jessica followed the little round man out, Jessica wondering if the romance was just blossoming or if it had been kindled earlier.

  “ I was a student of e.j. hellering’s work and dark style when I was at the university,” explained Eddings.

  “ Oh, and where was that?”

  “ Northwestern, just north of Chicago… very elitist, snobbish place really, unless you happened to be in a fraternity or sorority, neither of which I qualified for, of course. At any rate, I studied modern British literature, which meant anything after 1899. Hellering falls under that umbrella, and I became quite enamored with the man’s poignant ability with words; quite lovely, really, and I suppose the use of the lower-case letters-which he’d come to be known for-piqued my curiosity.”

  Jessica nodded, saying, “I remember now… e. j. hellering.”

  “ Wasn’t at all hellering’s idea, you know…”

  “ What’s that?” asked Eriq.

  “ Using lower-case letters throughout his poetry.”

  “ Really?” Jessica explained to Eriq that e. j. hellering had used lower-case letters in his signature as well as throughout his poetry as a kind of trademark, the same way that e. e. cummings had.

  “ It was a publisher’s idea, something to put a spark into a dying art form-or rather to gather in more sales,” explained Eddings. “Same publisher, two sides of the Atlantic.”

  They were inside the mammoth Miami Public Library, where the solemnity of the place was at direct odds with the bright, even blinding sunshine pouring through overhead skylights. The architecture reminded her of the airport. The large, open area at the center of the library was filled with palmetto plants and palm trees, basking beneath the skylights. People going about their interests created a tapestry of tap-dancing noises along the marble floor. Eddings went directly for the nearest unoccupied computer terminal. He brought up the screen he wanted and began his search through the mammoth archives for the long-forgotten poet. Jessica held her breath for a moment, believing hellering would have so much dust on him, there would be no way he could be brought to light.

  But in the next instant, with C. David Eddings pounding rapidly from one key to the next, his mouse going at lightning speed, he announced, “Aha! Ahh, here it is.”

  Eddings was obviously enjoying his sudden and surprising celebrity as the poetry guru or Obi Wan Kenobi of the moment. He gathered the call numbers with his Citizen pen, scrawling them down on a scrap of paper, and again they were off, this time for the basement and the stacks.

  Eddings went directly to the book, as if this entire moment had been choreographed many times over. He smiled up at them as he flattened out the book of poems, and went right to the exact page to reveal the full poem and its title. Jessica and Eriq stared for a full five minutes at the complete poem, entitled “to breathe as’t’.”

  “ This is incredible. Let’s make a copy,” suggested Santiva.

  Jessica, annoyed, trying to read the verses, shushed him and returned to the poem. It read: to breathe as’t’ by e.j. hellering son of t whilst t feeds on feeds the soul those hungry of woman for touch, in the theatre… t requires little much: in the theatre your sweet jasmine of want gone sour, and sacrifice, your sweet belle whilst t strikes gone dully silent out for the highest in her last hour calibre of moment: sacrificed twice when breath and thrice and lif
e are one. and given power each sacrificed unto t in her final breath as he deems as t deems all the whores to be… all the whores to be… t gives back t tenderly floats all the little girls all the little girls in the sea in the sea an opportunity… as opportunity… opportunity to be opportunity to be if only for a singular if only for one magnificent moment inclusive moment the daughter of t the daughter of t and to breathe as he… and to breathe as he… when audience cries, lungs full with venom and foam and lies, moments before she dies, an applause, a bow, arise! for t smiles down from taurus’s distant eyes! as t deems them all to be flush with his breath, so washed by his empowering hand they will be flowering and cleansed.

  “ Jeez, and you say this was written in 1930?” asked Jessica.

  “ Late thirties, thirty-seven or — eight.”

  “ Here I thought sheer hatred toward women was a more modern development, along with gang rapes, wife battering and nasty lyrics out of rap groups like 2 Live Crew,” Jessica confessed.

  “ A man ahead of his time, perhaps,” suggested Eriq.

  “ Oh, no… no… no, hellering was a gentle man, a kindhearted man. This hardly reflects his feelings, but rather is a lament of twisted souls which he simply crystallized in a moment of artistry.”

  “ You’re saying he could write this stuff objectively? That he didn’t feel the rage that he wrote about? Or that he was in control of that rage?”

  “ I’m saying all of the above.” Eddings nervously wiped sweat from his brow. “Warm in here, isn’t it?”