Shade of Pale Read online

  “But did she know the man? Were they lovers?”

  Jukes sputtered a, “Yes.”

  The cop nodded. “This sounds like a domestic situation.”

  “No! She hated the guy. It was over.”

  “Maybe she changed her mind.”

  Jukes excused himself to go to the bathroom. He used the moment alone to gather himself. He splashed cold water on his face and tried to focus his thoughts. Did Cathy go willingly? It didn’t seem possible.

  When he returned he stated again his certainty that Cathy had been kidnapped.

  “Are you willing to file assault charges?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The police nodded and closed their notebooks.

  After they were gone, Jukes called Detective George Jones, desperately hoping the talented sleuth could help him find Cathy. He explained the situation to the homicide detective and waited for a response.

  Jones’s voice came over the line like moist sandpaper. “I’d love to help you, Doc, but it’s not my department. Christ, I’ve got my hands full down here as it is.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Well, I’m Homicide, you know? They only call me when there’s a body.”

  Jukes held the receiver out and stared at it as if it were covered with shit. Then he slammed it down with a force that surprised him.

  Jukes wandered the city for hours before appearing at the door of Will Howard’s apartment.

  “I’m worried sick about Cathy,” Jukes said as Will led him into his comfortable bachelor’s flat.

  “You look it, old buddy,” Will answered.

  “I don’t know what to do. I feel like personally searching every building in the city until I find her.”

  “Don’t do that. Listen to me, Jukes: There’s nothing you can do; it’s in the hands of the cops now. They’re the pros; just let ’em do their job. You should just try to relax.”

  “I’ve tried. I can’t.”

  “How about we go out and get a couple cold beers?”

  “No way.”

  Will sighed. “Why don’t you consider doing something that will distract you from your problem? Get some distance from it, you might get your objectivity back.”

  “No. I gotta go home in case I get a call from Cathy,” Jukes said, pacing the room.

  “You got your beeper and your answering service. Besides, you don’t really know if that son of a bitch kidnapped her or—”

  Jukes shook his head vigorously. “Hey, wait a second; I know he kidnapped her!”

  Will put a hand on Juke’s shoulder and, lowering his voice, said, “Man, you were out cold. You can’t be sure.”

  Jukes shook off the hand. “I just know, that’s all. This time she was through with him. We talked about it. She was pressing charges.”

  “Jukes, Cathy’s unstable. Consider all the possibilities, please. You can’t be her guardian angel forever.”

  Jukes rubbed his eyes. “I can’t shake this feeling that something terrible might happen, something I might be able to prevent.”

  Will Howard opened the closet and took out a coat. “Well, it won’t do any good to worry. Cathy’ll turn up; she always does. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “That asshole actually hit me!” Jukes mumbled.

  Will slipped into the coat and stepped toward the door. “Well, this time he’ll go to jail. You have your beeper?”

  “Yeah. I always carry it.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  As they walked the street, Will did his best to cheer Jukes. A few flat jokes and some small talk didn’t seem to help, and Will soon fell silent.

  Two blocks later, he said, “Hey, by the way, did you ever call Fiona Rice?”

  “No.”

  “You should; you really should. She’d find this Banshee thing intriguing, and she’s an expert in the field.”

  Jukes winced. “So why don’t you look her up?”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  Jukes didn’t answer. Will Howard laughed; it turned into a cough.

  “Christ, for a shrink, you’re pretty thick. Why do you think I gave you her number?”

  “Just spit it out,” Jukes said. “I’m in no mood to play games.”

  Will looked up and down the street, then back to Jukes. He had the expression of an umpire about to call a base runner out, his face set in a grimace.

  “Dr. Rice is a babe, you idiot. I’m handing you the Holy Grail and you don’t even know it.”

  Jukes slapped his forehead. “Oh, God.”

  “See? You’re so preoccupied that you didn’t even get the message.”

  Jukes blushed. “Jeez, Will, thanks, but … I can’t be thinking about women right now, not with Cathy missing.”

  Will Howard stopped walking. Jukes took an extra step and stopped also. “What?”

  Will pointed at Jukes. “Hey, are you the same guy that came to me last month desperate to meet somebody? The same guy whose life was an empty shell, with no one to share his pain? I’m quoting you, man. I believe the phrase you used was ‘terrified of growing old alone.’ Was that you?”

  Jukes looked at his feet and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “Yeah, I know.…”

  “You don’t know; that’s the whole point. Let’s face it, Jukes. Your love life is the shits. You’ve been crying to me for the past couple years about how important it is that you meet somebody, a soul mate. And now, after a lifetime of intense research, I come up with the perfect candidate, and you don’t even have the decency to at least meet her?”

  “Well, I …” Jukes was flushed. “I just can’t right now, not with all this—” He waved his hand at the city. “You know.”

  “I made a vow, to you and your dad, that I would find you a suitable mate. You’re in no position to do anything except what I tell you to do. For God sakes, Jukes, don’t let this one get away. She’s perfect, she’s available, she’s brilliant, she’s got a heart of gold, and she’s very healthy. I should know; I’m her doctor.”

  “Oh, this is hopeless.”

  “Then you’ll call her?”

  Jukes sighed. “OK, I’ll call her. Maybe I’ll find out something about the Banshee.”

  The doorbell rang, and when Jukes answered it he saw Detective Jones standing with two Styrofoam cups of coffee in his hands. “Dr. Whaler?”

  “Yes? What is it, Jones? Have they found my sister?”

  “Well, no.”

  Jukes pursed his lips. “Oh.… Well, what do you want?”

  Jones stepped forward, held out one of the cups, and smiled. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Is that what you came here for? Coffee? If you’ve got something to say, why don’t you just say it, OK?”

  George stopped; his face fell. Jukes felt a pang of remorse; he hadn’t meant to be so blunt. Being blunt and mean-spirited was not his style, and it felt strange.

  “Look; I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat; it’s just that I’m under a lot of stress right now.”

  “I know how you feel,” Jones said. “It’s a sick fuckin’ world.”

  George looked past Jukes into the living room. Jukes waved him in. He handed Jukes one of the cups, and they sat facing each other in a pair of matching leather armchairs.

  Jones sipped his coffee. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this Banshee thing and it’s really buggin’ me. I’ve been considering the possibility of a link between Loomis, Killian, and the mystery woman.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I went over to Killian’s apartment to have another look at his stuff, and the landlord said that all of his poetry had been taken by a friend of his, a guy named Sean Cheney. I tracked this Cheney guy down, and what do you know? He’s got a bookshop down in Soho, the Turf-Cutter’s Enchantment. It’s a radical Irish place; I checked it out.”

  Jukes nodded wearily.

  “I need your help. I want to establish a connection between the two deat
hs and the Banshee, an Irish connection.”

  “You think Loomis was mixed up with something political?”

  “Maybe. Who knows? At any rate, I thought you might like to go over there with me—you know, as a consultant—and take a look at the man’s writing. It might shed some light on this whole thing. The fact that you’re a shrink and Loomis was under your care …”

  Jukes sipped the coffee; its bitter scent invigorated him. “You want my impressions?”

  “Yeah, any insights you might have. If you do this for me, maybe I can help you find your sister. I’m not promising anything, you understand, but I’ve got some influence around the department. Some of the guys can be slow, unless you light a fire under their asses. Besides, I feel bad for you. I figure you must be pretty upset.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Jukes said. “All right, Jones, you’re on. When do you want to go?”

  Jones put down his coffee. “How about right now?”

  Detective Jones had mercifully let his cigar go out during the drive, and Jukes thanked God that he didn’t have to breathe those noxious fumes again. Jones spoke conspiratorially through his stained teeth. “Let me do the talkin’. If they think we’re cops they won’t lift a finger to help us.”

  “OK.”

  The street was littered with discarded papers and empty bottles. A graffiti-covered newstand stood at the corner. The cheap hand-painted sign on the side screamed: STRANGLER STILL AT LARGE!

  They got out of the car and entered the Turf-Cutter’s Enchantment.

  It was a secondhand bookstore, musty-smelling and lined with overstocked, dusty shelves. The two men browsed for a few minutes, disappearing into the stacks. No salesman approached them.

  In time, Jones stepped up to the counter where a bearded man sat smoking a pipe and reading a book, ignoring them.

  “Excuse me, but I’m looking for something by Brendan Killian.”

  “Killian?” The man looked up.

  “Yeah. I figured you might have something.”

  He put down his book. “Well, you came to the right place, mister. I happen to have all of his stuff in stock, probably the only store in the city that does. Do you like Killian?”

  Jones smiled; the man had taken the bait. “Yeah, what I’ve read of it. He’s hard to find, though, not your basic Barnes and Noble item, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t put The Rod and the Staff down. I heard he died recently.”

  “Bloody shame. The man was a genius. Have you checked out The Wishing?”

  “Lead me to it.”

  The bearded man came from behind the counter and showed them down one of the congested aisles. He pointed to the Killian shelf and stood as Jones withdrew several books.

  “Great. I’ll take all of these.”

  They walked back toward the counter. The bearded man seemed happy to be selling Killian’s work. He obviously had some kind of a soft spot for the poet, Jukes thought. Maybe they had been friends.

  “I’ll be publishing some of his later work shortly. He had a great volume of poetry finished when he died,” the bearded man said as he added up the sale on a piece of scratch paper.

  “Really?”

  The man behind the counter smiled. “I have a small publishing company here at the store; we do mostly unknown stuff. The Visionary Poets Series, it’s called. Killian died penniless, you know, but he left me all his poetry. It’s a shame; it was as if he knew he was going to die.”

  “You don’t say.” Jones was playing his role to the believable hilt.

  “Oh, yes. Did you know he was gunned down by British agents right here in Central Park?”

  George looked askance. “Gunned down? Are you kidding?”

  “Hell, no. He was a wanted man over in England, and they feared him, feared his poetry. He had lots of enemies because he told the truth. All great men who tell the truth about Ireland are marked for death.”

  “Gunned down, you say? My God, it’s hard to believe.”

  “In cold blood, no less. The New York City Police Department was in on the cover-up. That’s why you didn’t see much in the papers about it.”

  “Incredible. The things those damn cops get away with …” Jones was actually enjoying this. Jukes’s eyes wandered to the revolutionary posters on the wall.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time the cops have helped the English,” the salesman replied.

  Jukes hadn’t said a word up to this point. He feigned interest in the conversation. Actually, he was mildly amused with the quaint shop and its old-time leftist ambience. There were posters calling for the overthrow of various governments, flyers for countless rallies and demonstrations, and thousands of dog-eared esoteric books. The place smelled of revolution.

  Jones pressed on. “What were his poems like at the end? He must have been into some incredible stuff.”

  “Want to see some?”

  Jones’s face brightened up instantly. “Yeah, I’d love it!”

  The bearded man handed him a sheaf of printed papers. Jones accepted gleefully.

  “I can sell you some of these as separates; the full collection will be out next month. It’s called Song of the Banshee.”

  “What?” Jukes’s ears perked up.

  “Song of the Banshee. It’s about the death of Ireland. The Banshee symbolizes Ireland’s fighting spirit and the shameful exploitation of her people. Killian’s skillful use of imagery is the backbone of his poetry. The man was a genius.”

  “I know; you said that.”

  Jukes and George looked through the sheaf of poems, many of them untitled. Most were short, less than a page, and shot through with the kinds of emotions Killian probably had felt in his final days. Jukes’s heart leaped when he read them, and a cold wind began to blow through his heart.

  She stalks me through

  The emerald night

  My fate is sealed

  I dare not run

  Wherever I go

  She is

  And so I await as a lover

  Should

  Jukes shivered so violently that it almost made a sound through his jacket. Killian was talking about the Banshee!

  He had been stalked; that much was obvious. But Killian showed an understanding of the Banshee, an acceptance, like Loomis, and that disturbed Jukes.

  Something strange is going on here, he thought. The memory of the redheaded mystery woman flooded back, and poor Loomis’s rantings.

  The Banshee, of course.

  He read on.

  Take me in the green

  Where destiny calls

  Dare not wait another night

  I am yours, grievous angel

  Freely, and of my own free will

  Proud to die in your arms

  An Irish death

  Jones was looking up from his paper, too, giving Jukes strange, knowing glances. Jones handed the poem he was reading to Jukes. His eyes scanned the page.

  For Ireland I join the Banshee

  In tears

  Keening for the dead

  We clamor together

  For all those who dream of freedom

  As we do

  As we must

  The terrible beauty lives on

  Death, the defiant salvation

  The end of suffering

  The final issue

  Resolved here and after

  In the song of the Banshee

  Jones purchased several of the loose poems, including the title poem of Song of the Banshee, as well as two books, and the two men left the store deep in thought.

  George said, “I think it’s time for a little more research on the Banshee. If there’s a killer out there using it as a guise, Jesus, things could get unpleasant around here. Besides all these men being Irish, there must be another connection.”

  Jukes nodded. “I think the guy at the bookstore misinterpreted all of this. It could be political, but it could be something else entirely. Killian was being stalked by the mystery woman, just like Loomis
.”

  Jones opened the car door and let Jukes in. This time he wasn’t as lucky with the cigar smoke. The burly cop lit up and puffed on his stogie like a bellows.

  “Well, Killian was a radical. He had connections to known terrorist organizations, according to the FBI. Killian had relatives within the movement.”

  Jukes was surprised. He looked at Jones sternly and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “You knew he was a terrorist and you didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t say he was a terrorist; I said he had relatives within the movement.”

  “So? You should’ve leveled with me up front.”

  Jones shrugged. “Hey, I’m a cop. Whadaya want? I have my information; you have yours. I don’t have to share it if I think it puts a spin on the case I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to know, plain and simple. It might have influenced you, tainted your thought process. You got a problem with that?”

  “I don’t put a spin on anything! I deal in facts. I’m a doctor, for Christ sake!”

  “Exactly,” Jones replied. “Then you should know better. I work on a need-to-know basis. When you need to, you’ll know. Get used to it, Doc; that’s the way things are.”

  Jukes touched George’s arm. “OK, I did this little errand for you, Jones; now maybe you’ll help me find my sister?”

  Jones blinked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  As Jones slipped his unmarked car into gear and pulled away from the curb, a figure materialized from a doorway across the street.

  As soon as the car turned the corner, Padraic O’Connor hurried across the street and into the bookstore.

  Jukes was pleasantly surprised to find Fiona Rice to be an attractive forty-year-old woman specializing in Irish mythology and culture. She was a full professor, single, and in line to become the next department head. A bit too tall for most men, perhaps, but lithe and coltish, Fiona dressed for success in conservative tailored suits. She kept her brown hair simple and short and wore modest makeup.

  Jukes felt an immediate attraction to her. Will Howard was right—she was a babe. Jukes fought off his natural inclination to be shy and slightly withdrawn in the presence of a beautiful woman.

  “Dr. Wahler, so nice to meet you. Dr. Howard said you’d be stopping by. Please come in. I know it’s not much of an office, but make yourself comfortable.”