CHAPTER ONE

Father, the root of this little white flower
Among the stones has the taste of blood.
Something is very strange on the hill today.
The sun fades and reptiles are everywhere.
But do not run away, because...

THE HOUSE WAS SMALL. RESTRICTED. A SPANISH-MOORISH stucco dotted with palms in the Hollywood Hills section of Los Angeles. On either side were other such dwellings; to the rear, the abandoned estate of Huntington Hartford and, beyond, the precipitous clambering of hills. But in the early evening of July 18, the house looked festive. At approximately 6:20 P.M., Ron Talon glanced into the hall mirror, ran his hand indifferently through his hair, then turned to open the front door. Kristy, his six-year-old, was upstairs in her bedroom getting dressed; his wife Chandal was on the terrace making a last minute check of the food and drink. It was to be just another informal poolside gathering on an indolent Sunday night.

Ron’s hand stopped just short of the doorknob. He had heard a sharp, brittle sound from above. It came from Kristy’s room.

He paused to listen.

The sound was odd. Almost rhythmical. Now louder, faster. Then the sound abruptly ceased. Ron glimpsed his image in the mirror. And then it happened. It was something that had started with the first hot days of summer. Colors seemed to suddenly fade, and with the dulling of his perception, there came an overwhelming feeling of loneliness.

During these moments that seemed to be coming more frequently these days, he had the disturbing feeling that time had somehow eluded him, and that he had become lost in the scheme of things. He felt awkward sitting at his desk or discussing business with a client over lunch—even walking into his own kitchen in the evening. The simple act of eating dinner had become a chore.

Chandal slid open the terrace door and stuck her head inquiringly in his direction. He tried to smile and, as always lately, he groped for something he needed to tell her. Something half-remembered, just out of reach. Even now, as the warm colors of her existence flooded the living room, the words once again eluded him.

“Ron, someone’s at the door.”

“Do you think they’d go away if we didn’t answer?”

“Probably forever.” Chandal nodded as the doorbell rang twice more, its chimes sounding angry under the persistent finger.

“I’m coming, for God’s sake,” he said and opened the door.

“Ron!” Pamela shrieked, throwing out her arms. She was upon him now, her skeletal limbs poised like ropes in the air above his shoulders. He did not know if she wished to embrace him or to strangle him.

She embraced him. “God, it’s nice to see you again!”

“Where’s, uh, Stuart?” he asked, connecting with the name at the last possible instant. He thought: Some friends. I don’t even know their names.

“Isn’t he here yet?” she was asking.

“No. You’re the first.”

“How original of me!” She took him by the arm. “Well, let’s have a drink, shall we? Then we’ll sit down to a nice long chat.”

Pamela exchanged hellos with Chandal, insisted on pouring her own drink—a stiff one—then immediately migrated back into the living room. With a double scotch in one hand and a ferociously puffed cigarette in the other, she settled too close to Ron on the couch, chattering her way to a nonstop insistence of how wonderful life was, how free she felt: “My God, like a woman out of prison.” Her smile stretching ever wider until it seemed certain to snap like an overextended rubber band. “Please,” she groaned, still smiling, “if the economy gets any worse, I’ll have to drain my pool!” The notion made her roar with a laughter that gave way to panting.

Very funny, Ron thought and wondered if Pamela knew the real reason for the party that night. For Ron, it was a bit of a smoke screen. A way of pretending that his talent agency hadn’t gone into a recession. Yet, despite bad times, Ron refused to let go. He told himself it was the business he was in. Being a theatrical agent, even in the best times, was like grabbing hold of a red-hot comet’s tail. That stung, brought blisters, but was infinitely better than what was happening now.

The writers and directors strike had all but shut Hollywood down. Most of his clients were on the unemployment line. Still, he had managed to keep a full staff at the office, but exactly how long he could hang on was another question. No work, no commissions. It was that simple.

“You know,” Pamela sighed, a little drunk already, a little more honest, “I never knew middle age was going to be this rough.”

“What?”

“Menopause, Ron, darling. I’m going through menopause. Don’t look at me like that. It’s really a terrible thing.” She shook her head, lighted another cigarette from the tip of the first, and said: “Stuart and I are getting a divorce.”

Instantly, Ron was sympathetic. He was always sympathetic to other people’s problems. More so than to his own. “Jesus, Pam—I had no idea.”

“I know,” she replied. “Neither did I. But then that’s always the way of things in Hollywood, isn’t it? Under every table you can find a married man fingering his latest broad. Best kept secrets, that sort of thing. Well,” she said raising her glass, “to my divorce!”

Instinctively, Ron took a healthy drink from his glass. Then a moment’s hesitation. Abruptly, he glanced up to the ceiling. There it was again. An odd scraping sound. Like the sound of furniture being moved.

What’s going on up there?

He wondered if he should investigate. But then, after listening for a moment, he rejected the idea. Kristy was probably still upstairs fooling around. Besides, whatever it was, it had stopped.

Ron turned suddenly when he felt Pamela’s body press closer to his. With a childlike gesture, she laid her head on his shoulder. He could see she was about to cry. Oh, Christ, what if she becomes hysterical? he asked himself with alarm. Then he heard her soft voice in his ear. “You’ve got to tell me the truth, Ron. Tell me right this minute, was I really a bad wife to that bastard?”

At that point, the doorbell rang. Ron offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving as he excused himself and, with a sigh of profound relief, moved away to greet his next guest. Almost before he had closed the door, the doorbell rang again. The parade of guests continued uninterrupted. There were embraces and kisses, the latter always delicately smacked into air just missing the recipient’s cheek so as not to disturb the cosmetics. Soon the room was full of young theatrical types; with subdued Kenny Rogers on the stereo and joints being passed around. There were six actors, two directors, one TV writer, a producer, two lawyers, a tax consultant and an assortment of wives and escorts. Mimi Halpern, Ron’s assistant and the agency’s primary asset, arrived last with Dwayne Clark in tow. Dwayne was a singer, career on the skids, and enough sadness in his black eyes to kill you.

“What’s this?” Ron asked as Dwayne left Mimi’s side. “Part of your Mother Earth sympathy package?”

“Sympathy, my royal caboose,” she retorted lasciviously, then assumed a conspiratorial tone. “Have you ever seen a face that beautiful?” she whispered. “He looks like Adonis in black curls with a Kirk Douglas chin.”

Chandal caught the exchange and grinned. “My husband is cuter.”

“Not through the chin, he isn’t,” Mimi said decisively.

Chandal hesitated, but only for an instant. “Let’s talk about it, shall we?” She good-naturedly hooked her arm through Mimi’s and the two women moved away demurely, hips swaying slightly to two separate rhythms.

Ron exchanged a whimsical glance with his wife as she looked back over her shoulder, then watched as she and Mimi disappeared onto the terrace. Dressed in a sheer green blouse and a pair of designer jeans, Chandal looked younger than her thirty-six years. She was wearing the diamond earrings Ron had given her for their first anniversary.

Then Chandal had scarcely been a year separated from something worse than a breakdown. Tonight there were seven years piled between her and a best-forgotten past. And still sometimes Ron worried. Even now, as sensational as she looked, he imagined there was a degree of tension in the faint line between her eyes. The thought had crept into his mind unbidden; a sudden twinge like a nudge in the ribs, and was quickly replaced by a small, scolding voice saying, Forget it. The past is buried. Forget it.

Two bourbons later he decided that the party was going well. Some of the guests were scattered about the terrace helping themselves to drinks, cheese and melon; others hung inside the glass doors enjoying the conditioned air while indulging in small clusters of conversation. By this time, Ron was feeling reasonably sociable. So socialize, he told himself. By Christ, boy—socialize.

After several false starts, he began drifting from one group to another, picking up bits of useless information. Where and how to put his money into tax shelters. Real estate holdings. Donations to the Actors’ Fund, various travel costs, monthly expense write-offs. He wondered if anyone knew how broke he really was.

“The total operating cost of the Falcon comes to around $230,000 a year, while the total operating cost of a Lear jet runs about $140,000 a year...”

“Is that a fact?” Ron murmured moving on.

In the corner, Chandal was handing Kristy a glass of ginger ale. Kristy smiled, holding onto the glass with both hands and Ron felt the same mesmerization he often felt when looking at his daughter. He thought he had never seen such a face—not just the beauty of the features—but the repose, the level stare into space that seemed to bounce off an unseen object and project itself back into her sapphire eyes so that she was quietly merged with her own person and had little connection with the rest of the room.

“Ron,” breathed an oldish character actress now leaning heavily on his arm. “I hope you don’t think I’m doing anything wrong. I just felt in the mood to come over here and give you a hug.” Her breath was wretched with drink and cigarettes; her mouth sloppy, smeared with lipstick and smiling. “Do you mind?”

It was a challenge of sorts, Ron decided, to him or to herself. Looking at her kindly, he knew she could not pull it off. She was embarrassed by her age. It was right there in her cruel hurt eyes. But she dared to hug him anyway and then ran from the room crying.

Ron glanced at Kristy and was relieved she hadn’t seemed to notice the brief encounter. With her favorite doll hung flaccidly over one arm, her attention had remained fixed on her glass of soda.

“Oh, hell,” the producer was saying over to Ron’s right. “Death doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter one goddamn. That’s just the way I feel about it.”

“He’s just saying that because he wants to get to me,” said his wife who was short and shapeless.

“No,” the man insisted. “That’s just how I feel about it.”

Ron found himself entering the conversation with some interest. “Do you believe in life after death?” he murmured smiling a little.

The producer said promptly, “Hell, no! I believe when you go, you’re gone, just like that. Hell, what difference does it make?”

“In other words,” his wife added bitterly, “I haven’t made his life mean anything to him. That’s what he’s trying to tell me. He doesn’t care if he drops dead tonight.”

“You really don’t care,” Ron asked, “if you drop dead—”

“That’s because of me,” the producer’s wife interrupted.

“It doesn’t have a thing in this world to do with her.”

“You see, he won’t even give me the importance of hating me. He doesn’t care anything about me one way or the other. And we’ve been married thirty years. Oh, God, I’ve wasted thirty years of my life on him.”’

“So your wife doesn’t have anything to do with your lack of interest in life?” Ron couldn’t resist asking.

“Hell, no.”

“Does she make you happy?”

“If she didn’t, I wouldn’t be with her.”

Ron smiled sardonically to the producer’s wife. “Well, there’s some kind of a compliment for you, I suppose. But still, I think the best thing for you would be if your husband dropped dead tonight. He won’t care and you’ll be better off.”

There was a sudden hush in the small circle as Ron wandered off in some confusion. He had no idea how he had come to say such a thing, only that when talking to a jackass one tended to bray somewhat in response. He was quickly swept into another circle.

“Why the long face?” The voice was tender, effeminate. A slender masculine hand laid itself briefly on Ron’s wrist. No offense intended, the touch said. Just in case.

Wordlessly, Ron laid his hand on the young actor’s shoulder and turned away to his own inner confusion. He felt swallowed up, desperate. Who—were—these—people? he wondered. More to the point, who was he? Ron was having a hard time recognizing himself this evening.

Dropping onto the couch, he continued to keep an eye on Chandal. His sweating palm beaded the tall cool tumbler. He tipped it and the soft bourbon slipped down his gullet and flowered upward into a smile which grew on his lips.

“How you doing, Ron?” Mark Russell sat down beside him. As his accountant, Mark knew full well how he was doing.

“Lousy.”

“Business is shit, right?”

“Right.”

Russell aimed his smile at Chandal and waved her over with that goddamn good-willed gesture of his.

“Feeling tight, Russell?” Chandal dropped onto the couch.

Russell sat between them smiling like a friendly maniac. “Right. Tight. Ron tells me you’re heading for the poor-house.”

“He did, did he? Well, we’re just taking a busman’s tour by the poorhouse, so to speak. Looking it over once to see if we like it.”

Russell grunted with laughter, his belly capturing the sound and honing it to a rumble.

Chandal put her hands to her temples, smoothed back her hair, and with obvious effort tried to remain calm. She had just the beginnings of a headache. No big deal, nothing even to mention, but she kept nervously massaging her temples. Of course, Ron noticed it. After all these years, the headaches were the one danger sign. The headaches that occasionally worsened into migraines. During those times—it could be several hours or several days—Chandal would lie in a darkened room and no medication could lessen the pain that squeezed her skull, worked through her body until there was only the pain. Nothing else. Until the flashes of memory were so vivid as to seem real. Memories of a bloodstone pendant that seemed to sparkle with blood. Memories even further back. The brownstone in New York City as it burned. The two old women who had died. The Krispin sisters. Yes, finally Magdalen and Elizabeth Krispin were both dead. Two old women who had tried to rob a young woman of her youth. What did it all add up to? Only that Chandal had once been welded to evil and...

Careful, Ron warned himself. You’re on thin ice here. He quickly took another drink. The mahogany-colored liquor went down like fire this time, catching at his throat, then burning its way into the pit of his stomach. Now he tried desperately to look outward from himself, to evade the onslaught of memories that threatened to push forward through the front of his skull. Again he attempted the ritual of oblivion in tipping, drinking, but still memories came, filling the last reaches of his consciousness and then spilling over.

Evil in the form of Elizabeth Krispin. Even now he could see the old woman, not whole, but as she had spoken to him through Chandal’s lips. As she had looked at him through Chandal’s eyes. So long ago and yet the old woman’s image remained crystal clear in his mind.

Somehow, those days spent at the carriage house in New York City seven years ago would not leave him alone. Perhaps it was Chandal’s reluctance to speak about it. There were so many things he wanted to know. How had it all begun? Suddenly one thought loomed large in his confusion: the danger had been real. He could still feel the power of the bloodstone pendant Chandal had worn around her neck. Elizabeth Krispin’s pendant. And the sparks that flickered from it, flashing in a dark place.

Something had happened. Something bad. Why wouldn’t Chandal speak of it? Even after all these years, she still wouldn’t allow Ron to discuss it. Elizabeth Krispin and Chandal had been one. Everything Ron had done in New York had hung on an old woman’s breath. Until finally—she was gone.

“What now?” Ron had asked.

“Well, she remembers now,” Doctor Luther had replied. “She’s recaptured that part of time which was lost. Who knows at what cost of anguish—but in my view, she was prepared to pay it.”

Ron had hesitated. “Do you think there’s a chance—just a chance, that maybe she didn’t imagine it?”

“No,” said Doctor Luther. “It was all in Chandal’s mind. The possession, the old woman—all imagined. Now that she is better, she will come to see that. Chandal will be coming home from the hospital tomorrow. She’s going to need all the help she can get. Believe me, after enough time has passed, everything will work itself out. Things will return to normal.”

“There’s something I need to ask you.”

Dr. Luther smiled. “I think I know.”

“What would you say?”

“I say for your sake, be very careful. For her sake I say, go to her. Marry her. It’s what she needs most.”

“I suppose you know what I’ll do.”

“Sentimentalist that I am, I’m very glad. I hope you’ll both be very happy. I think you will.”

Now Ron could feel the color drain from his face. Party noise continued to eddy around him. He forced past his confusion and smiled.

Russell was talking again, laughing and carrying on about the economy. He knew Russell was patting him on the back; and he knew also that the smile had gone from his face, for Russell was saying, “Oh, hell, Ron, don’t take it so hard. As soon as the strike is over things will pick up. They always do.”

Ron attempted to drink again and found his glass empty. This negative note started a strange and unfamiliar ache which had been hidden in the far recesses of his being, somewhere under scores of past days and nights, crawling to the surface, an ache that oozed upward and formed a pocket of despair at the bottom of his empty glass.

He breathed deeply, then glanced involuntarily at the wedding ring on his finger and, turning it once around slowly, looked up at Russell. Quietly, like a concerned parent, Russell asked: “Ron, are you all right?”

“Sure. Everything is just fine. Fine,” Ron said and rose solidly to his feet.

“Where are you going?” queried Russell.

“To get another drink,” Ron replied intently. “Del, would you care for another?”

Chandal shook her head. “Maybe later.”

Confidently Ron made his way over to the bar. He was drunk. That was it. He was cockeyed drunk. He was shitfaced! A sudden uncontrollable smile fixed itself on his lips. To hell with business, to hell with the past, just step right up, folks, and call me Ronny—hallelujah—amen.

Pushing through a press of bodies he brushed against a curving thigh, and he caught in his nostrils the sweet odor of familiar perfume. Laughing slightly, he turned to face Cleo Talise, one of his supposed hotshot clients, worth $100,000 per film and all the time her value skyrocketing. The only problem was that Ron had not yet landed her a contract.

“Hello, Ron, darling,” she cooed.

Ron nodded. “What’s this I hear you were as loose as a goose at LaCasa Spinoza last night.”

Cleo reddened. “What the hell do you mean?”

Ron grinned, knowing she knew full well what he meant: that she had been at LaCasa acting as loose as a goose. In the nude with a guy and a girl and that somebody had taken pictures. But, of course, in reality it was none of his business and he could already read in Cleo’s pea-green eyes that she would be out agent shopping before the last clamoring of his hangover had subsided in the morning.

Ron shrugged. “Sorry, I guess it’s...”

“None of your goddamn business, right!” Cleo sauntered off as simultaneously the room seemed to grow quiet.

Bemused, Ron smiled. Then in the pause which followed, he heard it again. He stood motionless, listening. What was that? His eyes arched upward to the ceiling. A fluttering of sorts, like bird wings. The flutter was followed by a loud, dull thud. Then a scraping, clawing sound.

What the hell was Kristy doing up there!

Once more, there was a flapping of wings.

Ron turned and started for the stairs. He stopped suddenly when he realized that Kristy was not upstairs at all, but was standing in the far corner of the room, her eyes blazing with a remote light. So powerful was her gaze that conversation had died around her. Suddenly, as though it had been flicked off by an unseen finger, even the stereo died, leaving the room in total silence.

“What’s wrong?” Russell asked, appearing at Ron’s elbow.

“Damned if I know. A loose wire, I guess.”

Kristy’s gaze remained fixed as Ron moved her aside. “Excuse me, sweetheart. Let daddy have a look.” He checked the on-off switch. It was still on. He checked the plugs in the back of the unit. Okay there too. He began to trace a wire across the room as Russell followed another wire up and over the bookshelf.

“Yes. You can talk to me,” said Kristy standing again in front of the stereo. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, masking her excitement. “Yes, now I can hear you! Oh, yes...”

Ron looked to Russell, who, he knew, was staring at Kristy. In fact, the entire room was staring at Kristy. Other guests had begun to filter in from the terrace. Expressionless as statues, they formed a double line in front of the glass doors. Irritated as much by their silence as by their damn gaping, Ron snapped: “Okay, gang, it’s party time. We’ll have the problem fixed in a minute. Kristy, please get away from the stereo.”

Kristy did not move.

Chandal rose from the couch. “Kristy, come away from there, sweetheart. Your father is trying to fix it.”

“Oh, yes!” Kristy shrilled. “Yes, I will. Sometime soon. I will!” She listened intently, gave a serious nod, then whispered: “Soon.”

“Kristy,” Chandal scolded. “I said stop that!”

“No, no, no!” Kristy screamed and stamped her feet. “Leave me alone, goddammit!” Eyes sparkling, she turned again to speak to the dead stereo. “Oh, I’m glad! Yes, I will. I promise.”

There was a momentary silence. Ron turned to stare at his guests with barely concealed astonishment. There was no sign of amusement on their faces, only a slight expression of disdain tinged with embarrassment as they glanced briefly at Kristy, then back to Chandal.

“Maybe she hears static or something,” offered Russell.

“I guess,” Ron replied and moved closer.

Kristy jumped back with a start. With shrill laughter, she began scratching herself, lifting her dress above her waist and pressing it against her breast. A murmur traveled through the room. Under her dress she was completely naked.

“Jesus,” cried Ron, rushing to his daughter. “Kristy, honey, are you all right? Here, let me help you.” He pulled her dress down, at the same time holding onto her hands.

“She’s funny, Daddy! So funny!”

“Come on, sweetheart.” Ron took Kristy by the hand and tried leading her away.

“No, Daddy—she wants to talk with me!” There was a murmur of voices in the room as she tried to break free of Ron’s grasp.

“Kristy, please...” He turned and began to apologize silently to his guests.

“Well, it’s about that time...” he heard Russell say.

“No, no, please stay,” Chandal protested, turning to face the room fully. “Ron will be back in a few minutes.”

Ron dragged Kristy into the hallway, saying: “Want to be carried?” And without waiting for an answer, he raised her in his arms until she sat upon his shoulders.

Up there, holding tightly to his neck, she whispered: “The little girl on the radio likes me.”

“Yes? Who is she?”

“Oh, just a little girl—far away. Real far. She likes me, Daddy. Isn’t that nice?”

“Who is she?” Ron asked repeatedly, but Kristy appeared not to understand and mumbled over and over again, “She likes me... she likes me,” until the murmur became lower and lower, then a whisper that died away as Ron opened her bedroom door.