Page 29 of The Furies

A noticeable pause followed.

“With you,” said Attwood, “it figures.”

But he wasn’t being dismissive, and he didn’t laugh. After what had befallen Jerome Burnel, he knew better.

As I killed the call, Raum Buker emerged from the Braycott Arms. I got out of the car, and he stopped when I called his name, but didn’t look surprised to see me. Bobby Wadlin could have opted to hedge his bets by letting Raum know I’d been inquiring after him, while stopping short of admitting his role in supplying a key to the room. Then again, the Sisters Strange might also have been in touch to let Raum know of my conversations with them, alerting him to my interest. If only one of them had contacted him, my money was on Ambar.

“I hope they gave you a room with a view,” I said.

“The views cost extra,” he replied. “Like the towels. What do you want?”

He didn’t sound hostile, just resigned, and I knew that Wadlin hadn’t mentioned my visit.

“To talk.”

He peered over my shoulder as though expecting to glimpse the Fulci brothers approaching rapidly in a cloud of dust, like rhinos rampaging across the Serengeti. Only when he was convinced that the coast was clear did he return his gaze to me. Much of the cockiness he’d displayed at the Great Lost Bear was gone, but it was not fear alone that had replaced it, although fear was certainly a component. There was an eerie calm to him, the sort that descends on individuals after the worst has come.

“Why were you bothering Ambar?” he said.

So there it was. I made a mental note to buy a Powerball ticket that week.

“Did she say I was bothering her?”

“She said you’d been around. In your case, that amounts to the same thing.”

Which was, I had to admit, a good line.

“Some people are worried for the Sisters Strange,” I said.

“Because of me?”

“Because of you.”

“They have no right to be,” said Raum. “I’ve never hit a woman.”

It wasn’t the first time a man had said those words to me, often with the same odd tone of pride, even self-satisfaction. What I took from it was that they’d considered striking a woman, but had ultimately resisted the temptation, which made them great guys.

“That may be true,” I said, “but you’ve done some hurting nonetheless. That carpenter you tore up with a planer doesn’t move so well anymore, and five years in East Jersey says you put a man in the ground.”

“Well, you’d know all about bodies. You ought to have shares in a cemetery.”

“We can keep scoring points off each other,” I said, “or we can have a useful conversation.”

He glanced at his watch.

“So speak,” he said. “I can listen to you now if it means never having to listen to you again, but make it fast.”

“Tell me about the pentacle tattoo.”

Whatever he’d expected me to say, that wasn’t it.

“What about it?”

“Where did you get it, and why?”

“I have a few tattoos.”

“Not many like that, I’ll bet.”

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