Life Blood --XII---Page 38



I arranged with Patrick Mooney to have his sister in Queens,
a full-figured woman named Rosalyn, come in and finish the job of
reconstructing my wrecked home. She arrived an hour and a half
later, and was hard at work when I left. I also agonized over the
police-report issue, but finally decided to forgo the bother. Lou
was right: It would be a two-hour ordeal of futility. Besides, I had
better things to do with my time. I was going to return the favor of
an information-gathering expedition.
Alex Goddard had said he'd be absent from Quetzal Manor—
who knows for how long—and this time around I was going to do
the place right, the next step in my undercover research. The first,
and main, thing I wanted to do was explore the new high-tech
clinic that sat nestled in the woods across from the old building.
Everything about it was the exact opposite of a "Manor." Not a
shred of New Age "spirituality," just a lot of digital equipment and
ultrasound and . . . what else? Chief among my questions: What
was behind that big, white door?
Maybe I was being impulsive, but I was completely wired and
the truth was, I wasn't going to sleep till I knew a lot more than I
did. And if I went late tonight, Sunday, I probably wouldn't have to
deal with Ramala.
I called Roger Drexel, my unshaven cameraman, and asked
him to come up and meet me at Applecore. It was Sunday and he
was watching the third quarter of a Knicks game and into his
second six-pack, but he agreed. After all, I was his current boss.
        All I really wanted was his Betacam and some metal tape,
which would be broadcast quality. (I'd wanted to do it yesterday,
but now the time had definitely come.) We met at the office, and
he unlocked the room with the camera gear and loaded in a fresh
tape. With any luck, he made it home for the end of the game.
        I then had a sinful cheeseburger and fries at a Greek diner
two blocks down the avenue. It was my idea of a courage-
bolstering indulgence.
My watch read six thirty-five and daylight was waning when I
revved my old Toyota and started my northbound trek back to
Quetzal Manor. When I was passing the George Washington
Bridge, the first drifting flakes of a freak late-season snowstorm





began pelting my windshield. Good I thought, turning on my
wipers, the less visibility, the better. At least I believed that till the
road started getting slippery and I had to throttle back. It was only
then I realized I'd been pushing eighty on the speedometer,
passing a lot of cars. Lou's warning not to go anywhere alone was
still filed in the back of my mind but I kept trying not to think about
it. Sometimes there are things you've just got to do.
        The highway grew more treacherous the farther north I went,
but the traffic was thinning out and by the time I reached the
turnoff to Quetzal Manor, total darkness had set in, in addition to
which the paving was covered with at least an inch of sparkling-
new pristine snow.
As I eased up the roadway, my headlights made the trees
around me glisten with their light dusting of white, like frosting on the tips of a buzz cut. I switched off my lights as I made the last turn in the road but not before catching a glimpse of Quetzal
Manor, and I must confess to feeling a shudder, of both anger and apprehension, run through me as I watched its magisterial turrets disappear into the snowy dark.
I parked my car at the back of the lot and retrieved the
flashlight I'd brought, a yellow plastic two-battery model. I hadn't realized there'd be snow when I left home, so I was just wearing some old sneakers, but they'd do. I then sat there in the dark for a long minute, listening to the silence and thinking. The first thing was to find out if anybody was guarding the place. The next was to get some video of the new building.
I grabbed the bag carrying the Betacam, tested my flashlight
against the floorboard, and then headed up the snowy driveway. I
marched straight through the open arch that was the front door,
and I was again in the drafty hallway where I'd met Ramala
Saturday morning. It was empty and dark now, no lights
anywhere, not even out in the courtyard beyond. The stony quiet—
no music, no chants—felt unnatural, but it also suggested that Alex
Goddard's adoring acolytes were safely tucked away. Early to bed
. . . you know the rest. So maybe I really had come at the right
time.
A chilly wind was blowing in from the far end of the hallway,
and I felt like I'd just entered a dank tomb, but I tightened my coat
and pressed on. When I got to the end and looked out, the snowy
courtyard was like a picture postcard. And completely empty.
All right, I thought, move on to what you came for.





But when I turned and headed back down the hallway, toward
the entry arch, I caught a glimpse of a furtive form, dark and
shadowy, lurking just outside. Shit! I froze in my tracks, but then
the figure stepped inside, wearing something that made me think
of Little Red Riding Hood, like a tiny ghost in a cowl.
        It was Tara, Alex Goddard's spacey waif, who was moving so
oddly, I thought for a moment she might be sleepwalking.
        She wasn't, of course. She'd just been out strolling around the
driveway in the snow. I soon realized she lived her life in
something resembling a trance, as though she were a permanent
denizen of the spirit world. For her it was a natural condition.
        "It's so beautiful like this," she mumbled dreamily, as though
we'd been in the middle of a lifelong conversation. "I just love it."
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but in the silence it
seemed to ricochet off the stone walls. "I want to take them out,
show them God's paintbrush. Will you help me?"
        "Take who out?" I asked, immediately deciding to go with the
moment.
Finally she looked directly at me and realized whom she'd been talking to.
"You were here before. I tried to give you herbs to help you,
but then he came and . . ." Her voice trailed off as she walked
back through the portico and out again into the drifting snow.
Then she held up her hands, as though attempting to capture the
flakes as keepsakes. "I so want to show them. They've never
seen it before." She glanced back at me. "Come on. Let's do it."
        As I followed her out into the drifting white and across the
parking lot, the accumulation of snow was growing denser,
enough now to start covering the cars, but still, something told me
the flurry was going to be short-lived. I took a long, misty breath of
the moist air and clicked open the case holding the Betacam,
readying myself to take it out the minute we got inside.
        Well, I thought, maybe I've gotten lucky. She was headed for
the new clinic, which was exactly where I wanted to go. It was
nestled in the trees, up a winding pathway, and as I slogged along
I could feel the snow melting through my sneakers.
        When we got to the front door, large and made of glass, she
just pushed it open.
"We never lock anything," she declared, glancing back. "It's one of our rules."

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