The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

of Tommy Carling; I made it my business to check on his apartment in the staff quarters, and he was gone, the apartment stripped of his personal belongings.

There seemed nothing more to be done in Rockland County, so I moved back into Garth's apartment in the city-which by now seemed as much my home as his. I called my parents every few days, even though there was nothing to tell them; they had not heard from Garth, either.

As first the days, and then the weeks and months, went by, I tried to accustom myself to the strong possibility that my brother was dead, perhaps killed by Marl Braxton during one of the fallen D.I. A. operative's psychotic episodes. Then, on a bitterly cold afternoon in mid-fall, a Wednesday four months later, while I was standing in the express line in a Gristede's supermarket, I found a grainy picture of Garth staring back at me from the front page of one of the lurid, always ridiculous, tabloids sold at the checkout counter. With trembling hands I lifted the paper out of the rack, stared in disbelief at the, photograph and the blurb under it. Disbelief and a growing disorientation. I felt as if I had been struck, or drugged again, and for a moment I feared I would loose consciousness. Slowly, I became aware of a kind of Greek chorus of cursers in the stalled line behind me, and when another cart 'accidentally' banged into mine I snapped out of it. I pushed my cart ahead. Then I flipped to the two- page spread and blaring but skimpy text inside the newspaper, cursed aloud when I could not find what I wanted.

Leaving my groceries in the shopping cart, I dropped two dollars on the checkout counter, then ran the three blocks back to the apartment. I was just reaching out to pick up the telephone to call the editorial offices of the tabloid when the phone rang. Irritated, I snatched up the receiver.

'Yeah?'

'Frederickson, this is Sergeant Mclntyre.'

'Ah, yes, Sergeant Mclntyre,' I replied tightly, still fighting a sense of disorientation and dizziness, trying and failing to mask the deep scorn and anger I felt. 'Perchance, would you be calling to fill me in on what the massive forces of the NYPD have been doing in their attempt to find a missing colleague?'

There was a prolonged silence on the other end, and I half expected Sergeant Alexander Mclntyre, who had been in Garth's precinct and whom I considered a friend, to hang up on me. 'You've seen The National Eye,' he said at last in a flat voice.

'As a matter of fact, I just picked up a copy at Gristede's. There's nothing like going out for a few groceries and finding out that the brother you'd feared dead has become a local celebrity, of sorts. Mclntyre, can you explain to me how, with a Missing Persons report in the hands of the NYPD, I end up finding Garth's picture on the front page of a Goddamn fish wrapper like The National Eye? You worked with him for twenty years! What the hell's the matter with you people?! What the fuck have you been doing for the past four months?!'

'Just hold on a minute, Frederickson.' Mclntyre's voice had grown cold, hard. 'New York City, in case you haven't noticed lately, is a very big place which is easy to get lost in-if that's what you want to do. Also, in case you haven't noticed, we're in the midst of a crime wave caused by a crack epidemic; we don't have a lot of resources to look for a grown man who's just happened to have dropped out of sight. If their picture isn't on a milk carton, we don't spend a lot of time looking for them. We thought from the beginning that there was something not quite right about that MP request, and we kind of filed it away; we figured if Garth and this other guy they were looking for wanted you to know where they were, they'd have told you. Like I said, your brother's a big boy.'

'Okay,' I said curtly. There was no percentage in arguing with the other man.

'One of the uniformed officers in the precinct saw the picture, and he recognized Garth. That's why I'm calling you.'

'Okay. I appreciate it, Sergeant.'

'Did you read the story about Garth and the other guy in the picture with him?'

'The story was long on horseshit and short on facts. It didn't tell me what I need to know. Where the hell is that place Garth is supposed to be living?'

'There was a cop on the scene when that incident happened; he didn't recognize Garth, and he didn't know there was an MP blip floating on him.'

'I don't care about that crap, Mclntyre. Where is he?'

'It's a big, converted bathhouse down in the Bowery-five blocks south of St. Mark's. The city shut it down when the AIDS scare first started. You'll recognize it right away by all the people hanging around it.' Mclntyre paused, and when he spoke again, his tone had become softer. 'Like I said, there was a cop on the scene when that business happened-and the cop drew the photographer. A report was filed, and maybe I can let you see it if you're interested; you stop around, and I'll see what I can do for you. I can understand how you'd be pissed, and maybe we could have done a little more than we did. Don't quote me.'

'Thanks for the offer, Sergeant, but I'm not really interested in that nonsense. See you.'

'Frederickson?'

'Yeah.'

'What the hell's the matter with Garth?'

'Your guess is as good as mine,' I replied carefully.

'The way he's acting. . it's why the Missing Persons report was filed, right?'

'Right.'

'Is he crazy?'

'Aren't we all?'

'He's sure got some funny stories to tell.'

'Yeah.'

'He told me he killed Orville Madison. Can you believe that?'

'You've talked to him in person?'

'He was-is-my friend. After I heard about the newspaper story, I drove down to check out the situation. I called you before, but you weren't in. I didn't want to just leave a message on your answering machine.'

'Why didn't you bring him in, Sergeant?'

'On what charges? He was reported missing, and now he's not missing anymore. There's definitely something the matter with Garth's head, Frederickson; you wouldn't believe the collection of people he's got down there in that mission of his.'

'Mission? I thought you said he was living in a bathhouse.'

There was a pause, then: 'You'd better go down and see for yourself, Frederickson.'

That was precisely what I intended to do. I thanked Mclntyre again, hung up.

I took the subway down to the Bowery, went up to the street, and walked five blocks south, until I came to a large traffic circle. Darkness had fallen, and I stood across the street, huddled against the cold in my parka, watching the proceedings on the opposite side of the circle, in front of a building of freshly scrubbed stone which took up half the block. There appeared to be a lot of construction going on inside and on top of the building, where the roof seemed to have been torn away, but business was obviously going on as usual. It was eerie, seeing the huge symbol painted above the entrance-four interlocking rings, skewered by a great knife with a jewel-encrusted handle. Valhalla and Whisper. I wondered if the logo had been designed to Garth's specifications, somehow doubted it. Unless Garth had changed once again, my brother certainly wasn't into symbols of any kind.

A line of bedraggled people snaked down the street and disappeared around the corner. The men and women, some cloaked only in rags and pushing rickety shopping carts or carrying shopping bags filled with their personal belongings, patiently shuffled forward, waiting their turn to be ushered into the bathhouse. A number of well-dressed people-young and old, black, brown, white, and yellow-moved up and down the line, clasping hands, occasionally hugging the bag people, evidently offering hope and encouragement. All of the aides wore green jackets or headbands-sometimes both-emblazoned with the rings-and-knife logo.

Tommy Carling, still wearing an earring and his long, blond hair in a ponytail, was there, wearing a green jacket. He was standing near the entrance, talking with a woman who also wore a green jacket, along with a black nun's cowl that fell over her shoulders.

There was no sign of Garth, and I assumed he was inside the building.

As I stood in the night shadows and watched, a television news truck pulled up to the curb in front of the entrance. A well-known local news reporter, accompanied by sound and camera men, got out and went up to Carling and the nun. The reporter said something to Carling, who shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture with