The Mephisto Club

come into the kitchen? We need to talk in private.”
    Maura rose and followed her up the hallway. “What is it?” she asked as they stepped into the kitchen.
    “Could you arrange to take the day off tomorrow? Because you and I need to go out of town tonight. I’m going home to pack an overnight bag. I’ll be back to pick you up around noon.”
    “Are you telling me I should run and hide? Just because someone’s written on my door?”
    “This has nothing to do with your door. I just got a call from a cop out in upstate New York. Last night they found a woman’s body. It’s clearly a homicide.”
    “Why should a murder in New York concern us?”
    “She’s missing her left hand.”

TWENTY-FOUR
    August 8. Phase of the moon: Last Quarter.
    Every day, Teddy goes down to the lake.
    In the morning, I hear the squeal and slap of the screen door, and then I hear his shoes thump down the porch steps. From my window, I watch him walk from the house and head down toward the water, fishing pole propped on his thin shoulder, tackle box in hand. It is a strange ritual, and useless, I think, because he never brings back any fruits of his labor. Every afternoon, he returns empty-handed but cheerful.
    Today, I follow him.
    He does not see me as he rambles through the woods toward the water. I stay far enough behind him so that he can’t hear my footsteps. He is singing anyway, in his high and childish voice, an off-key version of the “Kookaburra” song, and is oblivious to the fact he is being watched. He reaches the water’s edge, baits his hook, and throws in his line. As the minutes pass, he settles onto the grassy bank and gazes across water so calm that not even a whisper of wind ruffles the mirrored surface.
    The fishing pole gives a twitch.
    I move closer as Teddy reels in his catch. It is a brownish fish and it writhes on the line, every muscle twitching in mortal terror. I wait for the fatal blow, for that sacred instant in time when the divine spark flickers out. But to my surprise, Teddy grasps his catch, pulls the hook from its mouth, and gently lowers the fish back into the water. He crouches close, murmuring to it, as though in apology for having inconvenienced its morning.
    “Why didn’t you keep it?” I ask.
    Teddy jerks straight, startled by my voice. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”
    “You let it go.”
    “I don’t like to kill them. It’s only a bass, anyway.”
    “So you throw them all back?”
    “Uh-huh.” Teddy baits his hook again and casts it into the water.
    “What’s the point of catching them, then?”
    “It’s fun. It’s like a game between us. Me and the fish.”
    I sit down beside him on the bank. Gnats buzz around our heads and Teddy waves them away. He has just turned eleven years old, but he still has a child’s perfectly smooth skin, and the golden baby fuzz on his face catches the sun’s glint. I am close enough to hear his breathing, to see the pulse throb in his slender neck. He does not seem bothered by my presence; in fact, he gives me a shy smile, as though this is a special treat, sharing the lazy morning with his older cousin.
    “You want to try?” he says, offering me the pole.
    I take it. But my attention remains on Teddy, on the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead, on the shadows cast by his eyelashes.
    The pole gives a tug.
    “You’ve got one!”
    I begin to reel it in, and the fish’s struggles make my hands sweat in anticipation. I can feel its thrashings, its desperation to live, transmitted through the pole. At last it breaks the water, its tail flapping as I swing it over the bank. I grab hold of slimy scales.
    “Now take out the hook,” says Teddy. “But be careful not to hurt him.”
    I look into the open tackle box and see a knife.
    “He can’t breathe out of water. Hurry.” Teddy urges me.
    I think about reaching for the knife, about holding the wriggling fish down against the grass and piercing it behind the gills. About slitting it open, all the way down the belly. I want to feel the fish give a last twitch, want to feel its life force leap directly into me in a bracing jolt—the same jolt I felt when I was ten years old and took the oath of Herem. When my mother at last brought me into the circle and handed me the knife. “You have reached the age,” she said. “It’s time to be one of us.” I think of the sacrificial goat’s final shudder, and I remember the pride in my mother’s eyes and the murmurs of approval