Red Equinox Read Online Free PDF Page A

glance at the stagnant water in the basin, and turned to go. Becca couldn’t resist snapping a couple of shots of the birdbath (a concrete basin on a pedestal inlaid with a mosaic of colored glass) and the robed figure drifting out of focus in the background. At the sound of the shutter, the man spun around, the long, bony finger of his right hand outstretched in an accusatory stab, a gold ring with an onyx stone catching the light.
    “Give me the memory card,” he demanded.
    “Like hell.”
    “You took my picture without permission. It belongs to me.”
    “Uh-uh.” She shook her head, cradled the camera to her solar plexus, and stepped backward into the shelter of the building, feeling like a fool.
    The old man glanced at her companion and must have seen something there to give him pause—one of those mirages of posture and facial expression that the good-natured Raf could summon in an instant if he found himself on the wrong side of the street. The man dropped his hand to his side.
    “Why are you spying on me? Why do you take my picture?”
    “I’m sorry, I should have asked. It’s not spying. It’s art.”
    The man scoffed.
    “I’m Becca—”
    “Jesus, Bec, don’t. ” Rafael interjected.
    “My grandfather lived here for a while,” she said. “What’s your name?”
    His anger seemed to have abated, but he still paused before answering. “John Proctor. And your last name, young lady?”
    “Philips.”
    “I don’t know the name. Your grandfather was an inmate here?” he looked up at the clouds passing over the remaining windows as if he might see long-gone residents there, staring down at him.
    “Peter Philips,” she said.
    “I had family here as well, of a kind.”
    “Did they die here?”
    His eyes drifted down and locked on hers again. Not all of the fire was gone from them.
    “That’s why you pray here,” she said. “I’m sorry. For intruding, I mean…and invading your privacy.”
    He looked at the camera and Becca deflated. “Look, I can’t afford to give you the card, but I’ll delete the pictures if you want. You can watch me do it.” The offer pained her. She had a gut feeling they were good.
    “Is it a video; with my voice, my prayers?”
    “No, just pictures.”
    John Proctor waved his hand, shuffled his feet, and turned away. Something rattled as his hand dipped into his pocket and she saw a trail of black beads on a string vanishing into his frock, a rosary of the same stone set in his gold ring. She felt an impulse and acted on it while his back was turned, slipped a finger under the chain around her neck, and flipped the scarab from under the little bit of fabric that had concealed it. “You don’t care about the pictures?” she called after him, “Just your voice?”
    He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway. The prayers are broken.”
    It seemed such an odd thing to say. “How can a prayer be broken?”
    He looked back, still walking away, and said, “It would mean nothing to you, but a man named Jeremy Levenda was once imprisoned here. Not my blood, but a brother nonetheless. He had the gift of tongues, a gift long ago rinsed from my race by bad breeding. One day he stood in this courtyard and summoned something glorious from the waters of this bath. And that was the last time the world has ever known such a thing. Still…I try. But as I said, the prayers are broken. And so am I.”
    The sun emerged and traced a wedge of light across the weedy ground. Becca leaned into it, still wondering why the chant had sounded familiar, and saw the reflection of the scarab heliographing across the man’s tattooed face. It had a transforming effect: his eyes dilated, he stumbled, his finger went up again. “Where did you get that?”
    She touched the cold metal, and he flinched as if she’d drawn a weapon. This wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for. She’d wanted his curiosity, not this fear written so plainly on his face. Any hope that he might tell her more about