Nocturnes

  “When?”

  “Week or so back. Stabbed in the heart.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. I recalled a story from the Press Herald about a stabbing in Orono. It hadn’t mentioned Gunnar Tillman.

  “The story I read said Tierney was mugged in the parking lot of a bar. His body was hidden under trash bags.”

  “That’s where they found him.”

  “So where did he die?”

  “Near here. My father had him moved.”

  It explained why Gunnar was so jumpy.

  “Any idea who might have done it?”

  Casey shook his head.

  “Nobody has that kind of problem with my pop. Like I told you, he’s not into all that stuff now.”

  I didn’t believe Casey, but it didn’t matter.

  “There was a guy,” said Casey. “Billy said he’d seen him around. Thin, kind of greasy, long coat, looked like a bum, but a bum couldn’t have taken out Chris. No way.”

  I let him think that, even as I walked to my Mustang and remembered the sound that The Collector’s fingers had made as they danced upon its body.

  Detective Jansen called again later that day, when I was about to head over to Two Mile Lake to relieve Angel and Louis.

  “You say you were over at Czabo’s place?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you left your card?”

  “I slipped it under the door. Why?”

  “There was no card there when we searched the apartment. The landlord says that he hasn’t been near the place, and his wife told us that she doesn’t have a key. By the way, she spoke highly of you.”

  “I’ll bet. Do you like her for this?”

  “I don’t like her, period. If Czabo hadn’t been hit more than once, I would have put this down as a suicide.”

  “Does she have an alibi?”

  “Yeah. His name’s Casey Tillman. He’s a mechanic. He claims they went to New Hampshire a few weeks back for a couple of days’ R & R. If the dates match, they may be in the clear. We’re checking it. Tillman says there was no bad blood between him and Czabo. I’m inclined to believe him. The only thing suspect about him is his taste in women.”

  I wondered if Jansen had made the connection between Casey Tillman and his father. I recalled my promise to Tillman not to mention it unless I had to. I decided to keep it, for the present. Neither did I mention the photographs taken by Ray Czabo that I had in my possession. I hadn’t yet figured out a way to tell Jansen about them without landing me in serious trouble. Instead, I thanked him for keeping me informed. Jansen replied by letting me know that he wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of his heart, and he expected me to reciprocate. I told him that sharing was at the heart of any good relationship. He said he’d rather have a relationship with Ray Czabo’s old lady, then hung up.

  I thought about Ray Czabo on the way to Two Mile. He was no angel, and his actions in the past had led to him being beaten up more than once, usually with some justification, but it was unlikely that his ghoulish tendencies would lead someone to kill him. I recalled The Collector, standing in the flickering light behind Denny Maguire’s bar. I wondered if he kept a gun under those layers of old clothes along with a knife.

  Then again, Jansen might be wrong about Ray’s estranged wife, but I didn’t think so. A woman who has just killed her husband, or conspired in his death, is not going to be too concerned about an old injury to him caused by someone else. When Mrs. Czabo reminded me of my first encounter with her husband, the one that had left him with a broken nose, she seemed genuinely aggrieved on his behalf. She could simply have been putting on an act for my benefit, but I could see no percentage for her in that.

  All I knew for sure was that Ray Czabo’s death roughly coincided with the appearance of the photograph in the mailbox of the Grady house, and that someone had returned to his apartment after I’d been there, maybe to resume the search for something that had been missed the first time, or to ensure that there was no evidence left lying around. My guess was that, when the cops arrived, the apartment was neat and tidy, and the boxes that I had seen dislodged had been restored to their rightful place.

  If all of those events were linked, then a possible conclusion was that one of Ray’s excursions down to Two Mile had coincided with the appearance of the individual responsible for the photo in the mailbox, and that person had killed Ray in order to ensure that he didn’t tell anyone what he had seen. If that was the case, then Matheson had been right all along to worry. Pranksters don’t shoot people with a .22, because it’s hard to laugh with holes in the top of your head. The man—and I had no doubt that it was a man—who placed the picture of an unknown girl at the Grady house was deadly serious about what he was doing.

  It was time to talk to Chief Grass again, but when I called I was told that he wasn’t available. I left a message for him, but he didn’t call back.

  VIII

  By the tenth day, the surveillance was taking its toll upon me. Unlike Angel and Louis, I could not take a break and divide the duty with someone else, and my body clock was completely confused. Even though I slept when I returned home to Rachel, or grabbed a couple of hours on the sofa bed once Angel and Louis arrived, I still found myself drifting at times. Colors appeared too bright, and sounds were either muffled or painfully clear. Sometimes I was unable to tell if I was dreaming or waking. I spoke to Matheson once or twice, and informed him that what we were doing was untenable in the long term. I agreed to complete the second week of surveillance, once I had spoken to Angel and Louis and secured their consent, but it seemed like a lost cause. I was considering taking up Clem Ruddock on his offer of some help, especially as Rachel was due any day now and I wanted to be with her. I spent most of my time worrying about her. My cell phone was always close at hand, its ring tone muted but still audible, even in sleep.

  On the tenth night, I saw a figure moving among the trees beside the Grady house.

  I had heard no car approach, although in my shattered state I couldn’t be certain that I had not simply missed its approach. I rose and made my way through the farmhouse, stopping to retrieve my gun from the holster hanging on the back of the unmade sofa bed. It felt both strange and familiar in my hand, for it had been months since I had held it with even the vaguest intention of putting it to use. Finally, I made a call to Angel and Louis. If I was just being jumpy, the worst they could do was shout at me a little.

  I left through the front door, pulling it closed silently behind me so that the wind would not catch it and alert the presence in the woods to my approach. I made my way down the slope, sticking close to the trees, until I could smell the rotting of timbers and faint odor of smoke that hung about the place. I circled the trees, hoping to come up on the intruder from behind, but when I reached the spot where I had seen him he was gone, and there was only a stamped-out cigarette butt where I felt certain that The Collector had recently stood.

  I retreated to the periphery of the forest, shielding myself behind a tree, and scanned the property. I could see no sign of movement. It didn’t make me feel any less nervous. After a while, I made my way to the Grady house, keeping my back to its walls. I checked the sides, then approached the window of the old receiving room at the front of the house, to the left of the door. I thought of the figure in the mirror, caught by Ray Czabo’s flashbulb, but when I pressed my face to the crack in the wood I could see nothing in the darkness.

  I stepped away, and aimed my flashlight at the steel door barring entry to the house. The padlock was gone. I moved closer, and tested the door by pulling it toward me. It opened with some resistance, and a lot of noise. The main door behind it was already ajar. I pushed it open a little farther and stepped back, not sure what to expect, but there was no sound from within. After a couple of seconds spent debating my choice of career, I stepped inside.

  The smell of rot was stronger now, as was the chemical stench of the wallpaper pastes. A large strip of paper had come
loose from the wall of the entrance hall since I had been there last, and it hung at an angle like a bookmarked page, exposing the damp plaster beneath. I shined the flashlight on it and saw what looked like fragments of letters and drawings beneath the paper. I pulled the strip away.

  The wall was covered in writing and symbols, none of them familiar to me. I thought that the language might have been Latin, but the script was so faded it was impossible to tell. I tore another strip from the wall, and more writing was revealed, this time adorned with circles and stars. There was a purpose to this, but I could not guess what it might be. The smells of the house, seemingly intensified by my action in pulling away the paper, made me feel ill. I jammed a handkerchief to my nose and tried to breathe shallowly through my mouth as I moved toward the dining-room door. I pushed at it with my foot and entered.

  The connecting doors between the two rooms were open, as though in expectation of some great party that would now never take place. The mirrors stared down upon dusty floors and torn drapes. They should have reflected what I saw, but they did not. Instead, I saw in their decaying glass the gleam of lighted chandeliers, and expensive, hand-printed paper on the walls. The drapes were no longer faded and ripped, but vibrant and fresh. There were thick carpets upon the floors, and a dining table set for two people.

  I felt my shoe scuff the dust upon the bare boards under my feet. There was nothing in this room but filth and dead bugs, yet in the mirror I saw the house as it might have been. I passed through the connecting doors into the receiving room, and there glimpsed thick couches and matching smoking chairs, and walls lined with books, all reflected in the depths of the mirrors upon the walls.

  It’s his house, I thought. It’s Grady’s house, as he saw it in his own mind.

  I felt a presence behind me, but when I turned I saw only my own reflection in the mirror in the hallway, set against the wonders of the ornate rooms at my back. But something else was there, waiting in the glass. I sensed it, even as my vision swam and a coughing racked my body as the stench of old glue and damp seemed to grow stronger.

  Then I noticed for the first time that the door to the basement was no longer closed and locked. I knew there was another mirror on the door, and that if I looked into its face I would see more figments of John Grady’s imagination, somehow wheedling their way into my consciousness.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  And a voice answered, and I thought it sounded like the voice of a little girl.

  I’m here, it said. Can you see me?

  I moved the flashlight, trying to find the source of the voice.

  Here. I’m here. Behind you.

  And when I spun there was a mirror, and in the mirror I saw a child, her hair matted and dirty, her red dress torn. Farther back I saw another little girl, with pale cheeks and torn skin. The girl who had spoken pressed herself to the mirror as though it were glass, and I saw her skin flatten against it.

  He’s here, she said. He never left.

  From the corner of my eye I saw a darkness pass across the mirror in the dining room. It was the figure of a man, blurred like a bad projection. It moved quickly, shifting from mirror to mirror, progressing toward the hallway.

  He’s coming, said the little girl, and then she and her companion were gone.

  I raised my gun. It seemed that everywhere I looked there was movement, and I thought I heard a child’s voice raised in fear.

  I shook my head. Now the sounds came from below me, from the basement, and I made my way toward them. In the mirror upon the door, I saw myself trapped in the Grady house that never was. The stairs to the basement descended before me. The flashlight beam illuminated strands of cobweb, the stone floor, and a single chair that stood beneath the empty light socket. It was small, too small for an adult to use, but the perfect size for a child. There were more mirrors on the walls here, but they showed no beautiful furnishings, no carpets or drapes. This was Grady’s killing place, and he had no need of beauty here. I passed from mirror to mirror, my light angled away from the glass. I saw myself reflected, again and again and again.

  And for a brief instant I saw another man’s face, suspended behind mine, before it retreated once again into the shadows. I raised my gun, aimed it at the glass—

  Then stopped. There came the sound of footsteps above me, approaching the cellar door through the main hallway. I killed the flashlight and retreated into the darkness, just as another light came from above. I heard a man’s breathing, and the creaking of the banister rail as he placed his weight upon it, and then his figure came into view. He was a big man, and over his left shoulder he carried a sack. The sack was moving.

  “Almost there,” he said.

  The flashlight jogged in his hand as he reached the floor of the basement. Gently, he placed the sack on the ground, then unscrewed the head of the flashlight so that its bulb became a candle, and in its glow I saw his face.

  “Don’t move,” I said, as I emerged from the darkness by the stair.

  Chief Grass didn’t look as surprised as he should have done, under the circumstances. Instead, his eyes had a slightly glazed look to them. I saw the gun in his left hand, previously hidden from me by the sack. It was lodged against the head of the child inside.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “He won’t like it.”

  “Who won’t like it?” I said.

  “Mr. Grady. He doesn’t like strangers in his home.”

  “What about you? Aren’t you a stranger too?”

  Grass snickered. It was an unpleasant sound.

  “Oh no,” he said. “I’ve been coming here for a long, long time. It took a while for Mr. Grady to begin to trust me, but once he did, well, everything was fine. We talk a lot. He’s lonely. I brought him some company, some new blood.”

  He kicked the sack, and the child within gave a muffled cry.

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Lisette,” replied Grass. “She’s very pretty, but then, you’ve seen her picture.”

  Pretty.

  I heard a distant voice echo the word, and in the mirror at Grass’s back I saw John Grady reflected. His fingertips pressed against the glass, flattening as the dead child’s skin had done, and he stared down at the shape of the little girl moving feebly in the sack. I saw his prominent chin, curved and jutting, his neat hair, the little stained bow tie at his neck. His lips moved constantly in a litany of desire, the words now unintelligible but their import clear.

  “It’s the house, Grass,” I said. “It’s making you do this. It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. Put the gun down.”

  Grass shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “Mr. Grady—”

  “Grady is dead,” I said.

  “No, he’s here.”

  “Listen to me, Grass. Something in this house has affected you. You’re not thinking clearly. We need to get you out. I’m taking the girl, and then we’re all going to leave.”

  For the first time, Grass looked uncertain.

  “He told me to bring her. He chose her. Out of all the girls I showed him, he chose this one.”

  “No,” I said. “You imagined it. You’ve spent too long here. Everything about this place is poisonous, and somehow it’s burrowed into your mind.”

  Grass’s gun wavered slightly. He looked from me to the girl on the ground, then back again.

  “It’s infected your thoughts, Grass. You don’t want to hurt this little girl. You’re a cop. You have to protect her, just like you protected Denny Maguire. Let her go. You must let her go.”

  But I was not sure that I believed all that I was saying, for I saw John Grady’s eyes turn upon me in the mirror, and his lips formed the single word:

  No.

  Grass seemed to hear it, and the doubt left his eyes. He forced the gun harder against the girl’s skull, then lifted the sack up, holding his prize beneath his arm as he began retreating up the stairs. I followed him all the way, reaching the top of the steps as he moved into
the hallway, his back to the wall as he made for the safety of his vehicle parked outside.

  Two figures blocked the doorway.

  “Now where do you think you’re going?” said Louis. He stood on the porch with his gun raised before him. Angel knelt below him, his own gun pointed at Grass. Seconds later, I added a third.

  Grass stopped, caught between us.

  “Let her go,” I said. “It’s all over.”

  Grass was shaking his head, muttering something that I couldn’t understand. He stared straight ahead and saw his reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t see what he was looking at because the angle was wrong, but it was clear from the expression on his face that I wasn’t the only one hallucinating in the Grady house.

  “Chief, you rescued Denny Maguire from here,” I said. I could hear the desperation in my voice. “Remember? You brought him out. You saved his life. You saved a child’s life. You’re not a killer. This is not you. It’s the house. Listen to me. It’s not your fault. It’s something in the house.”

  Slowly, Grass released his grip on the sack and let it fall to the floor, although his gun remained pointing at it. I could hear the girl crying, but I thought that I could also hear another voice. It was whispering, spilling foul words into Grass’s ear.

  “Don’t listen to him,” I said. “Please. Just put the gun down.”

  Grass’s face crumpled. He began to cry, and I was reminded of Denny Maguire weeping in his bar: two men, linked by the evil of John Grady.

  “Chief,” I said.

  He raised the gun and pointed it at the mirror before him.

  “Put it down,” I said.

  Grass was sobbing now.

  “This is not a house,” he said.

  He cocked the pistol—“This is not a house,” he repeated—and turned to look at me as the gun suddenly swung toward him, the muzzle coming to rest against his temple.

  “This is—”

  He pulled the trigger, and the walls went red.

  IX