The Dark Half

  "Maybe he just didn't want to be recognized," Liz said. "Remember, Thad was in People magazine barely two weeks ago. Coast to coast. "

  "Yeah, that's a possibility. Although if this guy also looks like your husband, Mrs. Beaumont--"

  "Liz. "

  "Okay, Liz. If he looks like your husband, he'd look like Thad Beaumont with blonde hair, wouldn't he?"

  Liz looked fixedly at Thad for a moment and then began to giggle.

  "What's so funny?" Thad asked.

  "I'm trying to imagine you blonde," she said, still giggling. "I think you'd look like a very depraved David Bowie. "

  "Is that funny?" Thad asked Alan. "I don't think that's funny. "

  "Well. . ." Alan said, smiling.

  "Never mind. The guy could have been wearing sunglasses and deelie-boppers as well as a blonde wig, for all we know. "

  "Not if the killer was the same guy Mrs. Arsenault saw getting into Homer's truck at quarter of one in the morning of June first," Alan said.

  Thad leaned forward. "Did he look like me?" he asked.

  "She couldn't tell much except that he was wearing a suit. For what it's worth, I had one of my men, Norris Ridgewick, show her your picture today. She said she didn't think it was you, although she couldn't say for sure. She said she thought the man who got into Homer's truck was bigger." He added dryly: "That's one lady who believes in erring on the side of caution. "

  "She could tell a size difference from a picture?" Liz asked doubtfully.

  "She's seen Thad around town, summers," Alan said. "And she did say she couldn't be sure. "

  Liz nodded. "Of course she knows him. Both of us, for that matter. We buy fresh stuff at their vegetable stand all the time. Dumb. Sorry. "

  "Nothing to apologize for," Alan said. He finished his beer and checked his crotch. Dry. Good. There was a light stain there, probably not anything anyone but his wife would notice. "Anyhow, that brings me to the last point. . . or aspect . . . or whatever the hell you want to call it. I doubt if it's even a part of this, but it never hurts to check. What's your shoe-size, Mr. Beaumont?"

  Thad glanced at Liz, who shrugged. "I've got pretty small paws for a guy who goes six-one, I guess. I take a size ten, although half a size either way is--"

  "The prints reported to us were probably bigger than that," Alan said. "I don't think the prints are a part of it, anyway, and even if they are, footprints can be faked. Stick some newspaper in the toes of shoes two or even three sizes too big for you and you're set. "

  "What footprints are these?" Thad asked.

  "Doesn't matter," Alan said, shaking his head. "We don't even have photos. I think we've got almost everything on the table that belongs there, Thad. Your fingerprints, your blood-type, your brand of cigarettes--"

  "He doesn't--" Liz began.

  Alan held up a placatory hand. "Old brand of cigarettes. I suppose I could be crazy for letting you in on all this--there's a part of me that says I am, anyway--but as long as we've gone this far, there's no sense ignoring the forest while we look at a few trees. You're tied in other ways, as well. Castle Rock is your legal residence as well as Ludlow, being as how you pay taxes in both places. Homer Gamache was more than just an acquaintance; he did . . . would odd jobs be correct?"

  "Yes," Liz said. "He retired from full-time caretaking the year we bought the house--Dave Phillips and Charlie Fortin take turns doing that now--but he liked to keep his band in. "

  "If we assume that the hitchhiker Mrs. Arsenault observed killed Homer--and that's the assumption we're going on--a question arises. Did the hitchhiker kill him because Homer was the first person to come along who was stupid enough--or drunk enough--to pick him up, or did he kill him because he was Homer Gamache, acquaintance of Thad Beaumont?"

  "How could he know Homer would come along?" Liz asked.

  "Because it was Homer's bowling night, and Homer is--was--a creature of habit. He was like an old horse, Liz; he always went back to the barn by the same route. "

  "Your first assumption," Thad said, "was that Homer didn't stop because he was drunk but because he recognized the hitchhiker. A stranger who wanted to kill Homer wouldn't have tried the hitchhiking ploy at all. He would have figured it for a long shot, if not a totally lost cause. "

  "Yes. "

  "Thad," Liz said in a voice which would not quite remain steady. "The police thought he stopped because he saw it was Thad . . . didn't they?"

  "Yes," Thad said. He reached across and took her hand. "They thought only someone like me--someone who knew him--would even try it that way. I suppose even the suit fits in. What else does the well-dressed writer wear when he's planning on doing murder in the country at one o'clock in the morning? The good tweed, of course . . . the one with the brown suede patches on the elbows of the jacket. All the British mysteries insist it's absolutely de rigueur. "

  He looked at Alan.

  "It's pretty goddamned odd, isn't it? The whole thing. "

  Alan nodded. "It's as odd as a cod. Mrs. Arsenault thought he'd started to cross the road or was at least on the verge of it when Homer came poking along in his pick-up. But the fact that you also knew this Clawson fellow in D. C. makes it seem more and more likely that Homer was killed because of who he was, not just because he was drunk enough to stop. So let's talk about Frederick Clawson, Thad. Tell me about him. "

  Thad and Liz exchanged a glance.

  "I think," Thad said, "that my wife might do the job more quickly and concisely than I could. She'll also swear less, I think. "

  "Are you sure you want me to do it?" Liz asked him.

  Thad nodded. Liz began to speak, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Thad interrupted once or twice near the start, then settled back, content to listen. For the next half-hour, he hardly spoke. Alan Pangborn took out his notebook and jotted in it, but after a few initial questions, he did not interrupt much, either.

  Nine

  THE INVASION OF THE CREEPAZOID

  1

  "I call him a Creepazoid," Liz began. "I'm sorry that he's dead . . . but that's what he was, just the same. I don't know if genuine Creepazoids are born or made, but they rise to their own slimy station in life either way, so I guess it doesn't matter. Frederick Clawson's happened to be Washington, D. C. He went to the biggest legal snake-pit on earth to study for the bar.

  "Thad, the kiddos are stirring--will you give them their night-bottles? And I'd like another beer, please. "

  He got her the beer and then went out into the kitchen to warm the bottles. He wedged the kitchen door open so he could hear better . . . and slammed his kneecap in the process. This was something he had done so many times before that he barely noticed it.

  The sparrows are flying again, he thought, and rubbed at the scar on his forehead as be first filled a saucepan with warm water, then put it on the stove. Now if I only knew what the fuck that means.

  "We eventually got most of this story from Clawson himself," Liz went on, "but his perspective was naturally a little skewed--Thad likes to say all of us are the heroes of our own lives, and according to Clawson he was more of a Boswell than a Creepazoid . . . but we were able to put together a more balanced version by adding stuff we got from the people at Darwin Press, which published the novels Thad wrote under Stark's name, and the stuff Rick Cowley passed along. "

  "Who is Rick Cowley?" Alan asked.

  "The literary agent who handled Thad under both names. "

  "And what did Clawson--your Creepazoid--want?"

  "Money," Liz said dryly.

  In the kitchen, Thad took the two night-bottles (only half full to help cut down on those inconvenient changes in the middle of the night) from the fridge and popped them in the pan of water. What Liz had said was right . . . but it was also wrong. Clawson had wanted a great deal more than money.

  Liz might have read his mind.

  "Not that money was all he wanted. I'm not even sure that was the main thing. He also wanted to be known as the man who exposed Geo
rge Stark's real identity. "

  "Sort of like being the one who finally manages to unmask The Incredible Spider-Man?"

  "Exactly. "

  Thad put a finger in the saucepan to test the water, then leaned back against the stove with his arms crossed, listening. He realized that he wanted a cigarette--for the first time in years he wanted a cigarette again.

  Thad shivered.

  2

  "Clawson was in too many right places at too many right times," Liz said. "Not only was he a law student, he was a part-time bookstore clerk. Not only was he a bookstore clerk, he was an avid fan of George Stark's. And he may have been the only George Stark fan in the country who had also read Thad Beaumont's two novels. "

  In the kitchen, Thad grinned--not without some sourness--and tested the water in the saucepan again.

  "I think he wanted to create some sort of grand drama out of his suspicions," Liz went on. "As things turned out, he had to work his fanny off to rise above the pedestrian. Once he had decided Stark was really Beaumont and vice-versa, he called Darwin Press. "

  "Stark's book publisher. "

  "Right. He got to Ellie Golden, the woman who edited the Stark novels. He asked the question straight out--please tell me if George Stark is really Thaddeus Beaumont. Ellie said the idea was ridiculous. Clawson then asked about the author photo on the back of the Stark novels. He said he wanted the address of the man in the picture. Ellie told him she couldn't give out the addresses of the publishing company's authors.

  "Clawson said, 'I don't want Stark's address, I want the address of the man in the picture. The man posing as Stark. ' Ellie told him he was being ridiculous--that the man in the author photo was George Stark. "

  "Previous to this, the publisher never came out and said it was just a pen name?" Alan asked. He sounded genuinely curious. "They took the position that he was a real man all along?"

  "Oh yes--Thad insisted. "

  Yes, he thought, taking the bottles out of the saucepan and testing the milk against the inside of his wrist. Thad insisted. In retrospect, Thad doesn't know just why he insisted, does not in fact have the slightest idea, but Thad did indeed insist.

  He took the bottles back into the living room, avoiding a collision with the kitchen table on the way. He gave a bottle to each twin. They hoisted them solemnly, sleepily, and began to suck. Thad sat down again. He listened to Liz and told himself that the thought of a cigarette was the furthest thing from his mind.

  "Anyway," Liz said, "Clawson wanted to ask more questions--he had a whole truckload of them, I guess--but Ellie wouldn't play. She told him to call Rick Cowley and then hung up on him. Clawson then called Rick's office and got Miriam. She's Rick's ex-wife. Also his partner in the agency. The arrangement's a little odd, but they get along very well.

  "Clawson asked her the same thing--if George Stark was really Thad Beaumont. According to Miriam, she told him yes. Also that she was Dolley Madison. 'I've divorced James, ' she said, 'Thad is divorcing Liz, and we two shall marry in the spring!' And hung up. She then rushed into Rick's office and told him some guy in Washington, D. C., was prying around the edges of Thad's secret identity. After that, Clawson's calls to Cowley Associates netted him nothing but quick hang-ups. "

  Liz took a long swallow of her beer.

  "He didn't give up, though. I've decided that real Creepazoids never do. He just decided that pretty-please wasn't going to work. "

  "And he didn't call Thad?" Alan asked.

  "No, not once. "

  "You have an unlisted number, I suppose. "

  Thad made one of his few direct contributions to the story. "We're not listed in the public directories, Alan, but the phone here in Ludlow is listed in the Faculty Directory. It has to be. I'm a teacher, and I have advisees. "

  "But the guy never went directly to the horse's mouth," Alan marvelled.

  "He got in touch later on . . . by letter," Liz said. "But that's getting ahead of things. Should I go on?"

  "Please," Alan said. "It's a fascinating story in its own right. "

  "Well," Liz said, "it took our Creepazoid just three weeks and probably less than five hundred dollars to ferret out what he was positive about all along--that Thad and George Stark were the same man.

  "He started with Literary Market Place, which publishing types just call LMP. It's a digest of names, addresses, and business phone numbers for just about everyone in the field--writers, editors, publishers, agents. Using that and the 'People' column in Publishers Weekly, he managed to isolate half a dozen Darwin Press employees who left the company between the summer of 1986 and the summer of 1987.

  "One of them had the information and was willing to spill it. Ellie Golden's pretty sure the culprit was the girl who was the chief comptroller's secretary for eight months in '85 and '86. Ellie called her a slut from Vassar with bad nasal habits. "

  Alan laughed.

  "Thad believes that's who it was, too," Liz went on, "because the smoking gun turned out to be photostats of royalty statements for George Stark. They came from the office of Roland Burrets. "

  "The Darwin Press chief comptroller," Thad said. He was watching the twins while he listened. They were lying on their backs now, sleep-suited feet pressed chummily together, bottles pointed toward the ceiling. Their eyes were glassy and distant. Soon, he knew, they would fall asleep for the night . . . and when they did, they would do it together. They do everything together, Thad thought. The babies are sleepy and the sparrows are flying.

  He touched the scar again.

  "Thad's name wasn't on the photostats," Liz said. "Royalty statements sometimes lead to checks, but they're not checks themselves, so it didn't have to appear there. You follow that, don't you?"

  Alan nodded.

  "But the address still told him most of what he needed to know. It was Mr. George Stark, P. O. Box 1642, Brewer, Maine 04412. That's a long way from Mississippi, where Stark was supposed to live. A look at a Maine map would have told him that the town immediately south of Brewer is Ludlow, and he knew what well-regarded if not exactly famous writer lived there. Thaddeus Beaumont. What a coincidence.

  "Neither Thad nor I ever saw him in person, but he saw Thad. He knew when Darwin Press mailed out its quarterly royalty checks from the photostats he had already received. Most royalty checks go to the author's agent first. Then the agent issues a new one, which reflects the original amount minus his commission. But in Stark's case, the comptroller mailed the checks directly to the Brewer post office box. "

  "What about the agent's commission?" Alan asked.

  "Clipped off the total amount at Darwin Press and sent to Rick by separate check," Liz said. "That would have been another dear signal to Clawson that George Stark wasn't what he claimed to be . . . only by then, Clawson didn't need any more dues. He wanted hard proof. And set out to get it.

  "When it was time for the royalty check to be issued, Clawson flew up here. He stayed at the Holiday Inn nights; he spent his days 'staking out' the Brewer post office. That's exactly bow he put it in the letter Thad got later on. It was a stakeout. All very film noir. It was a pretty cut-rate investigation, though. If 'Stark' hadn't shown up to collect his check on the fourth day of his stay, Clawson would have had to fold his tent and steal back into the night. But I don't think it would have ended there. When a genuine Creepazoid gets his teeth in you, he doesn't let go until he's bitten out a big chunk. "

  "Or until you knock his teeth out," Thad grunted. He saw Alan turn in his direction, eyebrows raised, and grimaced. Bad choice of words. Someone had apparently done just that to Liz's Creepazoid . . . or something even worse.

  "It's a moot question, anyway," Liz resumed, and Alan turned back to her. "It didn't take that long. On the third day, while he was sitting on a park bench across from the post office, he saw Thad's Suburban pull into one of the ten-minute parking slots near the post office. "

  Liz took another swallow of beer and wiped foam off her upper lip. When her hand came away, she wa
s smiling.

  "Now here's the part I like," she said. "It's just d-d-delicious, as the gay fellow in Brideshead Revisited used to say. Clawson had a camera. This little tiny camera, the sort you can cup in the palm of your hand. When you're ready to take your shot, you just spread your fingers a little to let the lens peek through, and bingo! There you are. "

  She giggled a little, shaking her head at the image.

  "He said in his letter he got it from some catalogue that sells spy gear--telephone bugs, goo you swab on envelopes to turn them transparent for ten or fifteen minutes, self-destructing briefcases, stuff like that. Secret Agent X-9 Clawson, reporting for duty. I bet he would have gotten a hollow tooth filled with cyanide if it was legal to sell them. He was heavily into the image.

  "Anyhow, he got half a dozen fairly passable photos. Not arty stuff, but you could see who the subject was and what he was doing. There was a shot of Thad approaching the post office boxes in the lobby, a shot of Thad putting his key into box 1642, and one of him removing an envelope. "

  "He sent you copies of these?" Alan asked. She had said he wanted money, and Alan guessed the lady knew what she was talking about. The setup did more than smell of blackmail; it reeked of it.

  "Oh yes. And an enlargement of the last one. You can read part of the return address--the letters DARW, and you can clearly make out the Darwin Press colophon above it. "

  "X-9 strikes again," Alan said.

  "Yes. X-9 strikes again. He got the photos developed, and then he flew back to Washington. We got his letter, with the photos included, only a few days later. The letter was really marvelous. He skated up to the edge of threat, but never once over the edge. "

  "He was a law student," Thad said.

  "Yes," Liz agreed. "He knew just how far he could go, apparently. Thad can get you the letter, but I can paraphrase. He started by saying how much he admired both halves of what he called Thad's 'divided mind. ' He recounted what he'd found out and how he'd done it. Then he went on to his real business. He was very careful about showing us the hook, but the hook was there. He said he was an aspiring writer himself, but he didn't have much time to write--his law studies were demanding, but that was only part of it. The real problem, he said, was that he had to work in a bookstore to help pay his tuition and other bills. He said he would like to show Thad some of his work, and if Thad thought it showed promise, perhaps he might feel moved to put together an assistance package to help him along the way. "