Within days Blast His Eyes stepped neatly into the top ten hardback list. John and Val Newton went house hunting. And here they were.
"And here I am," John murmured, turning back to the computer screen. "Hunting for a follow-up."
He stared at the screen for a full five minutes. Then he closed down the computer.
"Damn it." He couldn't settle. As much as anything it was the events of the last twenty-four hours. Wondering about the origins of that letter he'd found in the garden had been nibbling away in the back of his head. Now he'd just learned that the Haslems had received the same-or similar letter. They'd burnt it in what looked like a good deal of panic, then fled the village.
But was there a connection between them running out like that and the letter? Was it just coincidence?
Leaning back in the chair, he stared into the blank eye of the computer screen. That blank glass eye stared right back into his, challenging him to make the connection. He felt a growing edginess. There were questions to be answered. He knew it. But then he should be working.
What's more it was no real business of his how people reacted to letters that were probably, when all's said and done, a prank.
But some weird prank. He poured more coffee. This was going to be a real caffeine bender today but so what… Restless, he switched on the radio, surfed through the channels, switched it off again, then picked up the letter that had arrived so mysteriously in the dead of night.
Mysteriously?
There you go again John Newton, he told himself, shaking his head. You've got a weakness for melodrama-just like old Lord Paxton-Wellman had a passion for backgammon.
He stood with the coffee cup in one hand, the letter in the other, and read it through again:
Dear Messr. John Newt'n,
I should wish yew put me a pound of chock latt on the grief stowne of Jess Bowen by the Sabbath night. Yew will be sorry if yew do not.
Come on, please! Why had the prankster's imagination conked out at the end? Surely he or she could have signed off with some cryptic name-Mr. X. or Miss Y at least. Then why not something lurid like Yours Truly, the Skelbrooke Mangier or Billy Razor Hands?
All that for a bar of chocolate?
So why go to all the trouble of using what appeared to be genuine antique paper complete with Gothic handwriting right out of Edgar Allan Poe?
He took a hit of coffee. These questions had gotten under his skin. They itched so much he wanted to scratch them right out of there. His mind went back twenty-four hours. Keith Haslem's ranting as he bundled his family into the car was memorable enough. When Audrey Haslem complained to her husband that his language might be a tad colorful for the neighborhood he'd retorted: 'I don't care about the fucking neighbors. If the neighbors had any fucking sense they'd be clearing out, too.'
There was no doubt that Keith believed his family faced some kind of threat. They had been running away from danger. It's possible that Keith had dealings with the underworld (OK, it didn't seem that likely); in which case he might need to skip town. But then it didn't explain 'if the neighbors had any fucking sense they'd be clearing out, too.'
Unless, that is, the man had got a bunch of terrorists so stinking angry they were going to nuke the whole village. Admittedly, that was pretty unlikely.
John raised the letter to the window. Enough daylight filtered through to reveal the watermark of a face in profile. Yea Gods. An ugly gargoyle face at that. He cast his mind back to when Mr. and Mrs. Gregory were looking for Mrs. Gregory's father. John didn't recall the exact words, Mrs. Gregory's language wasn't as memorably colorful as Keith Haslem's, but John would swear she'd been talking about a letter, too. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand again, frowning as he tried to remember.
Yes… she told her husband that the old man had been upset by the arrival of a letter. But what kind of letter? A credit card statement? A letter from a long lost lover? A demand for unpaid taxes?
"Not on your life," John murmured. "He'd got one of these, too." He laid the letter out on his desk.
Now. If he was to visit the old man at the Gregory home, would he find a letter just like this one? A letter not that dissimilar from the one burned to ashes in the Haslem birdbath?
He felt a tingling in his spine. Accompanying that came a restless excitement. This was exactly the same sensation he experienced when he climbed into the attic in Lincoln to find Paxton-Wellman's hidden box of treasures.
He'd caught a mystery by the tail and he knew it. The detective inside of him burned to uncover the secret of the letter. Dammitt. He should be sitting down to that first chapter of Without Trace, but he knew he couldn't settle. OK, he told himself, you've got one hour to get this out of your system. Then you get back to the computer and damn well write.
Moments later he walked through the front door, while calling back at the dog, "I'll only be a few minutes, Sam. You guard the place until I get back."
Then he followed the old Roman road into the village, thinking how he could phrase what might seem a bizarre question-and hoping he wasn't going to make a complete fool of himself.
CHAPTER 9
1
John Newton bought the information he required for the price of a couple of postage stamps. Yesterday, he'd seen the old man being followed up the lane by Martin Marcello, and as in most small villages the prime source of local information is the man or woman behind the counter at the post office. All he need do was bide his time until there was no-one else waiting to be served, approach the counter and say, "Morning, Martin. How are you keeping?"
"Fine, John. I'll be even better on Tuesday, once I'm on that beach."
"Oh, Val mentioned you were going away for a couple of weeks."
"I am. And I'm more than ready for it. Are you still busy writing those bestsellers?"
"I'm doing my best." He smiled. "Oh, I saw you up near my house yesterday morning."
"Ah, yes. Our ration of excitement for the day." Martin pushed the change under the security screen toward John. "I was stocking the shelves across there when I saw old Stan Price heading out of the village as fast as his legs could carry him. All he was wearing were pajamas and a ridiculous straw hat. God, I tell you, John. I hope when my time comes I go just like that." He snapped his fingers.
"Stan Price?" John deliberately formed an expression of someone not familiar with the name.
"You won't know old Stan, will you? He used to be a big cheese in Skelbrooke. You see those prints on the wall?"
John looked at a set of framed prints showing Skelbrooke's noted landmarks-the village hall, pub, church and some of the bigger houses.
"That one right at the end… no, to your left John. The big house painted yellow. That's where Stan lives."
John saw a house name.
"Ezy View House, Skelbrooke… Ezy?"
"It's pronounced Easy. Ezy View was the name of Stan Price's chain of TV rental stores. You know, he was the first person in Skelbrooke to own a color television set. Kids used to climb onto the garden wall to try and get a look at it through the windows. He knew what we were up to but he'd never chase us away." Martin rubbed his jaw, remembering. "Stan was a nice guy. He did a lot for Skelbrooke. And they do say that when local people fell on hard times he'd help them out. But there's no justice… he's completely senile now."
"You managed to get him safely back home, though?"
"For what it's worth. All that money he's got in the bank and he can't even remember what day of the week it is."
John saw that the conversation was petering out. Martin had turned away to start sticking postage stamps on a parcel.
John tried a little pump-priming. "Doesn't his daughter look after him?"
"Oh aye. He first started getting confused three or four years ago. He'd go up to the Water Mill asking to see some people who'd long gone from there. In the end his daughter and son-in-law moved in to look after him."
"It must take some doing… giving up your home to look after a
senile relative."
Martin shot John a worldly glance. "The daughter's OK, a bit on the shy side perhaps, but the son-in-law strikes me as an out-and-out bloodsucker." Martin dropped his voice in a secrets-to-be-told whisper. "By all accounts the home they gave up was a pokey rented room. When they first got here Robert Gregory-he's the son-in-law-wore baggy arsed jeans and T-shirts that looked as if rats had been at them. Now he struts round in made-to-measure suits like he's heir to the manor… which in a manner of speaking he is." The door chimed as another customer entered the post office. Martin touched his nose. "He's just waiting for the old boy to pop his clogs… Now, what's it to be Mrs. Machen? The usual?"
John stepped back to allow the customer through to the counter.
"Have a good trip if I don't see you before," John said, satisfied with the information he'd gathered. "Pass on my best to Brenda."
"Will do… oh, John, don't forget your stamps."
"Thanks." John picked them up then slipped out of the post office.
Now he knew where to find the old man. But broaching the question of the letter was going to be a bit tricky. So, what should he do? Simply appear at the front door and say, Mrs. Gregory, I received a bizarre letter the other day. I think you got one too.
But then why on earth was he going to all this trouble over a hoax letter? The truth of the matter was that this whole thing had started a tingling in his bloodstream. He felt the same way when he'd visited the county archive office in Lincoln with the intention of checking old newspaper reports about the Paxton-Wellman case. Suddenly it had occurred to him to take a look at the Lincoln census of 1887. Logically it was a waste of time, but he'd felt that tingle, as if intuitively he knew he would find an important nugget of information. After two hours plowing through lists of property addresses and their occupants he had turned up one Mr. Zephraim Gordon, which was a known alias of Lord Paxton-Wellman. Hey presto. John Newton had discovered a hitherto unknown safe house of the aristocratic burglar.
Now that same tingle ran through his blood. He instinctively knew he was on to something bigger than a mere hoax perpetrated by a bored school kid. After all, a letter that was a mere practical joke wouldn't have provoked that kind of dramatic response in Keith Haslem, would it? Not to the extent that he'd run from the village like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse were riding his way.
The yellow house he now knew as Ezy View lay just a minute's walk away. He realized he'd have to concoct some plausible reason why he was going to ask the questions he planned to ask. If he got it wrong he'd have the door shut in his face. That would be the end of that. Maybe he should play it straight? He'd be the concerned resident of Skelbrooke who'd received a letter. Now he'd heard that the old man had gotten one, too.
Oh well, he thought, here goes.
2
The playground vibrated with excitement. Elizabeth's bandage trailed loose again as she ran with a group of boys her own age. They reached a corner of the playground where a girl from the top year was telling everyone what she had seen. "Then they brought him out on a stretcher."
"What was he like?"
"Did you see any blood?"
The girl shook her head. "He was all covered up. My dad said it was a body bag."
"Then you didn't see his face?"
"No. But I could see the blood from my brother's bedroom. He's got a telescope like they have on Johnny Quest. We could even see the murderer's footprints made from blood."
The kids buzzed with excitement.
"Who got killed?" asked a girl from second year, her eyes wide.
"A little kid called Liam Thorp. Now his mother's run away."
Voices rose into a squeal of delicious terror.
"Did his mother kill him?"
"Gross!"
"No," the older girl replied. "His mother didn't kill him." She paused for effect. "It was Baby Bones."
At once the children took up the chant.
"Baby Bones! Baby Bones! Baby Bones!"
3
From way off in the distance John could hear the chanting coming from Elizabeth's school. He couldn't quite make out the words. They seemed to shimmer on the summer air, growing louder, then softer before coming back stronger than ever to echo from old cottage walls. Perhaps Elizabeth was one of the chanters. He smiled to himself. She always tended to be in the middle of things.
The yellow house lay ahead of him. It was probably a good couple of centuries old. Tiles dipped here and there with the curve of ancient roof timbers. Cedars stood in the garden, while well-tended lawns rolled up to the house itself. A wall ran at shoulder height around the garden. This must be the very same wall that Martin Marcello and his friends had stood on long ago to catch that first glimpse of color television.
It was certainly a peaceful backwater here. There was little in the way of traffic along this particular street. What cars there were, were expensive enough to reflect the wealth of the neighborhood.
With his opening line carefully rehearsed he went to the main gate. A sign read: EZY VIEW. He turned the handle. Damn. Locked.
Standing back he looked left and right, wondering if there was another way in.
A little way along he saw a door set in the wall. Five seconds later he swore under his breath again. That was also locked. Stan Price had himself a fortress here. Yet, he'd wager, the locked gates were to prevent the old man from wandering away rather than to prevent people from getting in. Frowning, John followed the road looking for another entrance. A footpath ran along the side of the property. He followed it.
At that moment common sense suggested he quit this mission. The computer sat on his desk at home, waiting for him to fire it up and write that first chapter.
You're scared, John Newton, he told himself. Admit you're diarrhea shit scared of writing the first chapter. This is nothing but a big exercise to postpone the act of sitting down and typing those first few words. You know that Without Trace won't be half as good as Blast His Eyes, so you're too frightened to even try. Now here you are chasing the proverbial wild goose. Anything to delay the dreadful moment when you have to write.
He pressed the nagging thoughts to the back of his mind and walked on. Here, nettles grew high at either side of him, trees closed overhead. Neglected for years the path narrowed to a tangle of brambles.
Dead-end.
Just like your career, he thought. Unless you can work a miracle in the next few days.
With the way ahead closed off to him, he turned back. But the detective inside of him nagged like a personal devil. Newton. Are you going to give up so easily? You've got to make the effort. You've got to take risks. Remember? You followed that hunch at the archive office. You turned a so-so book into a bestseller. You can do it again. But only if you follow your heart, not your head…
Yeah, he told himself sourly, as he side-stepped a fistful of dog poop on the path: yield to the Force, Luke Skywalker…
That was the moment he stopped dead in his tracks and did something that came as a complete surprise.
He jabbed his toe into a hole in the weathered brick, then climbed onto the wall. Great. Now you're a housebreaker. He found himself grinning despite it all. C'mon, for heaven's sake, you have a way with words. If you're challenged come up with some plausible excuse… the gates were locked. You needed to see Mr. Gregory. You thought you saw smoke coming from the tool-shed.
"Yeah, and you're on a mission from God," he added flippantly under his breath.
He swung his legs over the wall. Below him, a lawn ran up to the house. At this height he couldn't even break a leg if he tried. He eased himself forward and dropped down onto the grass. Then as nonchalantly as he could he strolled toward the house.
He'd just cleared the ornamental bushes when he heard a shout.
"Oh, damn," he murmured, his heart sinking.
CHAPTER 10
The cry came again. John turned to its source, a 'plausible' excuse for his climb over the garden wall already forming in his min
d. But John wasn't ready for what he did see.
It was old Stan Price, this time dressed in trousers and a white shirt open at the neck; straw hat perched on his head. The man's face was incandescent; the eyes blazed with what seemed to be sheer ferocity.
"What kept you?" the old man cried. "I've been waiting for days to see you!" Stan Price beckoned John.
John recovered his composure. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, of course, of course. Come over here." The old man waved John across to him, as if he were bursting with news.
When John got closer the man reached out to grab him by the wrist. Even though Stan Price was incredibly thin, with fingers like twigs, he was surprisingly strong. But then he was so fired up with emotion he looked ready to go a couple of rounds in the boxing ring.
John started speaking. "Good morning, Mr.-"
"Harry!" Stan Price's eyes sparkled with delight. "Harry, thank God you've come."
"Mr. Price… I think you've got the wrong-"
"Harry. Where on Earth have you been? Oh, never mind that now. You're back, that's all that matters… it's so good to see you. I've been calling you night and day but I couldn't make you hear. Wouldn't your mother let you out? Oh? Did she find those cigars? I said we should have hidden them in the barn." Stan Price shook John's wrist, his eyes glistening. "Oh, God, it's good to see you again."
"Stan, I wonder if your daughter's at home? Mrs. Gregory?"
But Stan Price continued speaking as if he'd not heard. "If we get time we'll go down to the river. I've found a pool there where the carp are like this!" Releasing his grip, Stan held his hands apart to show the size of the fish. "I'll get my bike out and the rods. Did you bring your rod, Harry?"