Pariah

by Thomas Zigal

  Kurt switched on the computer and waited for the glowing screen to stutter and load. On his knees under the desk he found a mess of cables plugged into a power strip. There were two cords issuing from a discreet hole drilled in the wall, feeding directly into a converter box of some sort, which in turn was connected to the computer. These were the cords trailing down the wall from the video camera in the air duct. Lyle had rigged it so he could watch Nicole and company on his computer screen in the cozy comfort of his own room.

  He sat in the chair and clicked the mouse, opening the computer’s hard drive. The folder labeled MY DOCUMENTS was completely empty of files. Lyle must have dumped all of his dirty little secrets in the trash before he fled. Kurt clicked on the trash icon. It, too, was empty.

  He started opening desk drawers, examining whatever Lyle had left behind. It was like digging through the hidey-holes in Lennon’s bedroom, a mayhem of colored pencils and sketch pads and glue tubes and old GamePro video game magazines with ripped covers. He found 3-D glasses, sticks of incense, Zig-Zag rolling papers, baseball cards, a rubbery action figure from a Japanimation TV series. At twenty-two years old, Lyle Gunderson appeared to be stunted in some strange larval state between childhood and adolescence.

  The bottom drawer contained the young man’s stash of porno magazines, a parade of specialized tastes: bondage, bisexual, S&M. Rifling through the collection, Kurt came across a tattered copy of something called Groovin’ Groupies, the same early ’70s vintage as the yellowing mags they’d found next to the sleeping bag in the Wheeler attic. This one featured the groupies attached to various music groups from that era, band names Kurt had forgotten or had never heard. Lemon Fog. Fever Tree. The Moving Sidewalk. The girls were unremarkable, by and large, stretched out in pseudoartistic poses on threadbare couches and stained mattresses, their emaciated pale bodies neither erotic nor tantalizing. Every one of them looked melancholy and deeply wounded, the prevailing affectation of the times. On their knees, staring dazed at the erect object of desire, they seemed oddly detached, disinterested, elsewhere. Kurt remembered those days and the seedy crash pads where these poses were struck. Sunless, smoky, castaway digs, an endless drift of bodies coming and going, lurking around the edges of the action. He didn’t know how he could ever explain that crazy scene to his son, the impulses and excesses, the careless abandon. Lennon’s generation would probably discover these things for themselves.

  Flipping through the pages he found an article entitled “The Rhodes Crew,” its short introduction stating that “these ladies are working double shifts, night and day, to keep the Rhodies happy.” There were a half-dozen photos in the spread, allegedly the women involved with “the great bluesmaker” Rocky Rhodes and his band. In one picture Kurt recognized the young Amanda giving oral pleasure to a hairy, potbellied man cropped off at the shoulders. It could have been Gahan, or Rocky himself, or Henry Kissinger, for that matter.

  Kurt wasn’t prepared for what he discovered when he turned the page. A young woman who looked very much like Nicole Bauer lay on a polar bear rug with her head cast to one side and her eyes squeezed shut in convincing sexual ecstasy. Her long thick auburn hair fanned out across the white fur and her arms were flung back above her, one hand gripping the other wrist. In the soft hollow beneath each shapely bicep, wisps of reddish hair curled with perspiration. Amanda, nude, was kneeling beside the prone madonna like a supplicant in prayer, her mouth parting above an erect nipple. There was another young woman in the picture, her face buried between Nicole’s legs. She was cropped off at the waist, a small woman with a ridge of spine prominent down her back, an outline of ribs. Coal-black hair, brushed behind her ears, hung low on her neck. The butterfly tattooed on her left shoulder blade looked real enough to flitter off the page.

  An old polar bear rug. Amanda and two other women performing for the camera. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out who had been standing behind the shutter, directing the scene. More than twenty years later Gahan’s tastes hadn’t changed.

  But who was the small dark-haired woman with the butterfly tattoo? Was this Mariah Windstar? You flutter your pretty little wings until you get noticed, Amanda had said about her. When you’re in their net you turn into an ugly flesh-eating grub.

  And what about the young video freak who had collected these magazines? Where did Lyle fit in? Had he been supplying Gahan Moss with tapes of Nicole? Did Gahan want them for himself or for an old friend who had been hiding out for twenty years?

  There were too many unanswered questions. Kurt carefully folded the magazine and slipped it into his leather jacket, then turned off the computer and closed the desk drawers. He glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. Four forty-seven A.M., nearly twenty-four hours without sleep. He didn’t care what time it was or how tired his body felt, he was going to wake somebody up and make them talk.

  Chapter twenty-four

  He believed in giving a man five minutes’ notice before pounding on his door in the dead of night. When the toadstool mailbox appeared in his headlights, glowing like an acid-rock poster, he dialed Gahan’s number on the cell phone. There was no answer, only Amanda’s recorded voice: “Greetings. Say the word and you’ll be free.” They were asleep, like every sensible couple on Buttermilk Mountain. Kurt parked in the clearing at the foot of the stone steps and checked to make sure the pepper spray was still in his pocket. He got out of the Jeep and strapped on his shoulder holster with its fully loaded Smith & Wesson .45, then slipped on the insulated vest. Digging around in the trunk of the Jeep, he found a rusty tire tool and tested its swing in the frigid air. If the rottweiler was prowling the premises, playing dutiful watchdog, Kurt was going to need every deterrent he could get his hands on.

  He thought his ankle was strong enough to make the climb without a crutch, but by the time he reached the top of the hill he was out of breath, light-headed, and his ankle was nagging at him. The Magic Mushroom House looked like a dark fungoid growth clinging to the edge of a precipice. In the blackness beyond, snow clouds drifted across a field of icy stars. It was freezing cold and his body felt worn down and weak. He asked himself what he was doing here at this ungodly hour. Why wasn’t he sleeping peacefully in Muffin’s warm trailer?

  He heard something stir off in the bushes near the house and gripped the tire tool firmly, ready to crack the dog on the nose if he had no other choice. He remained motionless for several moments, anticipating a growl and quick movement. All was quiet, the only sound a stiff breeze gusting through the hillside woods. Halfway down the cobblestone walkway he heard something again, and this time it sounded like an animal whimpering. He stopped abruptly, trying to read its location in the underbrush. The whimpering was louder now, a wounded lamentation.

  Switching on his flashlight, Kurt waded through a thick hedge and shined the beam into the bushes at the bend of the circular house. The dog lay on her side, limp and panting, bathed in blood. She had tried to burrow into a mound of old snow to die, and the pawed-up chunks around her body were as bright red as a cherry Popsicle. Kurt approached the animal cautiously, one slow step at a time, speaking in a low consoling voice. “Take it easy, girl. You need some help? What happened to you?”

  He thought she might have been attacked by something wild, a raccoon or bear, but when he came closer he could see that her front leg was crushed in a steel-jawed bear trap chained to the bottom of a stone bench.

  “My god,” he said, crouching down to direct the light. The dog’s throat had been slashed from ear to ear. This was human work, someone with a knife.

  There was nothing he could do for the animal. She was gasping now, her final breaths. She had lost the strength to whine. “Go gentle, girl,” he said, remembering the lines from an old schoolboy poem. When her breathing stopped he reached over and patted her bloody head.

  Furious, Kurt stood up quickly and slammed the tire tool to the ground, sweeping the area with the flashlight beam, searching for footprints in the light snow. He saw them
now, a large waffle-soled boot and long stride angling into the hedge. The man had set a trap for the dog and then finished her off with his knife.

  The prints picked up again on the other side of the walkway and followed the curved wall of the house down toward a woodpile silted with snow. As Kurt neared the stack he could see that a window had been smashed by one of the split logs. The dog killer had slipped into the house.

  Kurt had no doubt who it was. He jerked the radio from his belt carrier and called for backup. “Everyone on duty,” he said, speaking to the dispatcher in a near whisper. “Bring ’em heavily armed.”

  He opened the window wider, broken glass tinkling everywhere, and dragged himself up into the dark house. His fall was muffled by the thick bearskin rug he landed on. The room was pitch-black and he had no idea where he was or how to find his way to the more familiar realms of this strange place. He withdrew the .45 from his shoulder holster and followed the flashlight beam down a winding hallway, feeling like a rat trapped in a maze. Just as he was about to give up and turn back, retrace his steps, he stumbled upon one of those Daliesque dreamscape portals, which delivered him into the bar area where Gahan had poured his drinks. The half-empty bottle of Bushmills remained exactly where Kurt had last seen it. His business card floated nearby in a circle of condensation. Sweating now, trembling with uncertainty, he shone the light out over the dark open spaces, the volcanic rock steps and dry fountain, catching a glimpse of the piano in the pond room farther on. He wanted to call out their names—Gahan! Amanda!—issue a dire warning, but he knew the man with the hunting knife was lurking somewhere within these walls and he didn’t dare open his mouth.

  Where were they sleeping? He was struggling with indecision, trying to determine which direction to take, when he heard a dog bark somewhere, followed by a high mournful howl. It was the other rottweiler. Kurt moved off toward the sound, groping his way down the stone steps and into another bizarre corridor that could have been from the set of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Several paces down the hallway, he caught sight of a tall bulky man rushing up beside him. He pivoted quickly, aiming the pistol. Flashed in light,

  the man aimed back, surprise and horror widening his eyes. It was Kurt’s own reflection in a long row of mirror panels. He swallowed hard and lowered the gun, his heart banging against his rib cage. The face staring back at him was blanched with fear.

  The dog howled again, distant and grieving. Kurt hurried down the corridor and soon found himself engulfed in a cloud of warm steam swirling from an open doorway. He stepped into the room, pointing his flashlight into the fog. Several seconds passed before he realized it was a large bathroom and dressing area. Heavy steam was billowing up from an overheated Jacuzzi in the far corner. Someone was sitting in the water.

  Waving an arm through the smoky vapor he pressed farther into the room, approaching the figure with his gun raised. “Gahan?” he said, the word a faint note beneath the loud gurgling water.

  Gahan Moss sat facing the wall. Kurt could see the back of his head, the rattail clinging to his neck like a curl of lost hair on a shower drain. His arms were spread wide, resting on the flagstones at the edge of the recessed pool. He could have been a man relaxing in his Jacuzzi after a long taxing day at the office. Except for the fact that the water was now a boiling cauldron of blood.

  “Jesus, Gahan,” Kurt said, kneeling down to check for a pulse on the man’s neck. The body keeled over into the hot water and Kurt had to haul him back up by the rattail. Gahan’s eyes were still open and blood was flowing freely from the gash across his throat. He had also been stabbed once in the heart.

  Kurt felt it coming. He resisted, but his stomach heaved. He hadn’t eaten all day and there was nothing to puke up. After two more gut-wrenching heaves, dry and involuntary, he pulled himself together, took a deep breath, and rose from his knees. With the flashlight as his guide he searched the murky room for Amanda, but she wasn’t anywhere in view. Find her, he told himself. She might still be alive.

  Leaving the body in the Jacuzzi, he batted his way through the steam and lurched back into the corridor. After fifteen yards or so, the passageway swerved sharply to the left and ended at a closed door. Water was seeping out through the bottom crack. When he turned the knob, pressure forced the door toward him, a warm wave washing over his boots, wetting the cuffs of his jeans. He held his breath and pointed the light into the bedroom. The killer had slashed the king-size waterbed, creating a lagoon that was now draining past Kurt’s feet and down the corridor. His beam ranged quickly over everything, finding slippers and a newspaper adrift in the gentle current, a bathrobe spreading slowly on the surface of the water. Amanda’s nude body bobbed facedown near the bed, her long yellowish-white hair floating like duckweed around her head. Even at this distance Kurt could see that she had been stabbed repeatedly in the back.

  “If you’re in here,” he said in a loud angry voice, his arm extended with the Smith & Wesson, “I’m going to shoot you on sight. This is your only chance to drop your weapon and come out where I can see you!”

  Silence. The sound of water trickling around his boots.

  He probed the room again with the flashlight, exploring every dark corner. The word betrayed had been smeared on the wall in blood. Unnerved and trembling, he sloshed through the lagoon and knelt down at Amanda’s side. When he turned her over, blood bubbled from her nostrils. Her body was still warm, perhaps because of the heated water. She had been knifed in the chest and belly, a savage attack. Kurt searched for a pulse, some sign of life. The woman was dead.

  He settled her on her back in the receding water and slogged his way across the room to an open window. A cold wind blew dancing snowflakes into his face. The killer had left blood on the sill while making his escape. Kurt stuck his head out the window and raked the grounds with his flashlight beam. Large footprints curved down the rocky hillside and disappeared into the woods.

  There was a noise behind him and he whirled, training the pistol on a nearby door. A dog began to bark, scratching wildly on the wood. Somehow the killer had managed to lock the other rottweiler in a closet.

  “Hold on a minute, fella,” Kurt said. The latch bolt was rattling violently inside the striker plate. “Help will be here soon. We’ll get you out.”

  There was nothing he could do now, not by himself. He waded over to Amanda and draped the soggy bathrobe across her body, then radioed the dispatcher to send EMS. He could hear panic in his voice, the edge of hysteria. Whenever he stood still, his body began to shiver.

  Returning down the corridor to the bathroom, he dragged Gahan’s heavy, waterlogged body out of the Jacuzzi and arranged him on the flagstones. When he was finished he walked over to the wide dressing mirror and rubbed his hand across the fogged glass, managing only to mess his pale reflection with four red finger-streaks. He turned on the tap and filled the basin, staring at his slick fingers before submerging them. Rocky’s ring was soaked in blood. When he tugged at it, pulling as hard as he could, the ring slipped over his large wet knuckle and came free.

  Kurt washed off the ring and studied the I Ching symbols embedded in gold. Yin-yang, harmony and balance. The eight meditations, Shocking Thunder, Lake in the Valley, the others he couldn’t recall. Could it really be Rocky Rhodes? Could the old rocker have become a stone-cold psychopathic killer? In the mirror Kurt could see Gahan’s bloodied body lying behind him. Given the chance, the man would have butchered Nicole the same way. He would have plunged the long hunting knife into Kurt’s heart.

  Chapter twenty-five

  Wrapped in an army blanket, his wet boots drying beside him on the polar bear rug, Kurt hunkered in a window seat and watched his deputies carry the slumbering rottweiler, bundled in a Persian rug, to a cage truck parked on the patio. They had used the department’s

  Cap-Chur rifle to shoot the dog with a tranquilizer dart.

  “Better hope he doesn’t wake up anytime soon,” Kurt said.

  Muffin materialized from the
back of the house, where the team was still gathering evidence, and walked over to speak with him again. Her khaki pants were wet to the knees.

  “Talk about up close and personal,” she said, peeling off her surgical gloves. “That eight-inch hunting knife did some serious damage.”

  A dozen years in law enforcement, Kurt had never encountered anything this gruesome.

  “You really believe it was Rocky Rhodes?”

  He nodded. “I don’t know what else to think.”

  “Why would he go after his old friend? I mean, hell, they made some classic songs together.”

  Kurt inhaled deeply. “He’s out of his mind, Muffin,” he said. “Who knows what’s tripping through his head.”

  “Did you see what he wrote on the bedroom wall? BETRAYED.”

  “That’s what the letters to Nicole were all about,” he said. “She’d betrayed him. Everybody had betrayed him. He was going to kill them all, starting with her.”

  “You think he’s got a list?”

  Kurt shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said, wondering what he’d done with that list of names from the 1977 police report.

  Muffin turned and gazed back over the pond room, dark and fenlike and tracked with mucky footprints. She seemed to be looking for something everyone else had missed. “So you were here yesterday,” she said in a distant voice. “You talked to them about Nicole.”

  It felt like a hundred years ago. “If they’d played it straight with me, I could’ve helped them,” he said solemnly. “Maybe saved their lives.”

  “You figure they knew about Rocky all this time?”