Chain Letter Omnibus

by Christopher Pike

  “Sure.”

  “Do you want to go to the police with the letter?”

  Tony was horrified by the idea. “If we do that we’ll have to explain everything—the whole story will come out. They’ll put us in jail.”

  “It was just a suggestion. It would be a crazy thing to do without talking to Joan first. When did you say she’d be back?”

  “Thursday.”

  “When does the next person on the list have to receive the chain letter?”

  “Thursday,” Tony said.

  Kipp laughed. It was his way of coping with the stress, Tony understood. Their situation was totally preposterous. “Then if Fran is still alive on Thursday, we’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  Tony nodded. “She’ll be fine.”

  But his words sounded hollow even to himself. Like when he was trying to tell himself Alison loved him, when he knew in the end she was going to leave him.

  Chapter Four

  When Eric Valence was ten years old, he read all of the Sherlock Holmes books. He walked around in an imaginary world fancying himself Dr. Watson and carrying on intricate conversations with the great detective. In high school he fell in love with Agatha Christie. He read all of her more than eighty murder mysteries word for word, and in over half of them he figured out who the villain was before the master herself revealed the truth.

  After graduating from high school, he had his heart set on becoming a hotshot homicide detective. The problem was he’d had serious ear infections as a child, and as a result he was totally deaf in his right ear and had only fifty percent normal hearing in his left. Half a working ear was plenty to keep him from being seriously handicapped. He could enjoy movies and talk comfortably on the phone, as long as the other person spoke directly into the mouthpiece. Unfortunately he couldn’t pass the physical to enter the police academy. He had tried three times and had even attempted unsuccessfully to bribe the administering physician. But the men in blue didn’t want him, and it was difficult to study by himself to be a competent private eye. He’d planned to become a PI after he had honed his skills on the force. Not that he had given up on his dream. He would be a PI someday. It was just going to take longer than he hoped.

  Eric had an uncle who was a cop with the LAPD—Sergeant John Valence. The man was neither a detective nor much of a police officer. He was basically a nice fat guy who had passed a civil service exam when he was twenty-four years old and out of work. Uncle John had driven around in a black-and-white for a few years and eventually found himself where he really belonged, behind a desk pushing papers and talking about all the great crimes other men had solved. Surprisingly, though, the man had done a brief stint with the homicide department, and the stories he could tell were wonderful. All the bodies and the coroners’ reports and the smoking pistols—they made Eric’s trigger finger twitch just to listen to the man.

  But even better than all the talk was the fact that in his position as desk sergeant at the West Covina branch of the LAPD Eric’s uncle had access to the computers where the files of literally hundreds of unsolved murders were stored. In a weak moment Eric’s uncle had given him the secret codes that tapped into the files, a serious sharing of confidences because there existed tons of information in the files that had never been made known to the public. From that moment on, Eric was in heaven. He would drive to the station from night classes at Claremont College—Eric was majoring in computer science, which he felt was the future for detective work—chat with his uncle for a few minutes, then plug himself into a terminal at the back of the station. Some nights Eric stayed at the terminal until the sun came up and the morning crew came on. People had done so many horrible things to each other in L.A. over the past twenty years—it was wonderful.

  Eric Valence was on such a late-night vigil with the police computer when he came across the file on the late Neil Hurly. Eric almost skipped over it. The file didn’t appear to be that of an unsolved murder case. But a sentence did catch his eye. One from the county coroner. Apparently this Neil—he was only eighteen at the time of his death—had perished in a fire in his home. His body had been so badly burned that identification of his remains had been difficult. The situation had been further complicated by the fact that there were no current dental records available on Neil. In summary, the coroner wrote that an emerald ring on the victim’s left hand had been used to substantiate that it was Neil Hurly who had gone up in smoke. The matter was further verified by the mother’s testimony that her son had been sleeping alone at home when the fire broke out. In other words, case closed.

  The thing that got Eric about the report was that it had been an emerald ring that had gone through the fire. Eric was no expert when it came to jewelry, but it just so happened that the year before he had been seriously involved with a girl named Meryl Runion, who had an expensive appetite for emeralds. Naturally, because he thought he was in love at the time, and because Meryl twisted his arm about the matter, he tried to buy her an emerald ring for her birthday. Being a practical man on a limited budget, however, he did a little research before making his purchase. One of the things he discovered about emeralds was that they did not make good stones to set in rings. They were soft, and they chipped easily. An expensive emerald could be ruined just by forgetting to remove it before washing the dishes. Eric decided that he should buy Meryl an emerald set in a necklace or a bracelet. But then Meryl met this young lawyer who drove a red Porsche and forgot to return his calls. Eric didn’t buy her anything.

  Eric was instantly suspicious of the identification of Neil Hurly’s remains. If Neil Hurly had been wearing an emerald while lying in a burning house, the emerald should have been destroyed. Yet the coroner’s note indicated the emerald had survived the fire intact. How many coroners knew of the softness of an emerald? Eric was only familiar with the gem’s fragile nature by chance. It made him wonder if the ring had been placed on the body’s hand after the fire. If that was so, it raised an even more startling question.

  Was it Neil Hurly who had died in the fire?

  The file contained X-rays of what was left of Neil’s skull and teeth. As stated, the X-rays had done the coroner no good because he had no dental records for comparison. Eric doubted that the man had tried hard to find records. Why should he? The mom was probably right down the hall saying, “That’s my son who died, I know it.” Eric studied Neil’s history. He had moved to Los Angeles from Canyon, Arkansas, at the age of fourteen. Canyon was listed as Neil’s place of birth. In all those fourteen years Neil must have gone to the dentist at least once.

  Eric sat back from the terminal. He had no idea where Canyon was in Arkansas. It was probably a small town, and that fact should help him. He didn’t waste time speculating on the matter. He looked up the area code for Arkansas—it had only one. Then he called Information there. Canyon was tiny. All told, the information assistant gave him a list of three dentists, and two of those were a husband and wife team who shared an office. Eric jotted the numbers down on a notepad. He was already opening his own file on Neil Hurly. There was something not quite right—he could sense it. “Something’s afoot,” as Holmes might have said to Watson.

  Eric was not able to call the dentists until morning. He did so from his apartment identifying himself as an assistant coroner with the LAPD. The lie went over well because he was able to use his uncle as a reference, calling him the officer in charge of the case. Eric had yet to tell his uncle what he was doing, but he doubted that the dentists would check. As it turned out the couple had no Neil Hurly in their files. But the secretary of the third guy, Dr. Krane, remembered the Hurlys well. She sounded about eighty years old but very bright.

  “Of course I knew Neil,” she said. “He was such a sweet young man. They moved to Los Angeles when Neil was about to enter high school. Would it be all right to ask why you need his X-rays?”

  It was clear the woman knew nothing about Neil’s supposed death. Eric made his voice sound older. “I’m afraid, madam, we h
ave reason to believe that Neil Hurly has been the victim of a fire at his house. There are few remains, and we need the X-rays to make a positive identification.”

  The woman sounded distressed. “That’s horrible. Was the mother killed as well?”

  Eric didn’t want to complicate the matter by having the mother alive. It was always possible Dr. Krane’s secretary would want a permission note from the mother before releasing the X-rays.

  “I’m afraid she perished in the fire,” Eric said, feeling like a jerk.

  “That’s so sad,” the woman replied. “Do you think it was an accident?”

  “The case is still open.” Eric cleared his throat. “Could you please mail the X-rays overnight express to the following address? It would be much appreciated.”

  “Of course.” He could hear her reaching for a pen. “I’m ready.”

  Eric gave her the address of the West Covina police station in care of Sergeant John Valence. Then he got off the phone quickly. His heart was pounding, but he was feeling good.

  · · ·

  He walked into the station the next evening beside his uncle. John was surprised when Eric snapped the overnight mail envelope out of his box before he could go through it.

  “What are you up to?” his uncle asked with a twinkle in his eye. At the station Christmas party Sergeant Valence was always the first choice to play Santa Claus. There was a jolliness about him that Eric found endearing.

  “I’ll tell you when I know something exciting,” Eric promised.

  His uncle shook his head. “Just don’t get me in trouble. I have only a year before my pension.”

  Eric hurried back to the computer and compared the dentist’s X-rays to those of the coroner. The coroner’s photographs of his X-rays did not have the high-quality resolution of the dentist’s X-rays, but it didn’t matter. Eric was no specialist, but even he could see at a glance that the X-rays were from two different people. Neil had had a series of fillings on the lower right side of his mouth when he was thirteen. The guy who had burned to death in Neil’s house had no fillings on that side.

  Neil Hurly had not burned to death in the Hurly home. But someone had wanted it to look as if he had.

  Who?

  Why?

  The questions of an unfolding mystery. Eric was bursting with excitement. This was better than sex with Meryl Runion. Well, he wouldn’t know that for sure. They had actually never done it. But it was better than making out with her. Meryl had always had bad breath.

  Eric went in search of Mrs. Hurly’s new address. He couldn’t find it. She wasn’t in the phone book. But he did have her old address, the place where the house had burned to the ground. If he went to the neighborhood and asked around, he should be able to find out where she was living. He had already decided that when he got her new address, he’d drop by the house rather than call her. He’d show the woman the evidence and see how she reacted. For all he knew, she might have been the one who set the whole thing up.

  Eric briefly wondered if Neil would answer the door.

  Chapter Five

  For the gang Thursday came and left with no drama. Alison spent the day with Fran, going to the mall and the movies. Fran held up surprisingly well, only crying once over dinner. Alison stayed by her side until twelve midnight. It was Alison’s plan to stay overnight, but Fran said it wasn’t necessary. Her parents were home sleeping, and besides, Fran snored like a bear and was always embarrassed to have anyone else sleep in the same room with her. Alison left her with a hug and a promise to call in the morning.

  Alison did call Fran on Friday morning, and her old friend was just fine. The news spread through the group, and Tony and Kipp began to relax. Brenda didn’t, however. It was unnecessary, she said. She hadn’t been worried initially. Joan had called her mom to tell her she had decided to spend an extra day in the mountains, so she was still unavailable.

  Then Friday night arrived.

  Alison went to bed early. Tony was still not talking to her, and the stress was wearing her out. She drank a glass of warm milk and crawled under her covers. The last thing she remembered before falling asleep was that Fran had told her she was going downtown that night to some party.

  Then Alison was asleep, and she had no more conscious thoughts.

  But curious images did float in her unconscious mind, bringing with them strange sensations. She was in a wide open space but felt claustrophobic. The air pulsed in nauseating patterns of red and purple light. A painful throbbing sound seemed to come from every quarter, totally out of sync with the oscillating colors. There was also a haze of smoke that stank of rotten eggs. But most of all was her intense feeling of despair. It wrapped like a steel coil around her heart and brought pain.

  As Alison listened in her dream, she thought she could hear the distant wails of people in torment. Their faint cries came to her through the din of the throbbing and were so twisted they could have been the sounds of animals being tortured to death. But she could see no one, even though she herself felt watched. It was as if the horrible space had eyes of its own, made out of the sickening light and deafening noise. Eyes that were constantly aware and always displeased. Above all else, she wished to God she could be anywhere but where she was.

  Then suddenly she was sitting bolt upright in bed—in the dark, where all bad things happened. The phone beside her bed was ringing, and her heart shrieked in her chest. She reached over and grabbed it.

  “Hello?”

  “Alison?”

  “Yeah.” She had to take a breath. “Who is this?”

  “Mrs. Darey.”

  The fear came in a wash, instantaneously. “Is something wrong with Fran? What’s happened to her?”

  Mrs. Darey wept. “I don’t know. The hospital called. They say she’s been in a car accident. They wouldn’t say how she was. They want me to come to the hospital, but my husband’s not here, and I’m so upset I can’t find my glasses. Ali, can you take me to the hospital? I don’t think I can drive like this.”

  Alison realized the woman had momentarily forgotten that she lived almost an hour away in the valley. She spoke gently. “Sure, I can take you to the hospital. But it might take me a while to get to your house. I’m going to have my boyfriend, Tony, come over and get you instead. You’ve met him. Then I’m going to drive directly to the hospital and meet you there. Would that be OK?”

  “I suppose.” Sobs poured from the poor woman. “When they won’t tell you how your daughter is, does that mean she’s dead?”

  “No, Mrs. Darey. It only means they’re not sure yet what’s wrong with her. There might be nothing wrong with Fran. I’m sure there isn’t. Now give me the name of the hospital that called you.”

  Mrs. Darey was able to convey the vital information. Alison reassured her once more and then hung up and called Tony. He answered immediately. He hadn’t been asleep—she could tell by his voice. She glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning.

  “Tony, it’s Alison. Bad news.”

  “Fran?”

  “Yes. Her mom just called. Fran’s been in an accident.”

  “What happened?”

  Alison gave him what information she had. Tony said he could be at Fran’s house in ten minutes. He sounded alert but calm, far from the way she felt. If anything had happened to Fran, she was never going to forgive herself for having let her go out alone.

  “You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” Alison asked. “You’ve been staying up.”

  “I was waiting for something,” Tony said. “I didn’t know what it would be.”

  Alison almost choked on the question. “Do you think she’s dead?”

  Tony sighed. “I try not to think these days. It makes my head hurt.”

  · · ·

  Fran Darey was dead.

  The three of them got the news at the same time. Although Alison had considerably farther to drive to the hospital, it had taken Tony a while to get Mrs. Darey out of her house and into his car. She had be
en so overcome with grief. Fran’s mother fainted when she heard the news. A team of white coats suddenly appeared and wheeled her away on a gurney. Alison’s head was spinning. The doctor who had delivered the news to them could have been telling them Fran had a bad cold—from the tone of his voice. He was middle-aged, and his green surgical gown was splashed with dried blood. He worked the emergency room in the center of the city, where shootings and stabbings were a way of life. He probably told people their loved ones were dead all the time. No sweat off his back.

  “How did this happen?” Alison moaned to the doctor as she sagged into Tony’s strong arms.

  The doctor shook his head. “Ask the police. They’re out back with the ambulance drivers. I understand she drove straight into a tree.”

  Alison asked a stupid question. “Are you sure she’s dead? I mean, couldn’t she somehow be revived if you tried real hard?”

  The doctor regarded her with a blank expression. “She’s as dead as they come. We won’t be able to revive her. I’m sorry.”

  Tony wanted to check on Mrs. Hurly. He looked shaken but still in control. Alison let him go. She wanted to talk to the police before they disappeared. She caught one of them in the parking lot as he was climbing into his squad car.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m a friend of that girl who was just brought in. The one in the car crash. Were you at the scene of the accident?”

  The officer was young and handsome. He had a neat brown mustache and a dark blue uniform that fit him perfectly. He stood outside his car with her. His face supplied the sympathy the doctor’s had been missing.

  “Yes, I was, miss,” he said and touched her arm. “I’m very sorry your friend was killed. I understand she was only eighteen.”

  Alison nodded and sniffed. “I’m sorry, too. But I’m also confused. The doctor inside said Fran ran straight into a tree?”

  “That’s correct. The tree was a tall olive at the side of the road. She must have been doing sixty when she hit it. Both the tree and the car were destroyed.”