Hobgoblin

by John Coyne

  "I found it in the first weeks after the Foundation took over the estate," Derek admitted, looking down at the leather album. "I was living here alone and looking for a house off the grounds. There was no one to talk to after six o'clock but Conor, and that, as you can imagine, wore thin pretty quickly." Barbara smiled wryly. "One night when I was foraging around for something to read," he continued, setting the album on the conference table, "I found this in the bookshelf against the wall. It was leather bound, and I don't think anyone ever realized that it wasn't just another volume in the Dickens section." Derek opened the album to the first photo. It was of a nude girl languishing on a big four-poster bed. The photograph had been shot from the foot of the bed and the teenager seemed to be asleep, her small, dark head resting on a lace-trimmed pillow. "She's lovely," Barbara commented. Leafing through the large, heavy pages, Derek began to remember how the album was set up. "There's a progression, see? Beginning with that simple, rather innocent photo of the girl sleeping, and leading into real perversion. Look:" He was turning the pages quickly, displaying the effect. It was like an old-fashioned nickelodeon-the stilted photos, the grainy black and white images. Each one was taken from the same high angle in the same soft light. In the first series of a dozen prints, the girl moved on the bed, twisted and turned, exposed more of her body, fondled herself. Toward the end, Barbara saw the bruises and welts develop on the girl's body. Noticed the boots at the corner of the frame, spotted the thick black whip handle. "There's another series," Derek explained. After one blank page the pictures began again. "This time it's different girls, and they're never alone." The pictures had been shot with some skill, Barbara thought. The photographer had used late afternoon light to shade the image, to soften the girls' features and cast the bedroom into mystery. "They're so beautiful," she said, marveling at the loveliness of the women, shot after shot of slender, adolescent girls all in the first years of their maturity. "Who is he?" Derek asked. "Do you have any idea?" "What?" Barbara shut the book guiltily and looked up. "The man. It isn't Fergus-that's for sure. He was blond, and this man is very dark." "Oh." She looked again, sifted through the album. She had not been paying attention to the male figure who was seen only from the back and only in some of the shots. He was like a prop, an extra, a part of the scenery. But now she studied him. It was the slope of his bare shoulders that alerted her. She kept turning the old pages, studying the shape of the man. She could see only his bare back, his black hair, his muscular arms clutching the anonymous nude girls. His face was always lost in the shadows or buried in the flesh of the women. "When would these pictures have been taken?" she asked at last. "The thirties, maybe earlier. Since no one is wearing clothes it's difficult to tell." "The man is obviously older than the girls-in his mid-or late twenties, say. So if the pictures were taken in the thirties, then he'd be about eighty now." Barbara tapped the hard picture. The dark half-figure of the male. "That's Conor. I'd bet anything that was Conor Fitzpatrick when he was in his twenties." She set the heavy album on Derek's desk and pushed back the chair, looking up at the director. "The shoulders give it away, really. See how one is a little higher than the other? That's Conor. You've seen him walking across the lawn. You know what I mean." Derek nodded, suddenly seeing that she was right. He leaned forward, looked again at the man's back. His face was buried in the shallow arch of the woman's thighs. She was pulling him closer, her fingers laced into his thick black hair, and the man was grasping her buttocks with both hands, squeezing her tight. They were positioned sideways to the camera and she was looking up into the aperture. The shutter caught her at that moment, her eyes closed, her mouth gasping for air. Derek could feel her pleasure. "Who was she?" he wondered out loud and then answered himself. "I guess we'll never know," he said, drawing back from the old photo. "Yes, we will." Barbara stood and started out of the office. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

  "Well, congratulations," Bill Russell began. The class had slowly quieted down after Scott Gardiner's dramatic exit, and one of the boys had come forward to help Russell maneuver his desk back up on its platform. The others pushed their desks back into rows, and settled down to a quiet buzz of conversation while the teacher rearranged his papers and decided what to say next. "Congratulations on really making a new guy feel welcome in your school." Back in the tenth row, Roger Cox rolled his eyes at his friends, Bob Senese and Carl Gutterman. Russell was really going to lay it on; they could tell. "I guess you all feel pretty sure of yourselves, don't you?" Russell continued. "You've known each other all your lives. You know what's cool and what isn't; you know exactly how everybody expects you to behave. Well, maybe at Scott's school you wouldn't know. Maybe you'd dress funny and feel uncomfortable and not know how to play soccer, or Hobgoblin or whatever it is those kids play. I want you to think about that. I want you to think about how it would feel to start at a new school and have nobody like you." "Valerie likes him," one of the girls piped up, causing a ripple of giggles. Valerie's face flushed scarlet, but Mr. Russell acted as if he hadn't heard. "I think some of you should go see Scott and apologize," he said. "Maybe you should offer to play Hobgoblin. Get a group together during sixth period. And I mean you, Senese, and you too, Gutterman. It'd do you a lot more good than standing out back by the trash bin smoking." "We're building up our cancer cells, Mr. Russell," someone answered back. "Well, why don't you learn something instead? For you, Senese, that would be a new experience." "But Mr. Russell, you gotta admit, it's a stupid game." "Senese, I don't gotta admit anything," Russell replied, angry enough to make fun of his student. "I'm always willing to learn something new. I'm willing to broaden my experience." The bell rang, ending the period. "Then you play the damn game and tell us about it," Senese shot back quickly, and bolted out the door.

  Barbara set the framed black and white photographs on the conference table, spreading them out as she explained. "These are old group photos of the staff from Fergus's years at Ballycastle. Conor gave them to me when I started work on my report. Look!" The pictures had been taken in front of the castle, the whole staff dressed in uniform. Every year the layout was the same, as if they were class pictures. They spotted Conor easily in each of the dozen old prints. He always stood to one side, at the far right edge of the frame, wearing either a black suit and tie or his heavy leather blacksmith apron. He stood ramrod straight, as if under orders, and squinted into a bright morning sun. "I wish the faces were bigger," Barbara muttered. She had opened the album and was searching for comparisons. "Here!" she said immediately. In the album a small girl, barely out of her teens, was being sodomized. Barbara pointed to a girl in the framed photo. She stood at the front of the crowded group of employees. "These two look alike, don't they? The same blunt features. She looks almost like a boy, doesn't she?" Barbara turned to the next page of the album, and then searched the staff pictures for a lookalike. "What about this one in the third row? They have the same cheekbones. Oh, if only there were names on the back of these staff photographs. Then we'd know if these are the girls who are buried up on" "Barbara, stop." Derek slammed the album shut and kept his hand on it. `This is all fantasy, sheer speculation. These servants all dressed alike and wore their hair alike. You can't possibly tell if they're the same girls as in the album." Barbara stepped back, surprised by his reaction. He took the album, went to his desk and locked it in the center drawer. "We've wasted enough time on all this ancient history, Barbara. I have a Foundation to run." "Derek, let me ask you a question. If Conor is the man in these photographs, then who's taking the pictures?" "I don't know. And I don't care. Finish your report, Barbara. Tell us about the furniture and the architecture and the armor. And forget about solving mysteries." "Why?" "Because it's beyond the sphere of your contract" "Come on, Derek, don't give me that" He paused, stood before her with his hands on his hips. It was shortly after eleven o'clock in the morning and he already looked exhausted. "Don't you realize what all this might mean? What it's all leading, up to? The graves, the pictures, the salve, the mysterious
French epitaphs?" "Yes, of course," she said haughtily. "Fergus was some sort of sexual pervert." "And what else?" Barbara looked him in the eye. She was wearing jeans and one of Scott's old blue cotton dress shirts, but she looked solemn and serious. "We're talking about mass murder," she answered flatly, without emotion. "I would surmise that between 1930 and 1940 nearly a dozen young girls, poor immigrants from Ireland, were forced to engage in sexual perversion with Conor certainly, and possibly Fergus, and in return they were murdered. Some ritual maybe, involving sex and beating. We've seen the progression of photos in the album. It was probably just a few steps further to murder. I certainly don't believe Conor's story about the cruel Mrs. Wilkinson. I went back again to the files and read that letter from Nuala O'Neill's mother. That girl must have been desperate to get out of here, trying to return to Ireland, trying to save her life." Barbara shook her head, incredulous. The enormity of the atrocity left her numb. "But you have no proof," Derek said quietly. "Whatever you may think of the photos, today there are lots of people buying videodiscs so they can watch the same sort of thing in their own living rooms. You won't nail Fergus as a murderer with this evidence." "Even if we fail," said Barbara, "I think we should try." "Why?" answered Derek, "when the price of trying would be the destruction of the Foundation? There would be lawsuits. The money he left, all thirty million, would be tied up for years in court battles and legal fees and eventually would end up in the hands of distant cousins who never met Nuala O'Neill or any of the others. All the Irish-American scholarships we've just started awarding would have to stop. And, to be totally selfish-and honest I'd lose my job and so would you." "I'm finished here in April." "Yes, but I've already asked the board to hire you full time." He shrugged, looked sheepish. "So you don't think we should do anything more. Just carry this little secret with us?" "What real good would there be in bringing out the truth? The girls are dead; they have been for forty years. The net result would be to destroy the Foundation and ruin the chance of anything good coming from his money." "You've forgotten one thing." Derek lifted his head, jutting out his chin. He had weighed everything, had forgotten nothing. "Conor Fitzpatrick. If that was he in those photographs-and I'm convinced it was-then he, too, knew about the killings. He was involved in the deaths of those girls." "And he should pay? Regardless of whatever else that means?" Barbara nodded. "He's alive, Derek, and nine young girls are dead and buried on Steepletop. Yes, Conor should pay. They did, with their lives."

  Seventeen

  "Well, as the chairman of the Halloween dance committee, I think it's a good idea," Tracy declared, looking across the lunch table at Valerie. "Much better than the gym, where we always get stuck having it" Shaking her head, Valerie sipped her Coke and scanned the cafeteria, watching to see how many students were huddling together, eyeing her, laughing among themselves. By now Borgus's version of what had happened at the graveyard had to have spread through the whole school. Nick would have seen to that. "I'm in enough trouble," she said. "I'm not going to have everyone laughing at me again." It was better to just lay low, she figured. Keep quiet and let the whole mess pass. "No one is blaming you for anything. I mean, you didn't run the wrong way in the game." Tracy tossed her hair back from her face, but didn't say any more. She knew better than to pick on Scott in front of Valerie, but it was no secret she thought he was weird and the source of all Valerie's troubles with Borgus. Valerie shrugged and finished the soda in one long gulping sip. "No, but everyone on the bus this morning knew what color underwear I had on." "Val, it's not your fault. Everyone thinks those two are creeps." "They don't think so." Valerie nodded toward a table of football players. "They think Scott is a creep, and they think I'm a creep for hanging out with him. And they believe I wanted to have a threesome with Hank and Nick." "Hey, I don't believe that," Tracy said defensively. "About the threesome, I mean. But if you're going to act all mean and weird, I guess I'll just leave." She stood up and reached for her Flat Rock Twirlers jacket. "Would anyone come?" Valerie asked. She did not look at her friend. "Sure. Why not? I mean, if we can have the dance at the castle, everyone would want to come. That would really be neat," Tracy answered in a rush. She sat down again, ready to talk more. "There isn't much time, but I think Carpenter would let us make the switch." "Would any of the girls come?" Valerie asked next. "Do they really think I wanted to have a threesome?" Tracy shook her head. "Half the kids here don't even know what it means." Valerie glanced quickly across at her friend. "Tracy?" "Huh?" "What does it mean, anyway?" "Oh, God, you don't know?" Valerie shook her head, her green eyes wide with innocence.

  Conor kept to his routine. He had little enough to do around the estate but he kept himself busy. At four-thirty he went to the castle and picked up the dinner pail. Most days he would chat a bit with the cook, sit in the staff dining room with the secretaries and the cleaning girls, but today he was in a rush, afraid that Barbara Gardiner might nab him for questioning again, and he was in and out of the castle in minutes, returning to his own place in the barns. On any other afternoon he would have stayed there until nightfall, or until the Foundation people had left for the day. But now he was too impatient, too troubled, and he set out immediately, lugging the metal bucket down to the bridge, across it, and into the woods beyond. In a matter of minutes he had disappeared into the trees. There was no path beyond the river, and Conor always approached the small log cabin by a slightly different route. The cabin itself was hidden, built in the thick of the trees with no clearing to give the but a glimpse of the sun. Himself had wanted it that way, saying rightly that the place would be better for hunting, blending as it did with the forest. Conor stopped a hundred yards off to see that no one was about. He no longer trusted Brennan, not after what he had heard that morning, hiding in the passageway, watching him and the woman studying the old pictures. When he was certain that no one was prowling about, he continued on, his feet kicking up the deep bed of leaves. He circled the small cabin and went up onto the wooden porch, his shoes thumping on the old boards. Most days he just set the bucket outside the front door and went away. This time he knocked lightly on the thick door, whispering, "Maeve, are you there now?" His voice sounded loud in the silent forest. He tapped the door again with his bony knuckles and then leaned closer, listened with one ear up against the door. He could hear her coming, her soft slippers shuffling across the bare floor. At the door she paused and unlocked the small wooden peephole, opened it and looked out, peering through the iron bars he had installed years before. "And how would you be, Maeve?" He tried to sound cheery, to ease her loneliness. "I'm the same as always, and why wouldn't I be?" The old woman glanced back into the room as if checking on something. "Aah, you're a good soul, Maeve." Conor braced his arm against the door frame. "What is it, Conor?" She was puzzled by his visit, his stopping to talk. It wasn't their way. "Well, things are not good, Maeve." He shook his head. She could see the worry on his face. He told her then of Barbara Gardiner, how she had seen the graves, and found the old album they had all forgotten. The old woman stared out blankly through the bars. She did not understand what Conor was saying, did not know why he was so troubled. Himself had told them years before that they would always be safe at Ballycastle, that whatever happened in the world, here they were safely at home, among his things, on his property. She remembered how he had come to her when she was a girl, brought her to his big bed and drawn her into his arms, whispering, "Never leave me, Maeve, never leave me." And she had asked him to swear that there would never be another woman in his life. He swore it, and in return she promised she would never leave him, and then she gave herself to him.

  "Yeah?" Scott said, answering the kitchen phone. Pause. "Yeah?" Pause. "Oh, yeah?" he said quickly, angry now. Barbara watched him as he paced the room, stretching the long extension cord. "Yeah! Yeah!" he said again. Barbara bit her lower lip and went back to setting the small bay window table. "I don't know. Maybe," Scott whispered in the receiver. Barbara smiled. He was so secretive, as if his whole life were a conspir
acy. "I don't think it's a good idea." He glanced at Barbara. "Listen, can't we talk about this at school?" Barbara ignored him. She put the string beans in the steamer and set them on the stove. Derek would be there within a half hour, and she wanted to eat dinner immediately and then get down to business. Scott had stretched the telephone cord down the hallway and into his bedroom. She could hear him say, "God, that's really dumb," and she shook her head, wondering who was having the pleasure of this disagreeable conversation with her son. He reappeared and hung up the phone, slamming the receiver down. "Who was that, dear?" she asked, ignoring the display of temper. "Ah, no one." He went back to the dishwasher and began his job of unloading the machine. "You spent the last ten minutes being hostile to no one?" "I was talking to Val, that's all." He banged one plate down on another, for emphasis. "Oh. And how's Valerie?" Barbara asked sweetly. "She's okay," Scott mumbled. "Well, what did she want?" Barbara pressed. "Nothing." "Nothing? Really?" Barbara smiled at her son. "Then why are you so upset with her?" "I'm not upset," he snapped. Barbara folded three napkins and waited. "She just called about some crazy idea of hers," Scott said at last. "Hmm." "She says some kids want to have the Halloween dance here at Ballycastle and have everyone come as a Hobgoblin character." "Why, that's a great idea, don't you think?" She turned her full attention to Scott. "Why should the dance be at Ballycastle? And why do they want to wear Hobgoblin costumes?" He was shaking his head. "They don't even like the game, anyway." "But, honey, don't you think it would be a good idea? The castle is a wonderful place for a dance, and having everyone come as a Hobgoblin character would make it that much more fun." "Well, we can't do it anyway," Scott answered, dismissing her enthusiasm. "And why not?" "Because the Foundation wouldn't let us." "Oh, I think they would. Ask Derek tonight. It would be good for community relations, a way to connect Ballycastle with the town." Scott shrugged, and she backed off. She knew better than to press him. It would only make him obstinate. The phone rang again. "I'll get it," Barbara said. "It's probably Derek saying he'll be late." She hung a towel on the refrigerator door and went for the wall phone. "Hello." "Oh, hello, Mrs. Gardiner, this is Valerie Dunn." She sounded timid, as if she hadn't expected Barbara to answer the phone. "Why, hello, Val." She turned around and smiled broadly at Scott who smiled back, gritting his teeth. "I'm sorry to be calling at dinner time, but could I please speak to Scott again?" "Certainly." She motioned to Scott, then said quickly to Valerie, "Oh, I think your Halloween dance at Ballycastle is a wonderful idea." "You do?" Valerie's voice brightened. "Yes, of course. The castle is certainly large enough, and it really does look like a haunted house, doesn't it?" "Well, I guess. I mean, it really wasn't my idea. My friend Tracy suggested it-she's the chairman of the dance committee-and I was just calling Scott to see what he thought. He doesn't like the idea, but now that everybody's hot to do it they'll all be mad if he turns them down." "Oh, I don't know." Barbara lowered her voice. "I think perhaps you can talk him into it, Valerie. Now here's Scotty." She handed him the receiver, saying, "I'm going to put the car in the garage. Baste the chicken, please." And then disappeared down the dark hallway, leaving her son alone. "Don't hang up on me again," Valerie said immediately. "Hmmm." "Come on, Scott, even your mother likes the idea." "Yeah." "God, you're impossible." "Well, if I'm so impossible then why do you keep calling me back?" "I don't know." Valerie sighed, then said all in a rush, "Because you're being so stupid about this. Because if you were nice for just a few minutes then the kids at school would like you better." "Oh, yeah? Then why did they shit all over Hobgoblin? I was just trying to show them the game, explaining and everything." "Okay! Okay! You think Hobgoblin is so neat, but you saw how hard it was for me to learn the game. Give us a chance." "Yeah, well, I gave you a chance, and you didn't like it. You've never asked to play again, not since that first night." "Fine, I'll play the game. I'll play on Saturday night." "That's the night of the dance." "Right. The kids will play the game. All of us. It will be fun." She sounded excited, caught up in her idea. "Everyone will be in their costumes, so they can see everything and not have to imagine it. They'll like that a lot better." "Why should I do anything nice for assholes like Borgus or anyone in social studies?" "Because we'll play the game and everyone will lose. You can kill them all off, show Borgus and the other jocks how stupid they are." It clicked then in his mind how it would be. Instead of using a little Battleboard they'd use the whole castle, the endless rooms and the long corridors. Brian Boru would run an Adventure against all the kids at school, everyone on his list. "Scott?" Valerie asked. "Are you listening? Did you hear me?" "Uh-huh " "Well, what do you think?" "All right. I'll ask Mr. Brennan." Valerie sighed into the phone. "Thanks," she whispered. "Are you coming to school tomorrow?" "Yeah, sure, why not?" "Because you weren't there today, that's why. Where did you go after social studies?" "Around." "Around where?" "Just around! For crying out loud, why do you want to know?" She was like his mother, he thought, always probing. "Nothing. I'd just like to go with you next time you cut, that's all." "Oh." It surprised him that she wanted to do something with him. "I don't do much; I mean, I just hang around with Conor, that's all." "Well, that would be fun," she answered. "Take me next time, okay?" "Sure, I guess. Why not?" He tried to sound nonchalant. "And can I have a ride to school tomorrow? I mean, if you're driving." "Yeah, okay." "And Scott...?" "What now?" He tried to sound put upon, exasperated. "Don't forget to baste the chicken," and then she hung up.