Ariel

by Lawrence Block

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Paranoia strikes again.”

  “I’m not being paranoid. What do you think he was doing there? He even had his window rolled down so he could get a good look.”

  “Lots of people roll their windows down.”

  “Not as cold as it is today. How many cars do you see driving by with the window down?”

  “That’s a point.”

  “He was waiting for me.”

  “Then why did he drive away the minute you turned up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re just lucky I was along to protect you, Jardell. God only knows what fate would have awaited you otherwise.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” he said, flapping his arms and making a face. “I can’t because I’m a kid, and kids are never serious.” He went on flapping his arms and darted on ahead, making horrible bird noises. Ariel shook her head, sighed, and walked on after him….

  Up in his third-floor room, Erskine said, “All right, Mr. Funeral Game was looking for you. Why?”

  “You mean you want to talk about it? You’re done with your imitation of a constipated vulture?”

  “You just saw him twice before? At the funeral and when your mother got out of his car?”

  “That’s right. Maybe I saw him years ago. There’s something familiar about him, but maybe that’s just because he’s got those television looks.”

  “Same as you and me.”

  “Funny, funny. Maybe—”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe he’s a detective.”

  “You’ve got your television shows mixed up. Why a detective?”

  “Maybe Roberta hired him.”

  “To find out why you don’t come straight home from school? Wouldn’t it be easier to ask you?”

  “She knows I come over here. That’s not why she would hire him.”

  “Why, then?”

  “To find out how Caleb died.”

  “Don’t you go to a doctor for that?”

  “Not if she thinks Caleb was murdered.”

  He sat forward, staring at her, and now his eyes looked absolutely enormous. “You think she thinks—”

  “She thinks I killed Caleb.” The words echoed, caroming off the walls of the little room. She had never spoken them aloud before. She was surprised her voice sounded so calm.

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then—”

  “It’s what she thinks. The other day she asked me how I knew Caleb was dead that morning. She was in his room, she was on her way out of the room, and one look at her face and it was obvious somebody had died. I mean, it couldn’t have been anything else.”

  “And you just knew it?”

  “The idea was just right there in my head. I looked at her and it was like hearing this voice inside saying Caleb’s dead.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Try telling Roberta something like that. I don’t remember what I told her the other day. I sort of brushed off the question. I said something about not remembering that morning too clearly. I remember it, all right.”

  “So you think he’s a detective.”

  She shrugged. “What else could he be?”

  “And now he’s looking for evidence to prove you killed your brother.”

  “It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  He studied her, his face thoughtful. She wished he would take off his glasses so she could get an idea what was going through his mind.

  “I don’t see how he could be a detective,” he said. “Or what he could do if he was one.”

  “Well, who else could he be?”

  “Maybe he’s a doctor.”

  “There was already a doctor who examined Caleb.”

  “Not that kind of doctor. Maybe he’s a psychiatrist.”

  “She used to go to a psychiatrist. I wonder if she’s crazy.”

  “Maybe the psychiatrist’s for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, he’s following you around, right? Maybe Roberta figures you killed Caleb because you’re crazy, so she’s got a psychiatrist to observe you.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think that’s how it works. I think you have to go to the psychiatrist’s office and lie down on the couch and talk to him. Or he gives you tests to see if you’ve got a screw loose. Ink-blots and pictures to make up stories from.”

  “You sound like you went once.”

  “No, but I know how it works. From things I’ve read. And there was that program, it was a special about a teenager with mental problems. Didn’t you see it?”

  “No. Maybe Roberta found a psychiatrist who makes house calls.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe he’s some combination of psychiatrist and detective. Or maybe he’s somebody else altogether. Maybe he’s an interior decorator and she wants new drapes for the living room.”

  “Then why would he turn up at the funeral? And why would he be parked and waiting for us today?”

  “Maybe he’s a pervert with a thing for twelve-year-old girls.”

  “And dead babies.”

  “Right. It’s one of your standard perversions.”

  “And he’s one of your standard perverts.”

  “You got it, Jardell. You know what? I’m not a psychiatrist or a detective—”

  “Just a pervert.”

  “—but I bet I could be a detective.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I think I’ll find out who he is.”

  “How?”

  “I have my methods, Watson.”

  “C’mon, how?”

  He smiled, pleased with himself. “You’ll see,” he said.

  Jeff couldn’t sleep.

  He kept turning in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. He had been tired by the time he got into bed and thought sleep would come quickly, but he couldn’t seem to unwind. A mental tape kept replaying the scene that had taken place earlier, when he and Ariel had stared so long, and hard, into each other’s eyes.

  She was just a child, he told himself. Awkward, innocent, unformed. And yet, damn it, there was some quality of secret knowledge in her gaze that he could neither pin down nor dismiss out of hand. And now the memory of it wouldn’t let him sleep.

  Beside him, Elaine’s breathing was deep and regular. For a moment he considered reaching for her, seeking release in the warm depths of her flesh. She would’’t mind that sort of awakening. She always welcomed it, always dropped off to sleep easily afterward.

  Perhaps he had a real need for that sort of release. His lovemaking with Bobbie that afternoon had left him frustrated, and maybe that was what was keeping him awake. On the other hand, he was uncertain of his capacity to perform the act. Be a hell of a thing to wake Elaine and then be unable to deliver.

  He adjusted the pillow once again, rolled over onto his side, then onto his back once again.

  He reached, not for Elaine, but for himself. He stroked himself idly, mechanically, and felt his flesh respond with an urgency that approached pain. He sought to fill his mind with fantasies that had served him in the past, flickering images of anonymous flesh straight from the nether world of pornography.

  It was Ariel’s face, pale and shining, that kept intruding. And, when his flesh coughed and spat in orgasm, it was her cool eyes that burned in his mind.

  They were in Erskine’s room Monday afternoon before either of them mentioned the man in the Buick. Ariel had thought of the man on the way home from school, looking over her shoulder once or twice to see if they were being followed, but she hadn’t felt like saying anything to Erskine.

  Now he said, “Jeffrey D. Channing, 105 Fontenoy Drive, Charleston Heights. Law offices at 229 Meeting Street. Home phone 989-8029. Office phone 673-7038. His wife’s name is Elaine and he has two daughters, Greta and Deborah. What else would you like to know about him?”

  “Who is
he?”

  “The funeral man. Mr. DWE-628, and his Buick’s a year old, by the way. Your detective. I’ll bet I’m a better detective than he is.”

  “You found out all that about him since Friday? Tell me again.” She listened carefully this time while he repeated everything. “A lawyer,” she said thoughtfully. “Why would she have a lawyer following me?”

  “Maybe she wants to sue you.”

  “Fontenoy Drive in Charleston Heights. That’s not far from my old house.”

  “And the funeral parlor’s in that neighborhood too, isn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe he popped into the funeral because he happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “How did you find all this out, Erskine?”

  “I told you. I have my methods, Jardell.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “You’re really impressed, aren’t you?”

  “I just don’t see how you did it.”

  “A magician never reveals his tricks.”

  “Are you serious? You’re not going to tell me?”

  “Oh, of course I’ll tell you,” he said, grinning. “If you’ll play the flute for me.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Well, in that case—”

  “Erskine—”

  “I’ll tell you,” he said gently. “You’ll play the flute for me someday. You can always play my flute, Ariel.”

  “Gross pig.”

  “Oink. The first thing I did, Saturday morning, was steal a hubcap.”

  “From Channing’s car? How did you know where to find it?”

  “I didn’t. You want to let me tell this?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I just took a screwdriver and I went out and stole a hubcap, and not from his car. As a matter of fact it was from a car parked all the way over on Savage Street. That’s how far I had to walk before I found a Buick with nobody around to see me pry the hubcap off.”

  “Why a Buick? Oh, because his car’s a Buick.”

  “Good thinking. I brought it home and I told my mother it rolled off a car and the driver didn’t notice it but I got the license number. Guess what license number?”

  “DWE-something something something.”

  “628. I told her the driver would probably like to get his hubcap back, and she was really proud of me for being so public-spirited, but she didn’t know how to find out who he was. I had to suggest it to her.”

  “Suggest what?”

  “That she should call the Department of Motor Vehicles and tell them what happened. I thought of calling myself, and if I did that I wouldn’t have had to actually steal the hubcap, because they wouldn’t ask to see it over the phone. But I figured they wouldn’t be as likely to cooperate with a kid. I thought of trying to sound grown up. I didn’t think it would work.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Anyway, she made the call. You know my mother. God help anybody who tries to tell her it’s against policy to give out information, blah blah blah. She got his name and address and a description of the car, and it was the same car, a maroon and black Buick Electra. Then she said she’d drive me out there so I could return the hubcap.”

  “Did you go?”

  “She couldn’t take me right away, and I said maybe I’d go by bus instead. I think she was afraid I would get lost, but she didn’t come right out and say so, and she just told me to call first.”

  “So you called them?”

  “I pretended to. I looked up the number in the phone book, and that’s when I saw the office listing on Meeting Street. Then I went out and walked past the office, just to be doing something, and I kept walking and wound up seeing a movie at the theater on King near George. The Olympia. They really ought to call it the King George. There were two science fiction movies and I got there in the middle of one and walked out in the middle of the other. I left the hubcap under my seat.”

  “Clever.”

  “Well, I had to ditch it somewhere. I wasn’t going to try putting it back on the car on Savage Street.”

  “He’ll be missing a hubcap and never know it played a part in a larger drama.”

  “It’s a shame we can’t tell him. Anyway, I came home and later that night she asked me if Mr. Channing gave me a reward. I said no, and she said didn’t he even reimburse me for my busfare, and I said no because I wasn’t thinking too fast, and she said that was terrible and she had a good notion to give him a piece of her mind.”

  “Did she call him?”

  “She was getting ready to. Then I managed to tell her that a kid answered the door and took the hubcap, and of course the kid didn’t think to give me money, and I didn’t really want any money anyway. And she said why didn’t I say so in the first place, and of course I would have if I’d thought of it, but I just mumbled something and went upstairs.”

  “That’s amazing,” she said. She thought for a moment. “There were other things you said before. About him being a lawyer.”

  “It said so in the phone book.”

  “And his wife’s name, and his kids.”

  “Elaine and Greta and Deborah. I got that over the phone yesterday afternoon.”

  “What did you do, pretend you were taking a survey?”

  “No. I called up and asked to speak to Margaret Channing.”

  “And?”

  “And the woman who answered said there was no Margaret there, and she didn’t know of any Margaret Channing in the Charleston area, that her name was Elaine Channing. Then I said Margaret was a kid, and she said her daughters were named Greta and Deborah. For the hell of it I asked her if she had a son and she said she didn’t. I thought of asking her if her husband was a pervert but I decided against it.”

  “Probably wise of you.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  She got up, turned on Erskine’s short-wave radio, waited for the tubes to warm up. “Jeffrey Channing,” she said. “Who is he? Why is he following me around?”

  “He wasn’t exactly following you. It’s more like lurking in ambush.”

  “Terrific. How old are his kids?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Maybe I used to know them. I think I remember where Fontenoy Drive is. It’s not far from our old house. Maybe I went to school with Greta and Deborah.”

  “We could find out.”

  “How?”

  “We could take the bus out there tomorrow after school. Or we could wait for the weekend.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Or there’s a faster way. C’mon.”

  He used the phone in his mother’s room on the second floor, dialing the number rapidly, asking to speak to Greta. ”This is Graham Littlefield, Mrs. Channing. I’m in Greta’s class in school… . Hi, Greta. It’s Graham. Sure you do. Look, I’m having a party and I wanted to check how old you are. Uh-huh. When’s your birthday? And you’ll be ten then? Thanks. Oh, by the way, how old is Deborah? Your sister. Right, Debbie. Okay, thanks a lot, Greta. See you tomorrow.”

  He replaced the receiver and looked up in triumph. “Greta’s nine. She’ll be ten the eleventh of February. Don’t forget to send her a card.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “I know. Debbie’s the younger one. That’s what they call her, not Deborah, and when I called her Deborah Greta giggled. She does that a lot. Debbie’s six and a half, going on seven. Why do people say that, do you suppose? Everybody who’s six and a half is going on seven.”

  “I guess I didn’t know them. They’re a lot younger.”

  “I guess not.”

  “How come you said Graham Littlefield?”

  “Well, I had to say something. Now she’ll spend the next few days trying to figure out which kid is Graham. And waiting for an invitation to his party.”

  “Then she’ll read in the paper when you kill Graham and she’ll get suspicious.”

  “When I kill Graham—oh, right, I forgot that conversation. M
aybe that’s why I used his name. It’s easier than killing him. We could still go look at Channing’s house tomorrow or Saturday. If you want.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. Same reason the bear went over the mountain, I suppose. To see what he could see.”

  “Maybe.” She was impressed with what he’d found out, and she decided to let him know it. “You’re a good detective,” she said. “You’re really great over the phone. And I never would have thought of that business with the hubcap.”

  He flushed, pleased. “I have my methods,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get back upstairs. The radio’s on.”

  He led the way, taking the attic stairs at top speed …

  A little later she said, “Erskine? I was just thinking.”

  “It’s a nasty habit.”

  “So’s picking your nose.”

  “I wasn’t picking my nose.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway, did you ever stop and think that people say it’s disgusting if you pick your nose, but suppose you never picked your nose and you just sort of let all that crud collect in there. Wouldn’t that be even more disgusting?”

  “That’s the grossest and most revolting thing you’ve said in weeks.”

  “But if you think about it—”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Anyway, you’re the one who brought up nosepicking.”

  “I’ll never do it again.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Oh. About you being a detective and all. It was just a thought, actually.”

  “What?”

  “Well, maybe a detective could find out who my real parents were. That’s all.” She looked away. “It was just a thought that came to me.”

  ELEVEN

  The Child Placement Service of Greater Charleston occupied a suite of offices on the top floor of a three-story suburban office building on Sam Rittenberg Boulevard. The corporate motto, painted on the frosted glass outer door, was “Bringing Parent and Child Together.” Jeff read it and thought of alternatives. “Caveat Adoptor” had a nice classical ring to it, he thought. Or Roberta’s phrase—“You Never Know What You’re Getting.”

  In the sparsely furnished waiting room he leafed through a National Geographic. Instead of paying any mind to the pictures of Cecropia moths and Trobriand Islanders, he kept seeing Ariel’s pale face as he’d seen it Friday from his car. That moment when she turned and met his eyes with her own was engraved firmly in his memory. If he closed his eyes he could see her as he’d seen her then, could recall in all its flavor the sense of déjà vu he’d experienced at the time. As if this were a face he’d known before, in dreams or in another lifetime.