Richard nodded, pointing across the storefront to a squat shelf in the corner. “I'm pretty sure we have a few in stock.” He turned to his wife. “Right, hon? A few road atlases? They're with the local history books, no?”
Deborah sat bolt upright, gulped. Like a deer in headlights, she divided her wide gaze between the distant shelf and the detective. “Erm... yes,” she eventually managed with a meager nod. She continued wringing her hands, evidently engaged in a cost-benefit analysis. On the one hand, the shop probably hadn't had many customers that day and they were in need of money. On the other, selling Ulrich the book and accepting his cash would mean aiding a nemesis. The results were in. Sighing, she waved her husband off. “Show him to the maps.”
Richard led the detective to the corner and singled out the atlases on offer. “This one here is most recent. For a few dollars more, we've got this one—the maps are more detailed. I reckon we can knock a few bucks off it for you, though. You're a neighbor, after all.”
From across the room, Deborah could be heard to pound the counter with her fist. “No discounts!” she barked.
Turning over a crisp twenty and profuse thanks, Ulrich rushed out of the Otterbein building with a road atlas in hand. He brought it out to the car, where he spread out the maps across the hood and studied them in the bright afternoon sun.
He knew the property was something like forty minutes away from the center of town; even so, with only this to go off of, it took him more than a half-hour of searching to find the pond he sought.
Pearson Pond—a speck on the map—looked to be forty minutes north. A leisurely drive up Route 23 would get him most of the way. The navigation of some few country roads awaited him past that point. He glanced at his watch. If he set out now, he'd get there well before evening.
Tucking the atlas into his glove compartment, he started up the car and peeled out of the lot.
As he left the Otterbein behind, he looked into his rearview and glimpsed the painting, still leaning against his back seat. He was finally going to see that landscape in person, and he wondered what—or who—he'd find when he got there.
17
There was no telling what he'd find.
Well, that wasn't completely true. The detective had his theories. Things he might stumble across, things he hoped to discover. He was keen to see how the reality of this remote property compared to his imaginings. And nervous, too.
Put simply, Tanglewood was a series of neatly-arranged neighborhoods, a conglomeration of strip malls and outdoor shopping centers. It was in this well-populated core that most of the living was done. Striking further out, past the last outlet store, the last drive-thru, there existed other facets of the town, more rarely glimpsed. One supposed that the staggered houses on sprawling acreages, flanked by fields of corn, belonged to those who preferred their space and came into town only on occasion. Further still, as the lanes widened and the stoplights all but disappeared, one entered into someplace more rural, with a different culture altogether. Half an hour from his departure and Harlan Ulrich understood he remained in Tanglewood in name only.
The mile markers flew in and out of focus. He'd done a fair bit of exploring in his short time living there, but never had he gone so far as this. For his part, the detective rather enjoyed the ride—at least, insofar as it gave him a chance to get his head straight. The sedan took the uncommonly high mileage in stride; when Sinatra's crooning faded out between tracks, the grinding toil of the stalwart engine spread across the vast fields like a siren. He hoped it wouldn't break down on him and leave him stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Now and then, when bumps in the road made it shift, Ulrich would glance at the painting in his back seat. Lurking in the world of that dour canvas was a spirit—the spirit, he presumed, of Gloria Ramos. “What's waiting for me out there?” he asked the thing at one juncture.
Of course, the painting hadn't responded, but even in its silence the investigator had no shortage of predictions. He expected to find signs of a crime—signs of her murder. It was possible he was getting ahead of himself, but having mulled over the clues awhile, this particular configuration made the most sense to him.
Gloria Ramos had died very recently. There had probably been foul play involved, causing her to remain in this world; happy spirits, it seemed to him, wouldn't hesitate to move on to the next. Latching onto the painting—whose scene would offer some clue into the nature of her death—Gloria had accosted its newest owner in the hopes that someone would get the hint and investigate further. Ulrich himself had fallen unwittingly into that role. Now, things would come to a head. He'd arrive at this property, have a look around, and hopefully find what Gloria had intended.
It was possible, too, that he'd meet her killer.
Ulrich had not yet spoken to William Villefort, and was careful not to assign guilt prematurely. One needed to get their facts down pat before accusing someone of a murder, after all. Still, the shoe seemed to fit. Laura Villefort had described her husband's illicit relationship with the young housekeeper, and hadn't spoken to him in something like a week. A lot of things could happen in a week's time.
He turned off Route 23 and hooked onto a dusty country road in accordance with the lines in the atlas. Large, empty fields dominated the scenery here. The road was narrow, and to his right, cut into the earth for miles, stood a yawning drainage ditch. Ulrich did his best to keep to the left; if his car ended up in there, it'd be doomed to become a part of the scenery.
Another turn brought him to a road of similar narrowness, though as he sped a half mile down this stretch the scenery began to change very slightly. Trees—wild and massive—turned up here and there. The fields hereabouts were shaggier, teeming with curious weeds and other longstanding growths. Another half mile passed and the trees began appearing with still greater frequency—in fact, there were clusters of them now.
He slowed, taking the last prescribed turn and watching as the terrain grew wilder still. The road climbed slightly here; his sedan wheezed like a couch potato in trying to scale it. Momentum carried him through, and as he started down the easy slope he spied still more trees—dense copses of them—and more. Beyond the borders of the drainage ditches on both sides of the road were battered bits of wooden fencing. To his right, a quarter of a mile down the way, there looked to be an abandoned barn, its weatherbeaten hulk seeming to teeter in the wind.
Then, just beyond that, he saw it.
The Villefort property.
It was silly, but somehow Ulrich hadn't expected it to look quite so much like the painting in his backseat. He'd figured it would look a bit different; that the artist had taken liberties with the scene, or that its owners would have changed something in the intermittent years since Cosloy had painted it, but as he slowed to a stop on that lonesome country stretch to take it in from the road, he was awestruck by its complete similitude. If the detective hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Cosloy had completed the painting just that very day.
Ulrich had spent a good deal of time studying that canvas, and knew precisely where everything was situated. To his utter surprise, the house appeared exactly as it did in the painting, down to the color. The hedgerow that sprouted from both of its flanks looked to be precisely the same height as in the painting, as if the shrubberies had quit growing the instant Cosloy had set down his brush. The trees swayed in exactly the positions he'd expected to find them; had he stopped to count the leaves he might have found himself a perfect match there as well.
The only thing missing—and thank goodness for that!—was the pale figure of Gloria Ramos holding her red umbrella. Staring out at the property, though, he could place her well enough in the scene; her position in the canvas was forever etched into his mind.
When he'd had enough of gawking from a distance, Ulrich wheeled the car up the road another fifty feet and turned into a long gravel drive. He pulled up about half-way, sidling against a tottering shed with cobweb-encrusted windows, and
finally cut the engine. He stepped out, stretching, and looked to the very end of the drive. There were no other cars parked, though deep tire tracks existed in the gravel below his feet where some had only recently tread.
He left the drive and started up the lawn, getting a feel for the property and taking in what detail he could from the outside.
The first thing he noticed as he paced through the grass was that the place looked manicured, well-kept. Aside from the tire tracks, Ulrich was able to pick out a few other signs that pointed to a presence on the property as of late. For starters, the lawn had been cut within the last few days; trimmings clung to his dress shoes as he advanced. What's more, something odorous and yellow—some kind of chemical fertilizer, probably—had been scattered across the plot in abundance. It was possible that William had people come by to deal with his lawn on a schedule—that landscapers had dropped by earlier in the week to spruce things up. It was possible, too, that the owner himself had recently been spending time on the property. I guess William's not the kind of guy to let a little murder get in the way of his lawn work.
Ulrich paused to study the house, and for a moment he was disoriented. Except for the weather—it was sunny and warm today, in stark contrast to the climate depicted in the painting—he felt like he'd just stepped into Nancy's picture. He stared up into the dark windows, craned his neck to peer around the corner, at the sprawling hedge. Beyond it, he knew, was Pearson Pond. Standing before the house in a daze, he felt a tickle on the nape of his neck. He knew it was nothing, a trick of the wind or some niggling anxiety, but he felt sure that if he turned around just then he'd see someone.
He glanced over his shoulder and, with ample relief, found no red umbrellas, no pale watchers.
Having canvassed the front of the property, Ulrich decided it was time to see if anyone was home.
It was as he approached the front door and prepared to tap the doorbell that he stopped and realized what he was doing—and how poorly he'd prepared himself.
Supposing William Villefort really was a murderer, how would he react to this little visit? One could hardly expect a killer to be a kind and hospitable host to a nosy PI. The detective hadn't brought any weapons with him—never did. The closest thing he owned to a weapon was a large aluminum flashlight that could be utilized as a truncheon in a pinch, and currently it was in the car, under his passenger seat.
In his haste for answers, he'd arrived completely unprepared for this encounter. Perhaps, if the detective treated William without suspicion—kept things friendly—he could avoid an altercation. Then again, that might have been wishful thinking on his part. If you tell him you're a detective he's going to try and kill you on the spot.
Idling before the door, he thought of other avenues he might take. He could lie, say he was looking for directions, or needed a jumpstart. Then, when he was sure there was no threat from William, he could try and throw a few questions out there. It wasn't ideal, but this roundabout approach would be much safer for Ulrich, under the circumstances.
With a long-held breath, he hit the doorbell.
A warm breeze cut across the property. As he stood there, damp with sweat, the wind felt almost like ice. When the tones of the bell had long since faded, he tapped the button again. Minutes later he tried it a third time. Finally, when his fourth summons went ignored, the detective drew away from the door and breathed a great sigh of relief.
It looks like no one is home. You may have just dodged a bullet—literally. Thankful to have an opportunity to explore the property without running the risk of meeting William, the detective started around the corner, towards the back yard and the pond he knew to encroach upon it. Moving forward, he was going to have to be more careful—and better prepared.
Beyond the neat hedges, a vast yard sprawled many yards before dead-ending in an immense body of placid water. Pearson Pond looked much larger in person than it had on the map; from where he stood, its opposite edge appeared quite distant. At several dozen yards wide, it had the look of a small lake about it. There was no guessing its depth. The detective spied a small dock leading into the water, along with a paddleboat and some fishing gear left sitting upon the nearest bank. It looked like a lovely fishing spot.
Trees towered overhead, casting welcome shade about the back of the house. There was a grill near the back patio—a quick inspection yielded signs of a recent steak dinner still clinging to the grate inside. A large pot filled with soil and littered with cigar stubs sat beside it; across the cobblestone patio was an empty cooler. Three sturdy chairs were arranged near the back door; he took a seat in one and had a think.
Ulrich spent some time in surveying the rear of the property, but at this point he'd seen all there was to see. If the ghost of Gloria Ramos had led him here to show him something, he hadn't found it. Admittedly, the ghost didn't usually become active till after dark—close to midnight. At that moment, the sun was only just beginning to droop in the sky. If he wanted to wait around, he was going to have a long evening ahead of him.
The other possibility was that Ulrich had been intended to look inside the house. Trouble was, he didn't have the owner's permission. If he'd wanted to, he could have easily gotten inside, even without a key. In the best of cases however, this would leave him somewhere between criminal trespass and breaking and entering, and Ulrich much preferred to stay on the side of the law when conducting his investigations. He was a tender creature, not the kind who would thrive in jail, and so preferred to do things by the book.
Having gotten the lay of the land, Ulrich decided to put his investigation of the property on hold—at least, until nightfall. He'd seek out a bite to eat in the surrounding area and then return to the property after dark. It was then, he hoped, that Gloria would appear and guide him to whatever it was she wanted him to see. Still kicking himself for his earlier carelessness and not wishing to end up a future murder victim, Ulrich planned to exercise more caution. Up the road, he'd seen an abandoned barn. He'd hide his car in there to keep from being discovered, and would hang out in a dense copse of trees where he'd be able to keep the Villefort place in his sights—and remain out of view.
It was when he'd come within a dozen paces of the car, wondering where he might get a solid cheeseburger in the area, that this new plan of his went out the window.
Ulrich stopped. Staring at the sedan for several moments, a jolt of fear spread from his core to each of his extremities. He felt like he might collapse.
The rear driver's side door was open.
He knew damn well he hadn't left it that way.
Heart racing, the detective did a wild scan of the yard, the road, the front of the house.
He wasn't as alone here as he'd initially thought.
18
Fists balled, the detective stepped around to the driver's side—slowly, cautiously—while minding his periphery. “W-Who's there?” he demanded, though the quiver in his voice robbed him of any authority.
The door sat open; there didn't appear to be anyone lurking behind it, nor any sign that someone had just exited the car. The gravel there bore no shoe prints that he could discern, and the painting remained undisturbed. Setting a hand atop the door, Ulrich looked over the car. Then, when he was sure he wouldn't get jumped from behind, he knelt down and took a look underneath.
There was no one there.
Shaken, he slammed the door shut. Walking a few circuits around the car, he checked his tires, his muffler. Nothing had been tampered with by the looks of it. But the door had been open. Why? To frighten him off? Make him paranoid? Ulrich sat against the hood, wondering if he hadn't left it open himself. No, you didn't open that door and you know it. He turned once again to the rear driver's side, then cast a nervous glance at the shed that sat beside the drive.
In the dust-heavy window he tracked movement.
The shed was a dilapidated thing—a contemptible eyesore on a property so well-kept as this—and it featured two windows that sat parallel to each other.
In this way, one could see straight through the shed to the field that sat on its other side, except that in their present filthy state, little could be glimpsed through them. The panes were layered with a dense film of silk and dust, and what looked like abundant clutter went even further in blocking out the dimming sunlight.
But he'd sensed something moving in there—it had passed by the window very quickly and vanished into that interior darkness within the space of a single gasp. Certain now that he was being watched, and that he'd found the one who'd been poking around in his car, Ulrich came around to the passenger side and pulled his flashlight from under the seat. He switched it on, then took hold of the very back end; he'd used it as a bludgeon if he had to.
Approaching the flimsy wooden door of the shed, Ulrich stood to one side and cleared his throat. “Who's there? I've seen you. Come out—slowly. I'm not looking for a fight, but if you try anything funny I'll clock you. Understand?”
There was no reply. An almost mocking silence grew up in the proceeding moments. Ulrich looked up into the dusky sky, his teeth set on edge. Waiting me out, are you? Hoping to get a jump on me?
Losing his patience, Ulrich gave the door a hard push, and it sailed inward, crashing against a heap of clutter. Waiting for a beat, he then burst around the corner into the shed, casting his bright light all about the space and hoping to catch the lurking presence unaware. He was unsuccessful, but not for lack of trying.
It turned out there was no one inside.
Years of accumulated junk filled the small shed from corner to corner. The parts of two or three separate lawn mowers were piled atop each other; stacks of flower pots and dusty bags of potting soil leaned beside them. There were so many coiled hoses in the place that in the darkness he thought he'd wandered into a knot of breeding snakes, and a collection of sprinklers, spades and shovels had been strewn about the remainder of the space. There was no one hiding within the shed—there simply wasn't the space for it. Had he wanted to get to the other side, he'd have had to clear the Kilimanjaro of junk first.
Deep Night Page 12