The Death Collectors

by J. A. Kerley

  Deformed and hideous, I thought, astute. Forrier continued as Danbury translated, transfixed by the eerie image forming on the floor.

  “Ask what he did with the masks,” I said.

  “On m’a emporté aussi les masques…”

  “The masks, too, were taken from me. All but the one I was working on. I think they finally entranced him. Even ugly, they had strength.”

  “The masks showed up at death scenes over the years,” I said to his face. “You were finally arrested for horrible crimes.”

  “Les meurtres ont eu lieu pas loin d’où je travaillais à cette époque…”

  “Deaths occurred not far from where I worked, washing dishes. My lost masks were found. The police were led to me. I had a lawyer given by the court. I told my lawyer, ‘It has something to do with Marsden Hexcamp.’ The lawyer said if I admitted knowing Hexcamp it would seal my tomb. The truth that should have saved me would have killed me. It was a brilliant trap.”

  Forrier shifted pieces until no more were left in the towel. The final result seemed the bottom quarter of the larger work, a phantasmagoria of destruction - blood, bone, body parts. Skullheavy faces screamed beneath cascades of excrement. Tiny golden worms slithered through the carnage. It was masterfully rendered - a work of genius from a technical standpoint - but a demented nightmare nonetheless. What had inspired such hellish pictures?

  Forrier stood, walked to the wall, and again conducted his silent music. He seemed to have lost all interest in the art. I recalled his final pronouncement before completing the puzzle, that he had been trapped.

  “Who trapped you?” I asked. He stared at me a moment, then waved his hands as if to outline smoke. “Fantômes,” he whispered.

  “Ghosts,” Danbury translated.

  Fantômes seemed to have been the final word in Trey Forrier’s daily verbal allotment. He fell silent and ignored all further questions. He simply stared at the wall, a beatific smile on his face.

  “That’s the weirdest SOB I’ve ever seen, Carson,” Danbury whispered.

  Chapter 48

  Danbury received a dozen calls from the station during our high-speed return, something to do with a special she was producing on weight-loss clinics, not a favored assignment. I got one call from Jacob Willow, wondering what was happening. I told him I’d call back.

  We blew into Mobile, headed for Channel 14. Danbury said, “I need to handle a fewthings. No more than a hundred. I can jump out if Walcott calls.”

  She ran to the door, her hair trying to catch up. I burned tires to my place, wanting to grab a shower and put the art away. Then wait for a call from Walcott.

  I was stepping from the shower when the phone rang. Walcott sounded stressed. “I don’t know where it’s happening, but I think it’s today or tomorrow. I called two clients with Hexcamp-sized money and inclinations. Their services say they’re out of town, won’t be back until tomorrow or the next day.”

  “How conclusive is that? Regular business maybe.”

  “They’re retired, have little to do but collect. They always answer my calls. Another client said to call back in a couple of days. She said if things went her way, she might be needing the name of a good restoration expert. In oil painting.”

  “Keep going.”

  “The last person had the most to say, though still not much. I suggested I had something he might like to see, an early Ramirez. He said I was in luck, he’d come by to see it tomorrow.”

  “And?”

  “He owns a couple of smaller casinos in Las Vegas. But he said he had business in this area today and tomorrow. He asked how much the Ramirez was, uncertain how much he had to spend. He’d let me know in a day or two.”

  Depending on how much he spent on the Hexcamp collection? I wondered, though “business in the area” might refer to nearby Biloxi and Pascagoula, where casinos were located. Walcott said, “I don’t have anything like that by Ramirez, what am I going to do when he -”

  “You’re sure you don’t know a location?”

  “I’ve told you everything. I swear.”

  “But you’re sure the auction is today or tomorrow?”

  “Something big’s happening; I feel it.”

  “What are the names of these people?” Thinking I could run a check of local lodgings, hoping they registered under their own names. There was no reason not to.

  “I can’t tell you that, Detective Ryder. I’ve done as asked. Now you do as promised: leave me alone.”

  He hung up. I cursed, nearly threw the phone into the wall in lieu of Giles Walcott’s head, but dialed Harry instead.

  “Harry? The auction’s today or tomorrow. Walcott knows some of the buyers, but he locked down on me. How about you go unlock him? I’ll hang here, wait for your word.”

  The house seemed tight, suffocating, too much tension in a small space. I went to the deck to let my eyes roam the shining water. My phone rang again. I looked at the number: Willow. I thumbed it on.

  “I can’t talk right now; things are breaking.”

  “What is it?” Willow said.

  “Looks like the buyers are somewhere in the area; north, south, I don’t have a clue. Harry’s trying to pry more from Walcott. I’m at home, about to jump out of my skin. I need the phone.”

  “I’ve got over three decades in on this. Call when you hear anything.”

  I paced the deck and tried to anticipate the action when - if - we found the auction site. We had to keep the players in place, concentrating on Coyle and anyone else working his side of the table.

  The nearby slamming of a car door intruded on my thoughts. A woman’s voice yelled, “Rubin!”

  Rubin?

  The voice was next door. I peered around the side of my house. Lydia Barstow stood one driveway over, wailing up at the Martins’ house.

  “Rubin, come out! I’m scared. Please, Rubin.”

  I sprinted through my house, ran down the steps, crossed the dunes between the houses. Lydia stood in front of a blue Explorer, a brown duffel bag at her feet.

  “Lydia, what’s wrong. What are you doing here?”

  She jumped in fright, spun to me. “Detective Ryder? What…I mean…how did you get here?”

  “I live here, Lydia. The house right there. What are you doing?”

  She looked between the two houses, confused. “Rubin called an hour ago. He wanted his bag. Sometimes he was yelling, then he’d be begging me to do this. I asked what was going on, he said to shut up and grab the bag and…”

  “Whoa, Lydia. He wanted you to bring his bag here?”

  She waved a pink call slip. “He said to write down this address, not to tell anyone he was here or he’d be in terrible danger.”

  I took the slip: the Martins’ address stared back. I looked down at the duffle. Bulging.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “He sent me to one of those storage places. The key was in his desk.” Her face reddened. “I had to do it, Detective Ryder. I tried to leave him, but…I have feelings there. I still…”

  She broke down and buried her face in shaking hands. The red car was gone, the place looked deserted. I crouched beside the duffle, a big duck-cloth job with its heavy-duty zipper ending at a lock. I felt the shapes inside. Flexible bricks the size of bundled money. Lots of bricks.

  Lydia pounded on the railing at the base of the stairs. “Rubin? Come out, Rubin!” She was edging toward hysteria.

  “I don’t think he’s there, Lydia. The car’s gone. He was supposed to meet you here?”

  “In an hour. I got scared and came early. What’s going on?”

  I looked at the Martins’ single-story stilted house. Had Rubin Coyle been hiding next door all this time? It seemed bizarre. But the whole case had been bizarre from the moment I stepped into the Cozy Cabins.

  “Rubin,” Lydia cried. “I’m here. Talk to me, please.”

  I sat her in the Explorer, said I’d be right back. I eased up the steps, stood to the side of the stoop an
d knocked.

  “Coyle? This is Detective Carson Ryder. I need to talk to you.”

  I tried the knob. The door was unlocked. Chilled air rushed out as I opened the door, nothing behind it but silence. I startled to a clicking sound, then recognized it as the compressor on the Martins’ deep-freezer.

  “Coyle?” I repeated, stumbling over three suitcases just inside the door. There was a large main living area, the floor polished hardwood. On a coffee table lay a roll of duct tape and a sheet of paper, the standard realtor map of rental properties. A half-dozen of the properties were circled in red. All were within a quarter mile.

  In the four-second space between waves falling in the distance, I moved from ignorance to enlightenment: Coyle had quartered the bidders in rental houses on Dauphin Island. It was the perfect solution to anonymity, new faces the rule this time of year. I looked closer at the map. The Amberlys’ house was circled in red. The Blovines were collectors.

  It figured.

  “Detective?” a woman whispered.

  I turned. Lydia stood in the doorway framed by light. Something dark was in her hand. For some reason, my chest exploded.

  Waves rose from afar to float me away.

  Chapter 49

  The woman’s cheery voice seemed filtered through distance.

  “Hello, Mr Kern? This is Miss Barstow again. Are you comfortable? Yes, it’s a lovely place. I’m calling about our little proceedings? Your special viewing of the materials will be in just a few minutes…”

  The voice got louder. Whatever had taken me down, I was coming out fast; not a gunshot or head trauma. A white ceiling resolved into view. My chest burned, and I looked down at red pinholes in my shirt.

  Stun-gun pricks.

  I’d been zapped senseless with one of the new major-voltage weapons, like mainlining 50,000 volts. A few inches down and to my sides were my hands, a dozen inches apart, multiple strands of heavy gauge picturehanging wire between them, strands looping both wrists. I wiggled my fingers, but my elbows had been drawn behind my back and locked in concrete. My back and shoulders ached.

  I looked to my side and saw the business end of a broom, handle on my other side. Why was I lying on a broom?

  I tried to roll to sitting position, but couldn’t, something held my back flat on the floor. I blinked at the broom until things made sense. The handle had been placed in the crooks of my arms before my hands were secured, drawing the damned thing tight against my back.

  I grunted my feet up a few inches, saw my ankles secured with more wire. Though my bindings had taken minimum effort, they yielded almost total immobilization. The woman’s chipper voice continued.

  “I’ll drop by in a few minutes, take you to the viewing site. I agree, Mr Kern, an exciting day. Rubin will provide instructions on auction procedures, he’s looking forward to meeting you…”

  Lydia sat at the counter dividing the kitchen from a small dining alcove. She’d changed into a white silken blouse, pressed denim jeans and running shoes, perfect for blending into the upscale beach scene. Her shape was far more impressive than the sack-shaped work dresses had revealed. She spoke in a distinctly un-Lydia voice, charming and musical and oh-so-southern, holding just a smidgeon of command - a business belle.

  “Casual dress is just fine, Mr Kern. Rubin’s wearing shorts. But he’s been out in the heat today, making sure everyone’s prepared for the event. See you soon.”

  Lydia hung up the wall-mounted phone. Seeing my open eyes, she smiled like we were old friends. “You believe that idiot, Ryder? He wanted to know if the auction was formal.” She smiled mischievously. “Should I call him back, tell him to wear a tux?”

  “It’s all fake,” I said. “Everything.”

  “The money is as real as real gets. And speaking of money, it’s time to make a withdrawal.” Lydia stood. She’d lost the slouch, the frumpiness, the aura of dejection. This version moved like a leopard. She stripped duct tape from the roll, covered my mouth, then disappeared out the door. My scream produced a muffled hum that wouldn’t carry to the deck.

  I tried to roll and discovered the broom prevented it. I threw my heels a few inches to the side and pulled, but that only pivoted me around the axis of my pinioned back. I gave up after a few minutes of spinning like a faulty compass, finding no direction save lost.

  Lydia returned in twenty minutes by the wall clock, another suitcase in her hand. “Thanks for lending me your truck,” she said, shaking my keys at me. “Sorry I left it a couple streets away.”

  I shut my eyes; anyone coming to my house would think I was gone. Lydia’s foot gave me a nudge. “Behave and I’ll pull the tape back.”

  I nodded and she peeled tape from my lips. I looked at the most-recent suitcase. “What was the take, Lydia?”

  She pushed the suitcase to its side, opened it, tilted it my way. I saw ranks of banded bills. “Mr Kern brought one point one million. Mrs Birchman a flat mill. Mr Carothers brought nine hundred thousand. Mr and Mrs Dalesandro brought seven hundred grand in bills, another hundred in Kruggerands.” Lydia winked. “Two more bidders to visit and my retirement fund will be fully vested.”

  “Five or six million for you and Coyle. Speaking of our mystery man, when will he be here?”

  A sly smile came to Lydia’s face. She walked into the kitchen and out of sight. I heard knocking. Was Coyle in the Martins’ laundry closet?

  “Rubin? Honey? It’s OK to come out now. Detective Ryder’s in the living room. He’d like to meet you.”

  I saw her from profile as she rounded the corner. I couldn’t understand why she’d donned Dorie Martin’s oven mitts to carry a gray cooking crock. Lydia turned to me. Not a cooking crock: between the mitts was a frozen head.

  Rubin Coyle stared at me.

  “Say hello to Rubin, Detective Ryder.” She dropped Coyle’s head to the floor, set her foot on his face and pushed. The frozen head slid like a curling stone and stopped against my leg. I jerked away from its icy touch. Lydia returned to the kitchen, stripped off the mitts. She picked up the wall phone, dialed.

  “Hello, Mr Barncamp? This is Miss Barstow. Ready for today’s activities? Wonderful! Your special viewing of the art will be in two hours. You’ve seen the authentication materials - the articles from the press, the videotape of the detective specialist? Expert testimony, Mr Barncamp, like we promised…”

  She looked at me and winked, then returned to her phone duties. I studied the ceiling and listened to Lydia manipulate her quarry with assured, perfect lies, the kind of manipulation that had drawn Harry and me into the case, set us on the trail of Rubin Coyle. Employing little more than drab clothes and demeanor, worried eyes, and a weary, vulnerable posture, Lydia Barstow had moved us like chess pawns.

  I glanced at the frozen visage of Rubin Coyle, eyes wide at what must have been the terror of his final moment. Had she struck from behind, as with Borg? Or smiled into his eyes as the death-blow arrived? From the front with Coyle, I suspected. Borg was an employee, Coyle a player. The entrance with the head told me Lydia had the horrific, gleeful sort of sociopathy that needed to let Coyle know he was about to die; to see it in his eyes.

  I considered how she must have studied the structure of the Mobile Police Department, discovered how and when the PSIT was activated. She manipulated it with dexterity, gamed the rules.

  Played the system.

  She’d claimed to be in her late forties, but cosmetic surgery is almost a drive-through-window commodity today. I now figured her for the mid fifties. She was a superb actress. She seemed fearless. She manipulated people through an uncanny instinct about their needs and desires. I could smell a hunger rising from her - for money, for power, for the game.

  Invisible lines grew bright in the dark, and I started to put it together. By any rational notion, the thought forming in my brain was an impossibility, but my gut had the edge, and I knew what it told me was true.

  Lydia Barstow was, or had been, Calypso.

  Chapter 50


  The deckhand of the Fort Morgan-Dauphin Island ferry uncoiled a hawser and set it on the white-painted deck. He tapped a cigarette from a pack and leaned against the side rail to study the passengers. Vacationers, mostly: mini-vans with Midwestern tags, kids pointing at gulls hovering above the foaming stern, parents shooting pictures of the approach to Dauphin Island like it was a big deal. The ferry was about half-full, fifteen or so vehicles, a couple of them pulling boats. There were a few bicyclists. All seemed to be tourists, not unusual this time of year.

  No, the deckhand thought, noticing the older guy standing on the foredeck, staring intently across the blue water; no tourist there. Tanned deep, like it went to his bones. Faded blue work shirt, worn khaki pants, scuffed Wellingtons. Ex-construction guy, maybe; but not a laborer - a surveyor, something like that.

  The deckhand lit his cigarette, set his elbows on the railing and stared across the mouth of Mobile Bay, waiting as the pilot spun toward the ramp. The red-and-white craft shuddered as the engine dropped RPMs.

  “Give you a buck for one of those smokes,” said a voice from the deckhand’s shoulder. He spun, saw the old man two steps away.

  “Sure, mister.”

  The deckhand shook a cigarette from the pack, waved off payment. He flicked his lighter for the older guy, who leaned in and cupped the flame. He took a drag and coughed heavily.

  “You OK?” the deckhand asked.

  The older guy gave a half smile, looked at the cigarette. “Not used to smoking. It’s been a while.”

  “How long?”

  “I quit January 1, 1980. A resolution. Couldn’t manage it on just a year changing, had to make it a decade.”

  The deckhand raised an eyebrow. “Why start again now?”

  The older guy took a lungful of smoke, held it a few seconds, let it drift from his lips and nostrils. He stared at Dauphin Island. “Helps me wait.”