by Stephen King
When the girl's crying eased, Ralph said, "This is all good, Grace. Thank you for telling me about your dream. All that's over now, okay?"
"Yes," she said in a tear-hoarsened voice. "He's gone. I did what he said, and he's gone."
"We'll have our cake in here," Marcy said. "Go help your sister with the plates."
Grace ran to do it. When they were alone, Marcy said, "It's been hard on both of them, especially Grace. I'd say that's all this is, except Howie doesn't think so, and I don't think you do, either. Do you?"
"Mrs. Maitland . . . Marcy . . . I don't know what to think. Have you checked Grace's room?"
"Of course. As soon as she told me why she called Howie."
"No sign of an intruder?"
"No. The window was shut, the screen was in place, and what Sarah said about the stairs is true. This is an old house, and there's a creak in every step."
"What about her bed? Grace said the man was sitting there."
Marcy gave a distracted laugh. "Who would know, the way she tosses and turns since . . ." She put a hand to her face. "This is just so awful."
He got up and went to the couch, only meaning to comfort, but she stiffened and drew away. "Please don't sit down. And don't touch me. You're here on sufferance, Detective. So just maybe my youngest will sleep tonight without screaming the house down."
Ralph was saved a reply when Howie and the Maitland girls came back in, Grace carefully carrying a plate in each hand. Marcy wiped her eyes, the gesture almost too fast to see, and gave Howie and her daughters a brilliant smile. "Hooray for cake!" she said.
Ralph took his slice and said thank you. He was thinking that he had told Jeannie everything about this fucked-up nightmare of a case, but he wasn't going to tell her about this little girl's dream. No, not this.
8
Alec Pelley thought he had the number he wanted in his contacts, but when he made the call, he got an announcement saying the number had been disconnected. He found his old black address book (once a faithful companion that had gone with him everywhere, in this computer age relegated to a desk drawer, and one of the lower ones, at that) and tried a different number.
"Finders Keepers," said the voice on the other end. Believing that he'd reached an answering machine--a reasonable assumption, considering it was Sunday night--Alec waited for the announcement of office hours, followed by a menu of choices that could be accessed by punching various extensions, and at last the invitation to leave a message after the beep. Instead, sounding a bit querulous, the voice said, "Well? Is anyone there?"
Alec realized that was a voice he knew, although he couldn't place the name. How long had it been since he'd spoken to the owner of that voice? Two years? Three?
"I'm hanging up n--"
"Don't. I'm here. My name is Alec Pelley, and I was trying to reach Bill Hodges. I worked with him on a case a few years back, just after I retired from the State Police. There was a bad actor named Oliver Madden who stole an airplane from a Texas oilman named--"
"Dwight Cramm. I remember. And I remember you, Mr. Pelley, although we've never met. Mr. Cramm did not pay us promptly, I'm sorry to say. I had to invoice him at least half a dozen times, and then threaten legal action. I hope you did better."
"It took a little work," Alec said, smiling at the memory. "The first check he sent me bounced, but the second one went through all right. You're Holly, aren't you? I can't remember the last name, but Bill spoke very highly of you."
"Holly Gibney," she said.
"Well, it's very nice to speak with you again, Ms. Gibney. I tried Bill's number, but I guess he's changed it."
Silence.
"Ms. Gibney? Did I lose you?"
"No," she said. "I'm here. Bill died two years ago."
"Oh, Jesus. I'm very sorry to hear that. Was it his heart?" Although Alec had only met Hodges once--they had done most of their business by phone and email--he had been on the heavy side.
"Cancer. Pancreatic. Now I run the company with Peter Huntley. He was Bill's partner when they were on the force."
"Well, good for you."
"No," she said. "Not good for me. The business is doing quite well, but I would give it up in a minute to have Bill alive and healthy. Cancer is very poopy."
Alec almost thanked her then and ended the call after renewing his condolences. Later on, he wondered how much things would have changed if he had done that. But he remembered something Bill had said about this woman during the business of retrieving Dwight Cramm's King Air: She's eccentric, a little obsessive-compulsive, and she's not big on personal contact, but she never misses a trick. Holly would have made one hell of a police detective.
"I was hoping to hire Bill to do some investigating for me," he said, "but possibly you could take it on. He really did speak highly of you."
"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Pelley, but I doubt if I'm the right person. Mostly what we do at Finders Keepers is chase bail-jumpers and trace missing persons." She paused, then added, "There is also the fact that we are quite a distance from you, unless you're calling from somewhere in the northeast."
"I'm not, but my interest happens to be in Ohio, and it would be inconvenient for me to fly up myself--there are things going on here that I need to stick with. How far are you from Dayton?"
"One moment," she said, and then, almost immediately: "Two hundred and thirty-two miles, according to MapQuest. Which is a very good program. What is it you need investigated, Mr. Pelley? And before you answer, I need to tell you that if it involves any possibility of violence, I really would have to pass on the case. I abhor violence."
"No violence," he said. "There was violence--the murder of a child--but it happened down here, and the man who was arrested for the crime is dead. The question is whether or not he was the doer, and answering that involves back-checking a trip he made to Dayton with his family in April."
"I see, and who would be paying for the company's services? You?"
"No, an attorney named Howard Gold."
"To your knowledge, does Attorney Gold pay more promptly than Dwight Cramm?"
Alec grinned at that. "Absolutely."
And although the retainer would come from Howie, the entire Finders Keepers fee--assuming Ms. Holly Gibney agreed to take on the Dayton investigation--would in the end come from Marcy Maitland, who would be able to afford it. The insurance company wouldn't like paying out on an accused murderer, but since Terry had never been convicted of anything, they would have no recourse. There was also the wrongful death suit against Flint City that Howie would be lodging on Marcy's behalf; he had told Alec that the city would probably settle for an amount in the low seven figures. A fat bank account wouldn't bring her husband back, but it could pay for an investigation, and a home relocation if Marcy decided that was best, and the college educations of two girls when the time came. Money was no cure for sorrow, Alec reflected, but it did allow one to grieve in relative comfort.
"Tell me about this case, Mr. Pelley, and I'll tell you if I can take it on."
"Doing that will take some time. I can call tomorrow, during office hours, if that would be better for you."
"Tonight is fine. Just give me a moment to turn off the movie I was watching."
"I'm interrupting your evening."
"Not really. I've seen Paths of Glory at least a dozen times. It's one of Mr. Kubrick's finest. Much better than The Shining and Barry Lyndon, in my opinion, but of course he was much younger when he made it. Young artists are much more likely to be risk-takers, in my opinion."
"I'm not much of a movie buff," Alec replied, remembering what Hodges had said: eccentric and a little obsessive-compulsive.
"They brighten the world, that's what I think. Just one second . . ." In the background, the sound of faint movie music ceased. Then she was back. "Tell me what you need done in Dayton, Mr. Pelley."
"It's not just a very long story, it's a strange one. Let me warn you of that in advance."
She laughed, a sound much riche
r than her usual careful speech. It made her sound younger. "Yours won't be the first strange story I've heard, believe me. When I was with Bill . . . well, never mind that. But if we're going to be talking for awhile, you might as well call me Holly. I'm going to put you on speaker to free up my hands. Wait . . . okay, now tell me everything."
Thus encouraged, Alec began to talk. Instead of movie music in the background, he heard the steady clitter-clitter-clitter of her keyboard as she took notes. And before the conversation was finished, he was glad he hadn't hung up. She asked good questions, sharp questions. The oddities of the case didn't seem to faze her in the slightest. It was a goddam shame that Bill Hodges was dead, but Alec thought he might have found a perfectly adequate replacement.
When he was finally done, he asked, "Are you intrigued?"
"Yes. Mr. Pelley--"
"Alec. You're Holly and I'm Alec."
"All right, Alec. Finders Keepers will take this case. I will send you regular reports either by phone, email, or FaceTime, which I find is far superior to Skype. When I have gotten everything I can, I will send you a complete summary."
"Thank you. That sounds very--"
"Yes. Now let me give you an account number, so you can transfer the retainer fee to our bank in the amount we discussed."
HOLLY
July 22nd-July 24th
1
She put back the office phone (which she always brought home with her, although Pete kidded her about it) on its stand next to her home phone, and sat quiet in front of her computer for perhaps thirty seconds. Then she pushed the button on her Fitbit to check her pulse. Seventy-five, eight to ten beats faster than normal. She wasn't surprised. Pelley's story of the Maitland affair had excited and engaged her in a way no case had since finishing with the late (and very horrible) Brady Hartsfield.
Except that wasn't exactly right. The truth was she hadn't been really excited about anything since Bill had died. Pete Huntley was fine, but he was--here in the silence of her nice apartment, she could admit it--a bit of a plodder. He was happy to chase the deadbeats, bail-jumpers, stolen cars, lost pets, and daddies delinquent on child support. And while Holly had told Alec Pelley nothing but the truth--she really did abhor violence, except in movies; it made her tummy hurt--chasing after Hartsfield had made her feel alive in a way nothing had since. That was also true of Morris Bellamy, a crazy literature buff who had killed his favorite writer.
There would be no Brady Hartsfield or Morris Bellamy waiting for her in Dayton, which was good, because Pete was on vacation in Minnesota, and her young friend Jerome was on vacation with his family in Ireland.
"I'll kiss the Blarney Stone for ye, darlin," he had said at the airport, employing an Irish brogue every bit as awful as his Amos 'n Andy accent, which he still put on occasionally, mostly to offend her.
"You better not," she'd said. "Think of the germs on that thing. Oough."
Alec Pelley thought I'd be put off by the strangeness, she thought, smiling a little. He thought I'd just say, "This is impossible, people can't be in two places at the same time, and people can't disappear from archived news footage. It's either a practical joke, or a hoax." Only what Alec Pelley doesn't know--and I won't tell him--is that people can be in two places at the same time. Brady Hartsfield did it, and when Brady finally died, he was in another man's body.
"Anything is possible," she said to the empty room. "Anything at all. The world is full of strange nooks and crannies."
She booted up Firefox and found the address of the Tommy and Tuppence Pub. The closest lodging was the Fairview Hotel, on Northwoods Boulevard. Was it the same hotel the Maitland family had stayed in? She would ask Alec Pelley via email, but it seemed likely, bearing in mind what the older Maitland daughter had said. Holly checked Trivago and saw she could get an acceptable room for ninety-two dollars per night. She considered upgrading to a small suite, but only for a moment. That would be padding the expense account, a shoddy business practice and a slippery slope.
She called the Fairview (on the office phone, since this was a legitimate expense), made a reservation for three nights starting tomorrow, then opened Math Cruncher on her computer. In her opinion it was the best program for solving everyday problems. Check-in time at the Fairview was three o'clock, and the turnpike speed at which her Prius got optimum gas mileage was 63 MPH. She figured in one stop to top up the tank and get a no doubt substandard meal at a roadside rest . . . added forty-five minutes for the inevitable slowdown due to roadwork . . .
"I'll leave at ten o'clock," she said. "No, better make it nine fifty, just to be safe." And to be even safer, she used her Waze app to suss out an alternate route, should that be necessary.
She showered (so she wouldn't have to do it in the morning), put on her nightie, brushed her teeth, flossed (the latest studies said flossing was not useful in protecting against dental decay, but it was part of Holly's routine, and she would be content to floss until she died), took out her hair clips and put them in a line, then went into the spare bedroom, padding in her bare feet.
The room was her film library. The shelves were lined with DVDs, some in colorful store cases, most homemade courtesy of Holly's state-of-the-art disc burner. There were thousands (4,375, currently), but the one she wanted was easy to find, because the discs were alphabetized. She took it down and placed it on her nightstand, where she would be sure to see it when she packed in the morning.
With that taken care of, she got down on her knees, closed her eyes, and folded her hands. Morning and evening prayers had been her analyst's idea, and when Holly protested that she did not exactly believe in God, her analyst said that a vocalizing of her concerns and plans to a hypothetical higher power would help even if she didn't. And that actually seemed to be the case.
"It's Holly Gibney again, and I am still trying to do my best. If you're there, please bless Pete while he's fishing, because only an idiot goes out in a boat when he doesn't know how to swim. Please bless the Robinsons over there in Ireland, and if Jerome really is thinking about kissing the Blarney Stone, I wish you'd make him think better of it. I am drinking Boost to try and put on a little weight, because Dr. Stonefield says I'm too thin. I don't like it, but each can has two hundred and forty calories, according to the label. I'm taking my Lexapro, and I'm not smoking. Tomorrow I'm going to Dayton. Please help me to stay safe in my car, obey all traffic rules, and help me to do the best I can with the facts at hand. Which are interesting." She considered. "I still miss Bill. I guess that's all for tonight."
She got into bed and was asleep five minutes later.
2
Holly arrived at the Fairview Hotel at 3:17 PM, not quite optimum but not bad. She reckoned it would have been 3:12, had not every fracking traffic light been against her once she left the turnpike. The room was fine. The bath towels on the shower door had been hung a bit crooked, but she set that situation to rights after using the toilet and washing her hands and face. There was no DVD player attached to the television, but at ninety-two dollars a night, she hadn't expected one. If she felt a need to watch the film she had brought, her laptop would be perfectly adequate. Made on the cheap, and shot in probably no more than ten days, it wasn't the sort of movie that required high resolution and Dolby sound.
Tommy and Tuppence was less than a block from the hotel. Holly could see the sign as soon as she stepped from beneath the hotel awning. She walked down and studied the menu posted in the window. In the upper lefthand corner was a pie with steam rising from its crust. Printed below this was STEAK & KIDNEY PIE IS OUR SPECIALTY.
She strolled down another block and came to a parking lot, which was about three-quarters full. CITY PARKING, said the sign out front. 6-HOUR LIMIT. She went in, looking for tickets on windshields or a traffic warden's chalk marks on tires. She saw neither, which meant that no one was enforcing the six-hour limit. It was strictly honor system. It wouldn't work in New York, but it probably worked just fine in Ohio. With no monitoring, there was no way to tel
l how long the van had been here after Merlin Cassidy had abandoned it, but she guessed that with the doors unlocked and the keys dangling invitingly from the ignition, it probably hadn't lasted too long.
She walked back to Tommy and Tuppence, introduced herself to the hostess, and said she was an investigator working a case that had to do with a man who had stayed nearby last spring. It turned out the hostess was also part-owner, and with the evening rush still an hour away, she was perfectly willing to talk. Holly asked if she happened to remember just when the restaurant had leafleted the area with menus.
"What did the guy do?" the hostess asked. Her name was Mary, not Tuppence, and her accent was New Jersey rather than Newcastle.
"I'm not at liberty to say," Holly told her. "It's a legal matter. You understand."
"Well, I do remember," Mary said. "It'd be funny if I didn't."
"Why is that?"
"When we first opened two years ago, this was Fredo's Place. You know, like in The Godfather?"
"Yes," Holly said, "although Fredo is best remembered for Godfather II, especially for the sequence where his brother Michael kisses him and says 'I know it was you, Fredo, you broke my heart.' "
"I don't know about that, but I do know that there are about two hundred Italian restaurants in Dayton, and we were getting killed. So we decided to try British food, you can't exactly call it cuisine--fish and chips, bangers and mash, even beans on toast--and changed the name to Tommy and Tuppence, like in the Agatha Christie books. We figured we had nothing to lose at that point. And you know what, it worked. I was shocked, but in a good way, believe me. We fill this place for lunch, and most nights for dinner." She leaned forward and Holly could smell gin on her breath, bright and clear. "Want to know a secret?"
"I love secrets," Holly said truthfully.
"The steak and kidney pie comes frozen from a company in Paramus. We just heat it up in the oven. And you know what? The restaurant critic from the Dayton Daily News loved it. He gave us five stars! I shit you not!" She leaned forward a little more and whispered, "If you tell anyone that, I'd have to kill you."