The Fiend

by Margaret Millar

  “That’s no switch,” Gallantyne said. “What is it?”

  “A client of mine claims that her husband, from whom she’s separated, is harassing her and her child. She says he’s driving around town in a green Ford coupé, six or seven years old, license GVK 640.”

  “And?”

  “I want to know if he is.”

  “All I can do is check with Sacramento and find out who owns the car. That may take some time, unless you can come up with a more urgent reason than the one you’ve given me, say like murder, armed robbery—”

  “Sorry, no armed robbery or murder. Just a divorce, with complications.”

  “I think your cases are often messier than mine are,” Gallan­tyne said with a trace of envy.

  “Could be. We’ll have to get together on one sometime.”

  “Let’s do that. Now, you want us to contact Sacramento about the green Ford?”

  “Yes, but meanwhile pass the license number around to the traffic boys. If they spot the car anywhere I’d like to hear about it, any time of the day or night. I have an answering service.”

  “What’s that license again?”

  “GVK, God’s Very Kind, 640.”

  (11)

  He bought the new car right after work, a three-year-old dark, inconspicuous sedan. As soon as he got behind the wheel he felt safe and secure as though he’d acquired a whole new body and nobody would recognize the old Charlie any more. He felt quite independent, too. He had chosen the car by himself, with no help from Ben, and he had paid for it with his own money. The used-car salesman had taken his check without hesitation as if he couldn’t help but trust a man with such an honest face as Charlie’s. And Charlie, inspired by this trust, was absolutely convinced that the car had been driven only 10,000 cautious miles by one owner and a Detroit-trained ga­rage mechanic at that. A man so skillful, Charlie reasoned, would have practically no spare time and that would account for the extremely low mileage on the car.

  It seemed to him that the salesman, who had paid little at­tention to him when he first started browsing around the lot, noticed the change in him, too. He started to call him sir.

  “I hope you’ll be very happy with your car, sir.”

  “Oh, I will. I already am.”

  “There’s no better advertising than a satisfied customer,” the salesman said. “The only trouble with selling a man a good car like this is that we don’t see him around for a long time. Good luck and safe driving to you, sir.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “It was a pleasure.”

  Charlie eased the car out into the street. It was getting quite late and he knew Ben would be starting to worry about him, but he didn’t want to go home just yet. He wanted to drive around, to get the feel of his new car and test the strength of his new body before he exposed either to Ben or Louise. They would both be suspicious, Ben of the car and the salesman and the garage mechanic, Louise of the change in him. He realized, in a vague way, that Louise didn’t really want him to change, that she was dependent on his weakness though he couldn’t understand why.

  When he started out, he had, at the conscious level, no destination in mind. At crossroads he made choices seemingly unconnected with what he was thinking. He turned left because the car in front of him did; he turned right to watch a flock of blackbirds feeding on a lawn; he went straight because the road crossed a creek and he liked bridges; he turned left again be­cause the setting sun hurt his eyes. The journey took on an air of adventure, as if the streets, the bridge, the blackbirds, the setting sun were all strange to him and he was a stranger to them. He wasn’t lost—nobody could get lost in San Félice where the mountains were to the east and the sea to the west, with one or the other, or both, always visible—he was de­liberately misplaced, as if he were playing a game of hide-and-seek with Ben and Louise. An hour must have passed since the game started. Ready or not, you must be caught, hiding around the goal or not.

  The sun had gone down. Wisps of fog were floating in from the sea and gathering in the treetops like spiders’ webs. It was time to turn on the headlights but he wasn’t sure which button to press, there were so many of them on the dashboard. He pulled over to the curb and stopped the car about fifty feet from an intersection. The intersection looked familiar to him although he didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t until he switched on the headlights and their beam caught the street sign and held it, that he knew where he was. Jacaranda Road, 300 block.

  He felt a sudden and terrible pain in his head. He heard his own voice in his ears but he couldn’t tell whether it was a whisper or a scream.

  “Ben! Louise! Come and find me, I’m not hiding. It’s not a game anymore. Help me. Come and take me home, Louise, don’t leave me in this bad place. You don’t know, nobody knows, how bad—dirty—dirty bad—”

  At 8:30 the phone rang and Ben, who’d been sitting beside it for a long time, answered on the first ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Ben, this is Louise. Charlie was supposed to pick me up half an hour ago. He may have forgotten, so I thought I’d call and jog his memory a bit.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Well, he’s probably on his way then. I’ll just go wait on the steps for him. It’s a nice night.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “No, it’s not,” Louise said, laughing. “You know how it is when you’re in love, Ben. All the weather is wonderful.”

  “You’d better stay in the house, Louise. I don’t think he’s on his way over.”

  “Why not? Is something the matter?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ben said in his slow careful voice. “He came to the cafeteria at noon with some crazy—a far-fetched story about a strange woman trying to kill him with her car. I didn’t know how much of it, if any, to believe. He may have invented the whole thing as an excuse to buy a new car. You know Charlie, he can’t just go ahead and do something; he has to have a dozen reasons why, no matter how nutty some of them are. Anyway, he told me he was going to buy a new car after work.”

  “He got off work three and a half hours ago. How long does it usually take him to buy a car?”

  “Judging from past performance, I’d say five minutes. He sees one he likes the look of, kicks a couple of the tires, sounds the horn, and that’s it. It can be the worst old clunker in town but he buys it.”

  “Then he should be home by now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ben, I’m coming over.”

  “What good will that do? It will simply mean two of us sitting around worrying instead of one. No, you stay where you are, Louise. Get interested in something. Read a book, wash your hair, call a girlfriend, anything.”

  “I can’t. I won’t.”

  “Look, Louise, I don’t want to be brutal about this, but waiting for Charlie is something you must learn to handle grace­fully. You may be doing quite a bit of it. Ten chances to one, he’s O.K., he’s just gotten interested in something and—”

  “I can’t afford to bet on it, even at those odds,” Louise said and hung up before he could argue any further.

  She went down the hall toward her bedroom to pick up a coat. All the weather was wonderful, but sometimes it paid to carry a coat.

  She walked quickly and quietly past the open door or the shoebox-sized dining room where her parents were still linger­ing over coffee and the evening paper, going line by line over the local news, the obituaries and divorces and marriages, the water connections and delinquent tax notices and building permits and real estate transfers. But she didn’t move quietly enough. No one could, she thought bitterly. Not even the stealthiest cat, not even if the carpet were velvet an inch thick.

  “Louise?” her father called out. “Are you still here, Louise?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “I tho
ught you were going out tonight.”

  “I am. I’m just leaving now.”

  “Without saying good-bye to your parents? Has this great romance of yours made you forget your manners? Come in here a minute.”

  Louise went as far as the door. Her parents were seated side by side at the table with the newspaper spread out in front of them, like a pair of school children doing their homework together.

  Mr. Lang rose to his feet and made a kind of half-bow in Louise’s direction. For as long as Louise could remember he had been doing this whenever she entered a room. But his politeness was too elaborate, as if, by treating her like a princess, he was actually calling attention to her commonness.

  Louise stared at him, wondering how she could ever have been impressed by his silly posturings or affected by his small, obvious cruelties. She said nothing, knowing that he hated silence because his weapon was his tongue.

  “I understood,” he said finally, “that this was the night your mother and I were to congratulate our prospective son-in-law. Am I to assume the happy occasion has been postponed?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a pity. I had looked forward to some of his stimulating conversation: yes, Mr. Lang; no, Mr. Lang—”

  “Good night.”

  “Wait a minute. I haven’t finished.”

  “Yes, you have,” Louise said and walked down the hall and out the front door. For once, she was grateful for her father’s cruelty. It had saved her from trying to explain where Charlie was and why he hadn’t kept their date.

  Ben must have been watching for her from the front window because as soon as she pulled up to the curb in front of the house he came out on the porch and down the steps.

  To the question in her eyes he shook his head. Then, “You might as well go home, Louise.”

  “No.”

  “All right. But it’s silly to start driving around looking for him when I haven’t the slightest idea where he is.”

  “I have,” she said quietly. “It’s just a feeling, a hunch. It may be miles off but it’s worth trying. We’ve got to find him, Ben. He needs us.”

  “He needs us.” Ben got in the car and slammed the door shut. “Where have I heard that before? Charlie needs this, Charlie needs that, Charlie needs, period. Some day before I die, I’m going to have a need. Just once somebody’s going to say, Ben needs this or that. Just once— Oh, what the hell, forget it. I don’t really need anything.”

  “I do.”

  “What?”

  “I need Charlie.”

  “Then I’m sorry for you,” Ben said, striking his thigh with his fist. “I’m so sorry for you I could burst into tears. You’re a decent, intelligent young woman, you deserve a life. What you’re getting is a job.”

  “Don’t waste any pity on me. I’m happy.”

  “You’re happy even now, with Charlie missing and maybe in the kind of trouble only Charlie can get into?”

  “He’s alive—you’d have been notified if he’d been killed in an accident or anything—and as long as Charlie’s alive, I’m happy.”

  “I’m not,” he said bluntly. “In fact, there have been times, dozens, maybe hundreds of times, when I’ve thought the only solution for Charlie would be for him to step in front of a fast-moving truck. Before this is all over, you might be thinking the same thing.”

  “That’s a—a terrible thing to say to me.”

  “I’m sorry, I had to do it. I didn’t want to hurt you, but—”

  “Isn’t it funny how many times people don’t want to hurt you, but?”

  “I suppose it’s pretty funny, yes.”

  She was staring straight ahead of her into the darkness but her eyes were squinting as if they were exposed to too much light. “Stop worrying about Charlie and me. If you want us to get married, give us your blessing and hope we’ll muddle through all right. If you don’t want us to get married, say so now, tonight.”

  “You have my blessing and my hope. I’m not much of a hoper, or a blesser either, but—”

  “Sssh, no buts. They ruin everything.” She smiled and touched his arm. “You see, Ben, you’ve been very good to Charlie. I think, though, that I’ll be better for him.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Thanks for talking to me, and letting me talk. I feel calmer and more sure of myself, and of Charlie, than I ever have before. Good night, Ben.”

  “Good night? I thought we were going out to look for Charlie.”

  “You’re not, I am. Looking for Charlie is my job now.”

  “All right.” He got out of the car and stood on the curb with the door open, trying to decide whether to get back in. Then he leaned down and shut the door very firmly, as if this was a door he’d had trouble with in the past and he knew it needed a good slam to stay closed. “Good night, Louise.”

  If she said good night to him again he didn’t hear it above the roar of the engine. She was out of sight before he reached the top of the steps.

  He felt no sharp, sudden pain, only a terrible sadness creep­ing over him like fog over the city. He thought, she’s driving blind, following a wild hunch, and he wondered how many hunches she would have before she gave up. One in twenty might be correct and she’d bank on that one, believing that she finally understood Charlie, that she’d pressed the right button and come up with the right answer. It would take her a long time to realize that with Charlie the buttons changed position without reason, and yesterday’s answer was gibberish and today’s only a one-in-twenty hunch.

  Ben remembered the document word by word, though it had been years since he’d seen it:

  We are recommending the release of Charles Edward Gowen into the custody and care of his brother. We feel that Gowen has gained insight and control and is no longer a menace to himself or to others. Further psychiatric treatment within the closed environment of a hospital seems futile at this time. Gainful employment, family affection and outside interests are now necessary if he is to become a useful and self-sufficient member of society.

  (12)

  The fog thickened as she drove. Trees lost their tops, whole sections of the city disappeared, and street lights were no more than dim and dirty halos. But inside her mind everything was becoming very clear, as if the lack of visibility around her had forced her to look inward.

  What she had called a hunch to Ben was now a conclusion based on a solid set of facts. Charlie was frightened beyond the understanding of anyone like Ben or herself; he was running away from Ben, from her, from marriage, from the responsibility of growing up. He must be treated like a scared boy, shown the dark room and taught that it had no more terrors than when it was light; he must be trusted even when trust was very difficult. But first he must be found because he was trying to escape into a world that seemed safe to him, that seemed to present no challenge. Yet it was a dangerous place for Charlie, this world of children.

  Her hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the muscles of her forearms ached, but she felt compelled to go on thinking calmly and reasonably, like a mathematician faced with a very long and difficult equation. If I am to deal with this thing, if I am to help Charlie deal with it, I must know what it is. I must know. . . .

  Charlie had never even mentioned children to her, he never looked at them passing on the street or watched them playing in the park. Yet somehow, somewhere, he had seen the girl, Mary Martha, and found out where she lived. Louise remem­bered his excitement the previous night when he was talking about 319 Jacaranda Street and the little dog that chased cars. Well, there was no little dog; there was a child, Mary Martha. Charlie had said so himself and though Louise had deafened her ears at the time, his words rang in them now like the echo of tolling bells: “It’s funny she’d want to live alone in the big house with just a little girl.”

  She wondered w
hether it had been a slip of the tongue or whether Charlie, in some corner of his mind, wanted her to know about it and was asking for her help.

  “Oh God,” she said aloud, “how do you help someone like Charlie?”

  She found him at the corner of Toyon Drive and Jacaranda Road. He was leaning against the hood of a dark car she didn’t recognize, his hands folded across his stomach, his head sunk low on his chest. A passing stranger might think he’d had engine trouble, had lifted the hood and discovered something seriously wrong and given up in despair.

  Although he must have heard her car stop and her footsteps as she approached, he didn’t move or open his eyes. Jacaranda petals clung thickly to his hair and his windbreaker. They looked very pale in the fog, like snowflakes that couldn’t melt because they’d fallen on something as cold as they were.

  She spoke his name very softly so she wouldn’t startle him.

  He opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times. “Is that— is that you, Louise?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was calling you. Did you hear me?”

  “No. Not in the way you mean. I heard, though, Charlie. I’ll always hear you.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  He stood up straight and looked around him, frowning. “You shouldn’t be here, Louise. It’s a bad place for women and children. It’s—well, it’s just a bad place.”

  “The children are all safe in bed,” she said with calm de­liberation. “And, as a woman, I’m not afraid because I have you to look after me. It’s awfully cold, though, and I’ll admit I’d feel more comfortable at home. Will you take me home, Charlie?”

  He didn’t answer. He was staring down at the sidewalk, mute and troubled.

  “You’ve bought a new car, Charlie.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s very sleek and pretty. I’d like a ride in it.”

  “No.”

  “You were calling me, Charlie. Why did you call me if you didn’t want to see me?” “I did, I do want to see you.”