It was the sort of place that never saw the sun. The interior was so painted in a thin veneer of grease from the decades of constant operation that even had the dusty blinds been opened, the world outside would have been viewed through a haze of yellowish oil. The tables were off-white, their corners worn away to reveal discolored particleboard underneath, and the menu was listed on a stained dry erase board on the far wall.
It wasn't the most welcoming restaurant in town, but at the very least it was authentic.
Only one waitress was working the place, and she walked as if in a trance between the three occupied tables. When she stopped to take Ulrich's order of orange juice and a breakfast platter, he had to do a double-take to ensure she wasn't sleepwalking. She made very little chit-chat, and didn't seem to care about charming her customers. I guess she's not in it for the tips, thought Ulrich.
What connection this eatery had to the case he was on, if any, was a mystery to him. Michael had told him that he'd seen Vivian emerging from somewhere near the front door of this very establishment, and that it was from here that she began her daily trip to the Prescott. Of all the places a young woman might wander in downtown Toledo, he wondered, why had she chosen this slice of town? There were more abandoned buildings than occupied ones in this area, and she certainly wasn't stopping by the diner for the ambiance...
The food, when delivered, proved edible enough, though to his dismay the stereo overhead was spitting out a stream of Christmas music. No matter where he went, there seemed no escaping it.
If I hear Wham!'s 'Last Christmas' again, I swear to God...
Ulrich continued to ponder the significance of this location. Was Vivian employed at this restaurant? Did her daily wanderings take her past the building for some reason? Was she aware of her father's presence and simply making the same trek, day after day, to get his attention?
The orange juice tasted watered down. Finishing the glass, Ulrich looked to the clock on the wall. It was just past ten in the morning.
There were several hours yet before he could make a move. Paying for his meal, he did a slow scan of the restaurant and left a few bills on the table, which the waitress, her name tag reading “Gwen”, picked up. Pausing, Ulrich thought to ask the woman, who looked as though she'd worked the diner for a long time, whether she recognized the photograph of Vivian Poole.
“Excuse me,” he asked, fishing out the picture. “I don't suppose I could pick your brain a moment? I'm currently looking for someone, and I have good reason to believe that they may have passed through here. Perhaps she's a regular customer of yours?”
Gwen's tired eyes looked up to the lanky investigator with pure disinterest. “I know all of the regulars,” she droned. When presented with the photograph of Vivian however, she crinkled her nose and shook her head. “No, can't say I've ever seen her around.”
Ulrich was baffled. “A-are you sure?”
Wiping down his table, Gwen rolled her eyes, the mascara applied too thick in some places, and frowned. “Positive. I'm positive. Ain't never seen her.”
The investigator kept the photograph of Vivian in hand, looking at it every now and then as he waited in the frosty Passat. There was little activity in the area; the Star Diner didn't appear to do a whole lot of business even during peak breakfast and lunch hours, which made him wonder how it remained in operation. Parked against the curb no less than one hundred feet from the front door of that establishment, he was able to get a good look at every passerby.
His thoughts wandered all over the place as he waited, watching the minutes tick by on his cell phone. It occurred to him that he'd never asked Michael about what he did for a living, hadn't bothered looking into his client in the least. It was rather shoddy investigative work on his part, in retrospect. Usually, he liked to know something about the people he was working for. He thought, too, of Beardsley, who was probably rampaging throughout the apartment and making a mess of his kitchen.
During a lull in the waiting, when sleep threatened to overtake him, Ulrich placed a call to Harrison and made some small talk. His friend made a special point of inviting him to his yearly Christmas dinner; an invitation which Ulrich felt compelled to politely decline.
“What are you going to do instead?” Harrison had asked. “Just going to stay home, all alone? That's preposterous. You've gotta come by. We're going to have a wonderful spread and lots of good company, Harlan. Think about it.”
Oh, the investigator had been doing quite a lot of thinking about the holidays in the past few days. What with his not even being able to switch on the radio without catching Christmas classics on all of his favorite stations, he'd had just about enough of the holidays. “I'll consider it,” he'd told Harrison half-heartedly before hanging up.
More than once he got out of the car to stretch, only to rush back inside and start the engine till the heater could thaw him out. The day proved brutally cold, the sky taking on a pronounced grey that threatened snowfall. Despite the heavy woolen coat he wore, the cold still seemed able to sneak into him, navigating the seams and sleeves till he was left shivering in the lumpy driver's seat. He was thrilled when, hours later, the day began to dim and his stake-out moved into its terminal phase. Ulrich began to watch in earnest through his fogged-up windows for Vivian Poole, glancing at his clock off and on.
The bulk of the figures he'd seen walking along the sidewalk were hunched, bundled things whose faces were often obscured by scarves and hats. It was possible that Ulrich would miss his target, that her winter dress might throw him off, and so he sat forward and kept a close eye out for anyone who appeared even remotely similar in appearance to Vivian.
A tall man in a navy blue jacket tumbled past the eatery, hands in his pockets and bearded face red with cold. Ten minutes later, just past five in the evening, as the lights outside the Star Diner blinked on, an elderly couple passed Ulrich's vehicle on the way to their own, which was parked down the road.
It was around 5:30 PM when another pedestrian drew the investigator's eye. What struck him most about this one was not any overt resemblance to his quarry, but the state of relative undress she wandered around in when compared to everyone else he'd laid eyes on that day. This woman, with tousled, windblown hair the color of wood and pale skin, emerged from the shadows of a nearby alleyway and shambled past the front entrance of the Star Diner.
Tensing, Ulrich rolled down his window and even stuck his head out a bit, squinting at the woman as she passed. Quickly referencing the photograph of Vivian, which he'd slipped into the corner of his sun visor, he found that he had a match.
He'd only just glimpsed her from afar and already Ulrich had a bad feeling about this. Her appearance outside the restaurant at the predicted time was somehow unsettling to him; either that, or his unease was centered more precisely on the way she staggered along, gaze vacant, as though she were an automaton. She was very poorly dressed indeed, wearing only a thin grey sweater and a pair of jeans. This detail, too, matched Michael's description of her to a T.
He stepped out of the car quickly and straightened his coat. Looking over the hood of the Passat, he followed her with his eyes as she left the diner behind and started down the sidewalk. She hadn't noticed him; or if she had, she'd given no indication whatsoever. Turning her back on the investigator, she began in the direction of the old Prescott Hotel, its shadowed bulk visible in the distance amongst a niche of abandoned storefronts. Her gait was strange; she was given to dragging her feet in a most unnatural way as though she were unaccustomed to walking. Hopping over the curb, Ulrich gave chase, clearing his throat and bellowing a calm, “Excuse me, miss?” that went unanswered.
The glimpse he'd gotten of her face made him feel secure that this was, in fact, Vivian Poole, however the marked disorientation exhibited by the shambling stranger just ahead of him introduced a niggling doubt. He quickened his pace and repeated his greeting. “Excuse me, miss?” Wetting his chapped lips against the cold, he slowed just a touch in anticipation
of a reply that never came.
Vivian walked on.
Could she not hear him? Was she so lost in her own world that his voice wasn't registering in her ears? Was it possible that she was under the influence of some drug? Ulrich hadn't completely believed Michael when he'd claimed that his daughter didn't sense or react to his approach in any way, however now that he was following the woman himself he understood what his client had meant. It's like she's somewhere else completely, he thought. Like she's sleepwalking.
Ulrich fell back, gave Vivian more room as the shadowed hotel building came into focus. Her brown hair fluttered in the wind behind her as she walked, hands held awkwardly at her sides, and she showed no signs of feeling bothered by the cold. Even though he was well-dressed and keeping his head down, Ulrich's eyes were watering for the wind chill and he wanted nothing more than to run back to the car and bask in the warmth of the vents like a cat.
Summoning his voice, he called out a third time, more loudly. “Excuse me, Vivian?”
No reaction.
Growing exasperated, Ulrich struggled with his next move. It occurred to him that any attempt to run up to her might be construed as harassment, and he didn't really care to bully the woman into speech. Nevertheless, he couldn't really face Michael without making heads or tails of his daughter's feelings towards him and so opted to follow silently, as Michael had allegedly done on three previous occasions.
The Prescott was ahead. Some ten or eleven floors, it'd once been among the tallest buildings in downtown Toledo. Its exterior was tagged in wild graffiti, and the closer he got, the more Ulrich became aware of his surroundings. It was an evening in winter, and no one in their right mind would be looking for trouble outside this abandoned building, however the risk of a dangerous vagrant or gang member being encountered around the bend was not to be dismissed out of hand. Wrapping his hands around the keys in his pocket, he glanced around at the other buildings in the vicinity, all of them shuttered and fallen into disrepair, and made sure that the two of them were alone.
It seemed they were.
This particular pocket of downtown Toledo offered very little. Save for the Star Diner and an old pharmacy further on down the line, all of the business along Fordham Street where the two of them now walked were closed down. Among the relics were a former furniture store, a sun-bleached “CLOSED” sign in its front window. There was a store that'd once specialized in electronics, a branch of a once-popular franchise, all of whose locations had since gone the way of the dinosaur.
While studying the surrounding buildings and losing himself momentarily in reverie, he very nearly lost sight of Vivian. She slipped around the corner, just past the shell of an abandoned Taco Bell, as though she were preparing to cross the street and head for the hotel. Breaking into a jog, Ulrich very nearly slipped on a patch of ice. These sidewalks were little-tread, and so were the least of the city's concerns when it came to being salted. Whipping around the corner, he caught himself against the brick exterior of the closest building and then looked to the hotel, where Vivian was.
Or rather, where she should have been.
A gust of chilling wind howled through the empty street, striking the investigator dead-on and sending him burrowing into his coat for warmth. Casting a narrow glance in the direction of the hotel, which cut an impressive figure in the orange glow of nearby street lamps, he could find no trace of her. She'd turned the corner only a few moments ago and could not have possibly evaded him even if she'd broken into a full-on sprint, such was the distance between them. He was sure of it. Scrambling out onto the pothole-laden street, he looked both ways, hoping to catch a glimpse of her fleeing, but found none.
It was like she'd disappeared. Like she'd been swallowed up.
Like she hadn't even been there at all.
Coming up to the front entrance of the Prescott and looking into its dusty front doors, fastened shut with rusted chains, there was no trace of the woman to be seen. Across the street, where the old Taco Bell sat adjacent to a darkened alleyway, there was also no sign.
Ulrich was left standing in the middle of the road, hands in his pockets and mind addled with disbelief. Where in the hell could she have gone? People can't... people can't just vanish like that. I saw her with my own two eyes, but it's like Michael claimed. She just... disappeared. But no... no, that's not possible, is it?
Standing in the bitter cold, bringing a hand to his brow, he realized that it was only possible if this turned out to be one of those cases. Was he dealing with the supernatural again?
His first instinct, hard-wired through years of skepticism, was to assure himself that ghosts didn't exist. He had only to think back to his previous cases to know that was a lie, however.
Standing in the road, Ulrich called out to Vivian repeatedly. Had there been anyone there to listen to him, he'd have sounded like an idiot. That there was no one around for some distance soon became clear however, and he clammed up. His voice echoed off of the abandoned buildings and empty alleyways for some moments after.
Perhaps that was all Vivian had been; some sort of echo. A vestige. A lingering trace of someone that'd already passed on. Unsure of how to process this, Ulrich hurried back to his car, keeping always one eye fixed over his shoulder.
On the way back, he didn't encounter another living soul.
5
Shivering in the car despite the warmth coming out of the vents, Ulrich held the phone up to his ear. Michael picked up after the first ring and answered breathlessly, like he'd been waiting all day for this call.
“Mr. Poole,” began Ulrich.
The client laughed, interrupting him. “Oh, Mr. Ulrich. I'm so glad to hear from you. I'd been hoping you'd call. What've you got for me?”
Ulrich cleared his throat and sat in awkward silence for a time. “Well,” he eventually admitted, “the truth is that I haven't got much. I was, uh... I was trailing your daughter just a bit ago. It was just like you said. She came around just after 5:30 and started walking off towards the Prescott. She wasn't wearing much, and seemed... off. There was something about her that seemed all wrong. But I followed her all the way to the hotel. And then she...”
The other end of the line was silent, except for Michael's shaky breathing as he clutched the phone.
“She disappeared on me.”
Michael was some time in forming a reply, and when he did, it was in a graver tone of voice than Ulrich had ever heard him use. “But you did see her, correct?”
Ulrich nodded. “I did. I have her photograph right here. It was her, unmistakably her. But I don't know what happened. She was there one minute and then...”
“Gone the next,” finished Michael. “Listen, I think you'd better come by. I'd like to speak to you in person about this matter. Can you hurry over? I can have some dinner ready for you, if you like.”
“No, that won't be necessary,” replied Ulrich. Truthfully, he wasn't sure whether he could fit anything else in his stomach, what with the knot of unease that was already dwelling there. “I'll be over as soon as I can.”
“You have the address, right?” asked Michael.
Ulrich plucked the business card Michael had given him the prior evening out of his wallet and glanced at the back. “Yes. I'll be there soon.”
Pleased, Michael bid the investigator a safe journey and hung up.
Ulrich stared down at the business card for a long while, lulled into inaction. He was getting the impression that Michael hadn't been altogether forthright with him about the details of this case. He cursed himself for not digging into the client's past a bit before agreeing to take on the job, and couldn't seem to dispel the dread that was settling over him.
He'd experienced this very particular variety of unease twice before in his life, and each time it'd led him down a path of terror.
He pulled away from the diner and started for Michael's home, occasionally glancing up at the photo of Vivian in the sun visor.
In the darkness, her lovely
features took on a vaguely sinister cast. Her eyes were darker, impenetrable, and her skin glowed a phantasmagoric white.
Was that what he'd seen? A phantom?
Michael lived in a rather expensive neighborhood. It was on the edge of town, near the suburb of Perrysburg, where Ulrich knew many local doctors and lawyers to reside. Situated on a sizable plot of land, the Poole property was separated from its neighbors by several acres. The house itself was two stories and very wide, probably boasting upward of five rooms. It seemed to the investigator an awful lot of space for only a man and his wife to occupy. Pulling into the lengthy driveway and parking several feet away from a Mercedes SUV, Ulrich stepped out and started for the front door, through which he could see Michael.
Ulrich wasn't half-way up the drive when Michael thrust open the door and waved to him. Standing beside him was a woman, some ten or fifteen years his junior, with long blonde hair. She wore a white blouse and black pencil skirt despite the cold and leaned into Michael's side as he waited near the door. This, the investigator realized, was probably his wife, Meredith.
“I see you found the place OK,” said Michael, holding the front door open and allowing Ulrich to step past him into the foyer.
“You have a very lovely home,” said Ulrich as he shuffled inside, careful to wipe the snow on his soles against a black rug in the entryway.
“Can I take your coat?” asked the woman at Michael's side, offering a narrow smile. Up-close she appeared older, somewhat haggard. A solid layer of foundation had evened out her features. Any youth this woman possessed had been masterfully painted on.
“No, thank you,” replied Ulrich. “I'll keep it on. It's awfully cold out there.”
Guiding the investigator out of the foyer, Michael led him into a large sitting room, where a number of comfortable chairs awaited them and a lively fire bumbled in the hearth. “Please, please, have a seat, Mr. Ulrich. Can I interest you in some scotch? I've a bottle of Glenlivet here, that--” He blushed, suddenly chuckling. “My apologies, you're not much interested in alcohol, are you? Meredith, please fix the man a cup of coffee, would you?” he called out.
Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3) Page 3