“That is a—a—surprising thing to say, for you . . . Aaron. That is a somewhat cynical thing to say, I think . . .”
Aaron Neuhaus smiles as if, another time, I am a very foolish person whom he must humor. “Not at all ‘cynical,’ Charles—why would you think so? If you are an aficionado of mystery-detective-crime fiction, you know that someone, in fact many people, and many of them ‘innocent,’ must die for the sake of the art—for mystery’s sake. That is the bedrock of our business: Mystery, Inc. Some of us are booksellers, and some of us are consumers, or are consumed. But all of us have our place in the noble trade.”
There is a ringing in my ears. My mouth is so very dry, it is virtually impossible to swallow. My teeth are chattering for I am very cold. Except for its frothy remains my second cup of cappuccino is empty—I have set it on Neuhaus’s desk, but so shakily that it nearly falls over.
Neuhaus regards me closely with concerned eyes. On his desk, the carved ebony raven is regarding me as well. Eyes very sharp! I am shivering—despite the heat from the fire. I am very cold—except the whiskers on my jaws feel very hot. I am thinking that I must protect myself—the box of Lindt’s chocolate truffles is my weapon, but I am not sure how to employ it. Several of the chocolate truffles are gone, but the box is otherwise full; many remain yet to be eaten.
I know that I have been dismissed. I must leave—it is time.
I am on my feet. But I am feeling weak, unreal. The bookseller escorts me out of his office, graciously murmuring, “You are leaving, Charles? Yes, it is getting late. You might come by at another time, and we can see about these purchases of yours. And bring a check—please. Take care on the stairs!—a spiral staircase can be treacherous.” My companion has been very kind even in dismissing me, and has put the attaché case into my hands.
How eager I am to leave this hellish, airless place! I am gripping the railing of the spiral staircase, but having difficulty descending. Like a dark rose a vertigo is opening in my brain. My mouth is very dry and also very cold and numb—my tongue feels as if it is swollen, and without sensation. My breath comes ever more quickly, yet without bringing oxygen to my brain. In the semidarkness my legs seem to buckle and I fall—I am falling, helpless as a rag doll—down the remainder of the metal stairs, wincing with pain.
Above me, two flights up, a man is calling with what sounds like genuine concern—“Charles? Are you all right? Do you need help?”
“No! No thank you—I do not . . .”
My voice is hoarse, my words are hardly audible.
Outside, I am temporarily revived by cold, fresh wind from the ocean. There is the smell and taste of the ocean. Thank God! I will be all right now, I think. I am safe now, I will escape . . . I’ve left the Lindt chocolates behind, so perhaps—(the predator’s thoughts come frantically now)—the poison will have its effect, whether I am able to benefit from it or not.
In the freezing air of my vehicle, with numbed fingers I am jamming a misshapen key into the slot of the ignition that appears to be too small for it. How can this be? I don’t understand.
Yet, eventually, as in a dream of dogged persistence, the key goes into the slot, and the engine comes reluctantly to life.
Alongside the moonstruck Atlantic I am driving on a two-lane highway. If I am driving, I must be all right. My hands grip the steering wheel that seems to be moving—wonderfully—of its own volition. A strange, fierce, icy-cold paralysis is blooming in my brain, in my spinal cord, in all the nerves of my body, that is so fascinating to me, my eyes begin to close, to savor it.
Am I asleep? Am I sleeping while driving? Have I never left the place in which I dwell and have I dreamt my visit to Mystery, Inc. in Seabrook, New Hampshire? I have plotted my assault upon the legendary Aaron Neuhaus of Mystery, Inc. Books—I have injected the chocolate truffles with the care of a malevolent surgeon—how is it possible that I might fail? I cannot fail.
But now I realize—to my horror—I have no idea in which direction I am driving. I should be headed south, I think—the Atlantic should be on my left. But cold moon-glittering waters lap dangerously high on both sides of the highway. Churning waves have begun to rush across the road, into which I have no choice but to drive.
Acknowledgments
“The Doll-Master” originally appeared in The Doll Collection, ed. Ellen Datlow (Tor Books, 2015).
“Soldier” originally appeared in the Idaho Review (2015).
“Gun Accident” originally appeared in Ellery Queen (2015).
“Equatorial” originally appeared in Ellery Queen (2014).
“Big Momma” originally appeared in Ellery Queen (2016).
“Mystery, Inc.” originally appeared in The Mysterious Bookshop’s Bibliomystery series (2015).
The Doll-Master and Other Tales of Terror Page 26