The Book of Common Dread

by Brent Monahan

  Alice took a moment to think. "My husband and children are avid skiers. I hate getting cold and wet, so they're leaving me at home right after we open the presents Christmas morning."

  "Do you want to come to Princeton?"

  "Yes. I'm willing to see her. But I'm afraid to think ofjust walking into that house."

  "I understand," Simon commiserated. "I haven't seen his ghost, but the place is definitely haunted."

  Alice took a fortifying breath. "All right then; that's what I'll do." She reached for her cigarettes but thought better of it and folded her hands together. "Then we'll see where we go from there."

  They parted company congenially. But as Simon hurried back to the train station, he had a gnawing doubt that the mystery begun in the Princeton cemetery could be concluded so neatly and so soon.

  ***

  Simon stopped pacing and stared at the huge poinsettia he had carried back to the mansion from Nassau Street. Stuck with a sizable surplus close to the holiday, the florist was practically giving them away. Simon had sprung for the largest one, wanting to put Frederika in a positive mood before dropping the bombshell about her mother's return from the dead. He also knew that, even before Alice told her daughter of Frederik's shortcomings, Frederika would have to hear that her father and aunt had lied to her. She would also have to deal with the fact that Simon had been secretly delving into her private life on a monumental scale. In light of her already depressed state, Simon anticipated an emotional roller coaster of an evening.

  The worst of it was the anticipation. He had fully expected to find her at home when he returned from Philadelphia. She had point-blank replied that she intended to be there after work when he had asked about her plans that morning. But when he got to the house, she and her car were missing. Where the hell was she, he wondered for the hundredth time. He glanced at the kitchen clock. It read 8:28. He strode to the hall closet. The filleting knife in his hand made it difficult to put his coat on, but he refused to relax his grip. It had rested there for the better part of an hour, ever since Simon convinced himself that Frederika had gone again to Vincent DeVilbiss's house. He tugged on his woolen cap and walked through the front door into the night, the knife now hidden in his coat pocket.

  ***

  Frederika's car was nowhere on Park Place, and DeVilbiss's house lay dark. Simon told himself that a scoundrel like DeVilbiss would try to break his agreement and still get Simon's money. All he had to do was tell Frederika to park her car two blocks away and then keep the lights off while they…

  Simon bounded up the porch steps and pounded on the door. He waited a few seconds and banged more forcefully. He got no answer. He walked Sown the alley to the back of the house. Angry heat rushed to his face when he saw the weak light escaping from one of the upper windows. Without weighing the consequences, he climbed a trellis running the width of the back porch and scrambled onto the porch's tin roof. From there he peered through the lit window and saw the bedroom beyond. No one lay on the bed. There was an answering machine connected to the telephone on the night stand. Its message light winked once, paused, winked once, paused, winked once.

  The heat continued to pour off Simon's face. Frederika's missing car probably meant they'd gone somewhere. If they weren't together already, the phone message was hers, telling him where to meet her. Simon used his elbow to smash out the windowpane above the latch, raised the window and clambered inside. He knew absolutely that Vincent DeVilbiss was dangerous, and he resolved to make himself the man's equal.

  The message was from a Sarah Potter, who had read DeVilbiss's advertisement in the local newspaper and "rather desperately" needed his services. Simon reset the answering machine and moved on. The dresser drawers and the closet held only clothing, not in great quantity but all of conspicuous quality. He found no hidden weapons there, nor under DeVilbiss's pillow or bed. The bathroom held nothing out of the ordinary, no illegal drugs or drug paraphernalia. Downstairs, in the kitchen, he found a music system. The components were expensive but very compact, as if all chosen for size, weight, and stowability. For all the expense, the man owned less than two dozen compact discs. Simon found a computerized chessboard, again very compact. On the kitchen table lay two books. The first was a very old edition of the Canterbury Tales. Simon examined it, to be sure DeVilbiss hadn't stolen it from Firestone Library. The second, with no title on the cover or inside, looked even more ancient. To his amazement, it was set in archaic cursive Greek type. The man seemed erudite to a degree, but much too worldly to waste his time on such an esoteric subject. Skimming the pages without bothering to translate, Simon thought of the Schickner Collection and asked himself without success what connection could be made.

  Bundles of dried herbs hung from the walls, and the counters held various tools of the herbalist/channeler's trade. Next to the sink were two apothecary-style bottles. One stood empty except for a residue of yellow powder. The one beside it was filled to the top. Simon unstopped the empty bottle, lifted it to his nose and sniffed. The smell was unpleasant. He had no idea what it was and didn't particularly care.

  A door in the inside wall of the kitchen opened onto stairs which led down to a basement. Simon turned on the bare lightbulb that dangled at the top of the steps. Descending, he found the basement dank and dreary, creepy with the webs and shriveled corpses of unlucky spiders. The many items stored there had too heavy a layer of dust to have belonged to DeVilbiss. The area was divided into two rooms. In the back he found a workbench with a collection of old and rusty tools, a team of antique gas and hot water heaters and the house's electric and water lines. He returned upstairs.

  The dining room contained more of DeVilbiss's useless but showy accoutrements of the occult and a few classic books, but no other clues to his background. In the living room Simon found nothing out of the ordinary except the damnably unnerving French clown doll, which had been turned so that it faced him when he entered the room. Its eyes, which shone in the faint illumination from the kitchen, seemed to be fixed on him whenever he glanced at them. He retreated from the room and the glass stare.

  Simon stood with his hands on his hips, glancing around the kitchen in a final sweep for clues. Whatever the man's sins, they were not easily detectable from his belongings. He took the two old books as hostages, shut off the light, opened the back door, turned the lock shut again and stepped outside. Walking back to the mansion he pondered other places where Frederika might have gone. She had no family in the area, no real friends, no current paramour except DeVilbiss. He hated the idea of waiting impotently for her to reappear, but he had no choice.

  ***

  Lynn Gellman turned at her front door and offered a benign smile. "Thanks for a nice evening, Barry."

  "It's still early," Barry said, hopefully. "Can I come inside?"

  Lynn affected a rueful look. "That's not such a good idea. I'm driving up to Long Island in the morning, and…"

  "Okay," Barry obliged. "Call me when you get back." He clutched Lynn by the upper arms, drew her awkwardly toward himself and planted a tongue-probing kiss on her. She allowed it to happen. He bounded lightly back down the walk toward his Saab, pausing once to wave.

  Lynn stuck her key in the door lock. "The only thing I'll call you is asshole," she muttered. She locked the door behind her and threw the deadbolt. She had been careless about her safety when Simon had lived with her, but lately she felt a sense of defenselessness. She thought about the acidity in her stomach from one glass too many of Pouilly-Fuisse and trudged to the refrigerator for a glass of low-fat milk. As she poured and drank it she shrugged out of her scarf and coat, removed her belt, unzipped her dress and wriggled out of it. She kicked off her shoes on the way to the stairs and draped her dress on the banister. The woman who cleaned the townhouse was in Florida for two weeks and the place looked like Day Three of a bargain basement sale. Lynn promised herself she'd give it a lick and a promise when she returned from the for-once-welcome family holiday gathering. She had to set
the glass on the stairs to wrestle out of her slip and panty hose. When she finished, she stuffed them between two stair spindles. She picked up the glass and flicked up the hall light switch.

  The upstairs hallway remained dark.

  "Shit," Lynn said, looking up into the blackness. There had always been something faulty about the townhouse's wiring; lights seemed to blow out after only a hundred hours. Before, when Simon replaced them, she never gave it more than a fleeting thought of annoyance. The light at the top of the stairs was a particular pain, since she would have to haul the stepladder out of the basement to get to it. She started whistling "Jingle Bell Rock," but the tune stuck in her throat. She blamed it on the milk. Taking a deep breath, she started up the steps.

  The distance from the end of the banister to her bedroom door was less than ten feet, but the windowless hallway now seemed the length of a bowling alley. She ran her free hand along the wall to guide herself. When she reached the door she remained outside in the hall and ventured in only with her hand. Her forefinger found the light switch and lifted.

  The bedroom remained dark.

  Lynn gasped. The thought flashed through her mind that she was caught in the middle of a power outage. Almost as quickly, she realized that the refrigerator light had come on and that the foyer light still burned. She jiggled the switch desperately.

  The hand that clamped around her wrist was incredibly powerful.

  Lynn dropped the glass of milk. She yanked against the hand with all her might but found herself rooted in place. Her scream of terror hardly began before it ended, as her assailant hauled her into the room and slapped the noise out of her. The force of the open-handed blows stunned her into submission; little resistance was left in her as she was pulled down onto her makeup table chair. She was only half aware that her hands were being drawn behind her and bound with a soft cord rope. Even if the micro blinds had not been closed tightly, blocking off most outside light, her vision would have swum in a blur.

  The moment sense returned, Lynn opened her mouth to scream. The palm of a hand clamped over her mouth; its thumb and index fingers pinched her nostrils shut.

  "Screaming means dying," the man warned, as he finished securing her hands to the chair back. "Show me you can be trusted and maybe I won't kill you."

  Lynn grew quiet. She was having too much trouble breathing around the palm of his hand to make noise anyway. Fighting the hyperventilation of fright was not so easy for her. He waited a few moments after she fell silent before he lifted his hand gradually off her mouth and nose.

  "I'm not here to rob or rape you," the intruder told her. His voice was deep and incongruously pleasant. "But I'll do both if you don't give me the information I want. Nod your head if you understand."

  Lynn was a survivor. She determined to master her panic and grasp at any hope of staying alive. She nodded.

  "Good. One question and one question only: Where is Simon Penn?"

  Lynn moaned. "I don't know."

  The hand over her mouth tightened again, and his other hand grabbed her throat roughly, pinching her windpipe so that she coughed involuntarily.

  "That's not the answer I want. He was your boyfriend only a short time ago. You must know where he is."

  The hands relaxed. Lynn coughed several times, then whooped in a breath. "He doesn't want me to know," she answered, in a raspy voice. "He moved out a few days ago, when I was away on a business trip. I can prove I was away. The charge slips for the plane and the hotel are in my purse downstairs. He took his furniture. You must have seen the empty spaces."

  The man was unnervingly silent and motionless for a moment. Then his hands began roaming in parallel lines along Lynn's body, starting at her face, down her throat, along the prominences of her clavicle bones, and to her bra straps, with a seductively light pressure.

  "Don't you want him back?" the man asked. "He's such a good-looking young man. Doesn't your body ache for him?"

  Lynn fought the hysteria climbing out of her rib cage. "No. It's over between us. I have a new boyfriend."

  "And you haven't been curious or angry enough to learn where he's gone. Perhaps to another woman?" The man's hands threatened just above her breasts.

  "No."

  "Have you spoken to him at all since he moved out?"

  "Yes, but only on the telephone. At his work."

  "And you didn't ask him where he was living?"

  "I… yes. Yes, he did say something! He said he was staying with someone on the university staff. But he wouldn't give me the name."

  "All right. Who are his closest friends on the staff?"

  "His boss is Dr. James Gould. His tennis partner's Professor Neil Yoskin. And… oh, God, help me… Marty… Salkin, from the theater department. What's he done?"

  The hands came away. "He's angered the wrong people," the voice said, from a distance.

  "If this is about drugs, you've got the wrong Simon Penn," Lynn said. "The guy who used to live here is as straight as… he was a goddamn Eagle Scout!"

  Lynn got no reply. She heard her closet door being opened and a few metal hangers clattering together. Then, suddenly, the hands were back, now at her left leg, pulling a belt around it and securing it and the chair leg together.

  "Stay quiet," the man warned, as he repeated the process on her right leg. Through the panicky jumble of her thoughts, she marveled at how swiftly and assuredly the man moved in the cave-black room. She had just begun to regain an atom of composure when a third belt snaked over her head and around her neck. She began to cry softly as he secured it to the back of the chair.

  When the man had finished, he said, "Don't struggle or you'll choke to death. If you've given me the right name, I'll call this new boyfriend and tell him the sliding door's unlocked and you're waiting for him. Otherwise, I'll be back. Do you wish to improve your list?"

  "I can't, I swear. I wish to hell I knew where the son of a bitch is," Lynn whimpered.

  "I'm sure you do. Before I gag you, is your new boyfriend's listing correct in the telephone book?"

  Lynn weighed the virtues of giving the intruder Barry's name or waiting for her parents to call the local police.

  "Yes. His name is Barry Dietz," she said, through a deep sob.

  ***

  As he approached his rented duplex, DeVilbiss slowed his pace to a trot. Dressed as he was in a stylish black warm-up suit and matching black ski mask, he was a beau example of the Princeton jogger out for a winter's eve run. He had not waived his private rule against running, however, simply because of his outfit. Brisk walking would have wasted time he did not have. Minutes, which normally stretched out before him like the sands of the Sahara, were now constricted as if into a mere hourglass.

  Vincent rushed to overcome bad luck and a mental lapse. Reverend Spencer's house had been destroyed beyond expectations, obscuring the details of the minister's murder and incinerating any information about the scrolls Spencer might have hidden away. Vincent had also gloated over the ease with which he had manipulated the old scholar to gain his key. He had been so sure his plans for destroying the scrolls this evening were flawless. He was wrong. One poor assumption had blown his scheme apart with a psyche-shattering force as cataclysmic as the afternoon's gas explosion.

  Vincent blamed his unfocused thinking on the silvered bullet he had taken in the face. The tooth was still broken, jagged and annoying to his tongue. Even though the exit wound had finally closed, for the first time the healing was not total. His handsome image was scarred by a raised bubble of flesh paler than his normal pallid complexion. Thanks to the gutsy minister, he would need both oral and plastic surgery. At least, he told himself, two valuable lessons repaid his pain and disfigurement: the scrolls must definitely be destroyed before another man of Spencer's mettle got his hands on them, and he must henceforth be prepared for any other adversary who might trust in the power of silver bullets.

  But Vincent could not blame the bullet wound for his original miscalculation. When Freder
ika told him that Simon Penn had "just left his girlfriend," he had assumed the expression was figurative. Right after Penn had visited him and negotiated for Frederika's freedom he had checked the telephone directory and found a number and address beside the librarian's name. Too late, after a humbling shock, did he again consult the directory (this time under Gellman) and find the same telephone number and address. He had immediately called directory assistance and learned that Simon had no new number. The university's administrative offices were closed for the holiday, so he could not get Penn's new address from Personnel. Still, he should have had a source to learn the whereabouts of Simon and his security key, but he had let that source literally disappear. Maddeningly, he had been the very cause of her disappearance. One hour after witnessing the gas explosion he had called Frederika at her home.

  "Are you alone?" he had asked, without bothering to identify himself.

  She had said she was.

  "I want you to leave the house now, with your suitcases, passport, and money. Do you understand?"

  She had said she did.

  "You will drive to a hotel or motel within half an hour of Princeton but not too close. You'll check in, then park your car where it won't be seen. You will not leave your room. At noon tomorrow you will call me at my house. If I don't answer, you will call every half hour until I answer. Repeat what I said."

  She had obeyed perfectly.

  And here was the fact whose frequent surfacing in DeVilbiss's mind nearly drove him insane: To be perfectly sure he could contact her at any time, he had said, "What hotel do you intend to check into?" She had told him of a Ramada Inn on Route 1, some ten miles north of Princeton. He let her go, certain she would follow his instructions to the letter. His intent was to give her enough time to get well out of Princeton, then call Simon Penn and offer to trade her life for the scrolls. At 4:48, when he dialed the number next to Simon's name, the commonness of his mind became crystal clear. He listened in shock to Lynn Gellman's recorded voice announcing that she was not able to come to the phone right now but that she would get back to the caller soon. At 5:10 Vincent telephoned the Ramada Inn and discovered that, due to holiday traveling and several Christmas parties, the entire hotel had been booked up days in advance. A woman of Frederika's description had just been at the desk, had been told the same thing, and had gotten into her car and driven away.