Darkscope

by J. Carson Black

  Impossible. George had talked to Bob McCord on the phone last night. Bob sounded confident, breezy. Ready for the last push.

  But as he pulled into the dirt drive, George popped another Tums in his mouth and prayed that his gut was wrong.

  Even though the gossip had been flying hot and heavy, George was not prepared for what he saw in the doorway. A skeleton. A breathing skeleton.

  George couldn’t conceal his surprise. With a sinking feeling, he remembered the story of Bob’s performance at the charity dinner. His candidate was going off the deep end.

  Bob’s smile indicated he was perfectly aware of what George was thinking. “Welcome aboard!” he said, slapping George on the shoulder in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of way that was absolutely inappropriate now.

  “Have you been sick?” George asked.

  “Me? No,” Bob replied as heartily as he could. “Want a drink? I know it’s early, but . . .” He poured himself a bourbon and sat down facing the garden. “No, I’m not sick. You don’t have to worry about that. It’s just this fitness craze.” He patted his stomach. “See? Hard as a rock.”

  George stood in the archway, watching Bob’s performance with incredulity. Was this happening? Here he was, watching his new candidate, this . . . dry husk of a human being, barking about fitness?

  No wonder Lindsey Harris had opted out.

  “How’s the newsletter coming?” Bob asked.

  “We’re getting a good response. Of course, Lindsey did one hell of a job targeting the right people, no question about that. One last push, that’s all it is, just to make sure.” George warmed to the subject despite himself. “We’ve already got it in the bag. The newsletter’s just what we need to get people stirred up, make sure they get out there and vote. Hammer the last nail in the coffin—” He stopped, embarrassed. He shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have mentioned coffin, because Bob McCord looked like a pretty good candidate for one right now.

  Bob McCord didn’t catch the irony. George noticed that the bourbon glass was nearly empty. At only nine o’clock in the morning. George unwrapped another Tums, chewed it to chalky, gritty smithereens.

  He knew what he had to do. He hadn’t expected it to be this bad, but now that his worst fears were realized, there had to be a way to salvage the campaign. They could still win the election. If Bob cooperated.

  He swallowed. “Look, Bob, I’m gonna level with you. I think we should cancel that appearance tomorrow. We don’t need it, what with the newsletter going so well—”

  The skeletal man in the chair swiveled slowly to look at him. Skin was stretched across the skull like parchment, and the eyes glowed like blue holes. “Yes?” Bob asked, his voice soft.

  “What I’m trying to say, Bob, is, well . . . you look like crap.” He blurted it out.

  George leaned forward, trying to ignore his feelings of revulsion. “You look sick. Like you have cancer or something. People don’t want to elect a man who looks like he’s going to keel over dead any minute.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “We cut our losses. Let the newsletter, the spots, do our work for us. We’re, what, eight days away from the election? We can coast. Everything’s in place. You don’t need to speak at this luncheon. They’re just a bunch of old broads anyway. And if they saw you now—”

  Bob grinned. “Are you telling me I might scare them?”

  George laughed uneasily. That was exactly what he was thinking. “Well, you know, with this AIDS thing . . . What is wrong with you anyway?”

  “I just haven’t been hungry.”

  Sure. “Well, try, you know, to eat something. Force yourself. We’ve got time. If we keep a low profile—”

  “Cut our losses,” the skeleton added.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Cut our losses—”

  “Sitting pretty.”

  “Uh, right.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want that drink, George?”

  “I gotta go,” George rose hastily to his feet. He didn’t like it here. He didn’t like it here at all.

  Bob escorted him to the door, shuffling like an old man. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” George tried to make his voice come out cheery, but he cracked on “tomorrow.”

  “We’ll show those old hardboots!” Bob cackled.

  “Yeah sure.”

  George almost bolted to the car.

  Bob closed the door and walked back to the living room. As sick as he was, he still found pleasure in some things. Take George, for instance. Good old I’ve-got-a-maxim-for-everything George Becker. Why, the look on his face alone was worth millions. He’d stood on the doorstep, looking as if he’d seen a—

  Ghost?

  Bob laughed, poured himself more bourbon. A ghost. That was a laugh. Now Bob could tell him a thing or two about ghosts.

  He was haunted by one.

  Bob sat down in the chair again. Oh, he understood what George was saying; he wasn’t anybody’s fool. Speaking at the Garden Club wouldn’t be a smart thing to do, not with the election almost won. He had to regain his strength, look good for the day he made his acceptance speech.

  I’m feeling better. I’ve even put on a little weight.

  He didn’t look in mirrors anymore, but he could feel the difference. The protein drinks were working; he could keep them down, no problem. Maybe he drank a little too much, but hell, liquor had a lot of calories. It was liquid, it would stay down. So what was wrong with trying to put on weight?

  Now, sleep . . . that was something else. Every time he was about to drop off, he had the feeling that she was in the darkness. At the edge of his vision, like a pack of wolves waiting for the weakest deer to go off to die. She was waiting, and if she caught him sleeping . . .

  Bob rose and shuffled across the carpet that had once (so long ago?) frightened him. He wasn’t frightened anymore. He was too busy concentrating on how to survive, how to use the last reserves of his dwindling strength. He was operating almost entirely upon instinct—the instinct to win. The fire still burned like a fever in him. He would be elected. He would prove, once and for all, that he was worth something.

  His mind started to wander; it did that a great deal now. He was remembering the camera, the ugly Brownie camera.

  Kathy saw the camera at the pawnshop in Fry. They were already running late to see Mrs. Lewiston, but Kathy was drawn to that window. For some reason, she was drawn there.

  “My brother had a camera like it,” she said.

  It was an ugly old thing. But Kathy peered in through the window, her eyes alight. “Just like Sean’s,” she said. “I wonder how much it costs?”

  “We’re going to be late,” Bob replied. The sun had dipped below the Huachuca Mountains. Their ragged shapes were dark blue against the reflected glory of the sun—a sky of peach and mauve and turquoise, muted by a fine scrim of white light. “See? The place is closed.” He motioned to the sign on the door beside the poster of a sweating sailor holding a big gun shell under the legend: “Man the Guns. Join the Navy,” and another poster which said, “Give us your Nylons, Toothpaste Tubes and Tires. Support the War Effort.”

  “Someone’s in there,” Kathy insisted.

  “Tell you what. I’ll buy the damn thing for you if you hurry up.”

  She looked at him. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

  No, he wanted to say. You’re right. Right as rain.

  Bob gave her the money and waited nervously outside. Would he have the guts to go through with it? He wanted to. He really did. Excitement burrowed in his stomach, tickled every nerve.

  Kathy emerged from the shop, her face radiant. He had never seen her so demonstrative, so utterly without guile—at least not when she was speaking to him. “It is Sean’s!” she cried. “See?” She showed him the initials cut into the jute-board.

  “What a coincidence,’ he said dryly. They left for Mrs. Lewiston’s house shortly after that, the camera on the seat between them.

  Fifty-one

&
nbsp; The nurse at Glendale Park Community Hospital closed the drapes and looked down at the woman on the bed. Dorothy Perrault had failed quickly, the cancer spreading like weeds throughout her wasted body. She hovered near death; the only indication that she was alive at all was the shallow rattling of her breath. Toni Montoya knew from experience that Mrs. Perrault would probably not last the week.

  As she turned to leave, Toni spied a scrap of blue under the sheets, held loosely in a clawlike hand. On closer inspection, it proved to be a book. A loose-leaf notebook. Toni gently eased the book out of the woman’s hand and placed it on the bedside table.

  Dorothy Perrault awoke a few hours later. With a stab of fear, she realized that her scrapbook was gone. Panic raced through her. The scrapbook was to be burned unread—that instruction had been left with her lawyer.

  She flailed against the sheets, her voice little more than a dry croak. The patient in the next bed was watching Search for Tomorrow, the sound turned up all the way. No one would hear. At last her fingers found the call button and hit it repeatedly.

  Another nurse, not Toni Montoya, answered the call.

  “Where’s my book?” Dorothy Perrault rasped, her large eyes wild in the gaunt face.

  “What book?”

  “My scrapbook! I want it now!”

  The nurse walked over to the cluttered table and pulled out a notebook. “Is this it?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Dorothy’s relief was palpable.

  The nurse left, thinking that even the nicest patients had their bad days. Dorothy Perrault had always been so quiet, but for a moment there she had been almost hysterical.

  Dorothy opened the book to a yellowed newspaper clipping pasted on contact paper. The entry was dated November 28, 1978, from the Arizona Daily Star.

  COPPER MAGNATE DIES

  BISBEE, ARIZONA. Lucas McCord, multimillionaire, copper-mining pioneer, and philanthropist, died today at the age of 91.

  McCord was born January 3, 1887, in Binghamton, New York, and moved with his family to Colorado shortly afterward. He graduated from Columbia University with a bachelor's degree in mining engineering in 1909 . . . His remarkable instincts and natural shrewdness led to the discovery of the Manzanita Mine in 1916 . . . In 1921, Lucas McCord founded another company, Pan-Central Corporation, to facilitate copper exploration in Central and South America. He was chairman of the board of that company until his death.

  Lucas McCord was active in Arizona politics; running unsuccessfully for governor in 1932 . . . In 1958, he founded the Pan-Central Educational Relief Fund. He was a member of the Lions Club and is listed in Who's Who in America from 1916 until the present time.

  He is survived by one son, Robert McCord, of Tucson, Arizona, and a great-granddaughter, Chelsea McCord, of Los Angeles, California.

  Funeral services will be held Monday.

  Dorothy lifted the next page. These articles were shorter, taken from a Mexican newspaper. She had translated them in her neat hand on lined paper opposite, scrupulously dating them.

  The first clipping was dated January 17, 1983.

  SUGAR CANE HEIRESS DROWNED

  PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO. Elena Velasquez, heiress to the Rio Prieta Sugar Cane Plantation, apparently drowned Saturday, off the coast of a small fishing village south of here. She is survived by her father, Alexandro Velasquez, and her husband, Jake Perrin, a US citizen.

  And March 23, 1983:

  MONEY DISPUTE SETTLED

  PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO. In an unlikely reversal today, Alexandro Velasquez has settled out of court with Jake Perrin of this city. Three months ago, Elena Velasquez drowned in a freak accident near Yelapa, Mexico. Mr. Velasquez authorized his lawyer to release the trust fund of $150,000 dollars to Mr. Perrin. When asked about his sudden reversal, Mr. Velasquez said only: "I am an old man and I don't have the energy to argue. I know my son-in-law. The money won't last long."

  Jan 5, 1984:

  EXHUMATION ORDERED FOR VELASQUEZ HEIRESS: FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.

  PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO. The body of Elena Velasquez was exhumed today, almost a year after her mysterious death . . .

  Jan 23, 1984:

  HUSBAND WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN DEATH OF SUGAR CANE HEIRESS.

  MEXICO CITY, MEXICO. Elena Velasquez died of strangulation, the coroner said today. Her husband, Jake Perrin, has disappeared and is said to be living in the United States . . .

  June 8, 1984:

  AP LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA. In a civil ceremony today, copper heiress Chelsea McCord married artist Jason Sykes, of Los Angeles, California. Sydney Ballard, of Manhattan Beach, California, and George Stephen of Cleveland, Ohio, were the attendants.

  Chelsea McCord is heiress to the Pan-Central Corporation. Her great-grandfather, Lucas McCord, was a mining pioneer whose holdings included the Manzanita Mine, one of the richest mines in the United States.

  In the margin Dorothy had written: Jason Sykes. Jake Perrin. Jack Perrault.

  Dorothy Perrault had often wondered about her son, ever since that day long ago when Sean Barrie first came into their lives. Jackie had been a normal boy—maybe a little more manipulative than most, but not malicious—until he fell under the spell of that bitter old man.

  She cast her mind back to 1978, remembering the artist’s sketch of the LA murder suspect in the newspaper. The resemblance to Jack was uncanny. And her son had disappeared around that time.

  She had lied to herself too long. But in the last few months, as her own death drew near, Dorothy Perrault had finally faced her fears.

  Jack was a murderer.

  The first entry in the scrapbook was Jack’s, hastily left behind on that day he’d left her life forever.

  The rest of the articles she had collected herself.

  Her eye fell on Chelsea McCord’s wedding announcement.

  I should have warned her.

  But what good would that have done? Why would a wealthy copper heiress with the world at her fingertips believe a perfect stranger? She wouldn’t have given Dorothy the time of day.

  No. It was only a suspicion. After all, Chelsea McCord had been married to Jason Sykes for two years. Wouldn’t he have made a move by now? For all she knew, this Jason Sykes wasn’t her boy at all.

  But Jason Sykes was an artist. Jack was an artist.

  Best to leave things as they were. Best to have the album burned.

  Chelsea reached the gate, savoring the tightness in her calves and thighs from the exertion of running. It had been a good run, despite the many unpleasant thoughts milling around in her brain: Jason’s visit, Sunshine’s threat, and her growing uneasiness about Uncle Bob. She couldn’t count the number of times she had picked up the phone to call her great-uncle—and then always put it back down. She just couldn’t do it.

  Chelsea glanced at the sky. Clear. No sign of the storm that was supposed to come in tonight. But the weatherman had forecast a cold front, an unusually strong cold front for October.

  Arms akimbo, she walked around the yard and let her breathing slow back down to normal.

  She had run along Main Street just after school let out, passing knots of schoolchildren on their way home. They carried Contact paper renderings of pumpkins, witches, and ghosts. Halloween was coming.

  Halloween. For Chelsea, this Halloween would be different. This Halloween, she believed in ghosts.

  She remembered reading about the legend of Samhain Feis—the Celtic name for Halloween. On All Hallow’s Eve, the dead were loosed upon the earth, visible to human eyes. Ghosts walked among the living. Would Kathy be at her strongest then?

  Chelsea shivered, remembering her conversation with Ben last night at the Outback Restaurant. Ben had asked her—again—when she was going to talk to Uncle Bob.

  “The election’s only a week away, I can’t bother him now.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “What’s it to you anyway? He’s not your uncle.”

  “You’re ducking this thing.”

  “W
hy don’t you ask him?” she snapped.

  Chelsea felt as if she were slowly and systematically being painted into a corner. She knew she should talk to Uncle Bob—if for no other reason than to warn him—but she just couldn’t. Too much emotion had been invested in their relationship; she just couldn’t accuse him of murder. Especially when there wasn’t any hard evidence.

  Chelsea’s mind veered to something else. She had become adept at evading things that made her uncomfortable.

  Maybe Ernie was finished with her car. If he got to it today, it shouldn’t take too long to give it a tune-up.

  Smiling, Chelsea pictured the mechanic. A slender, hippie type, Ernie wore baggy khaki pants and no shirt. A bandanaed, black lab-mix dog followed him everywhere. Typical Bisbee.

  Ernie’d told her that he was backed up with cars to repair, but if she would be willing to leave the car overnight, he’d get to it tomorrow for sure. That is, if he couldn’t get to it this afternoon. He closed at four. Chleasea had looked dubiously at the old stucco garage and dirt lot, three rows deep in cars.

  “Is there any place you could lock it up?” she’d asked.

  “It’ll be all right. I live right up there . . .” He’d pointed to an ivy-covered frame house on the hill just above the garage. “You don’t have to worry. Tasha barks at everything.”

  Chelsea hadn’t been convinced, glancing nervously at her Thunderbird. “Someone might steal it.”

  “Tell you what. If I don’t get to it tonight, I’ll lock it in the garage.” Then he had offered her a loaner.

  The “loaner” was a navy-blue ‘56 Dodge pickup named Daisy, its paint job oxidized into oily rainbows. The interior smelled of apple wine, pot, and curry.

  Chelsea had declined the offer, leasing a car from an agency in Sierra Vista instead. She might be attending a faculty party tomorrow and didn’t want to show up driving Daisy.

  At four o’clock, Chelsea called Ernie’s. No answer. She hoped he’d done as he’d promised and locked the Thunderbird in the garage.