by Layton Green
Mature oaks dotted the lawn, their muscular branches scraping at the eaves. Giant faux cobwebs had been stretched between the trees for Halloween. As Preach pulled into the circular drive, two huge dogs bounded out of the house, followed by a man in his fifties wearing plaid dress pants and a velvet smoking jacket.
“Bela! Boris! Heel!”
The dogs looked like black and white teddy bears with curled tails. They halted at the sound of their owner’s voice, then slunk back to the front porch.
Preach stepped out of the car. “Mr. Black?”
“Just Damian, please. Grown men don’t need to call each other by their last names.”
The author delivered the soft rebuke with a smile. His bland but affable face, combined with his curly brown hair, reminded Preach of the grownup version of a kid on a cereal box. He was of medium height and build, and Preach noticed a black and silver signet ring on his left index finger.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Preach said.
“Me, too,” he said. A wave of genuine sadness crashed over his face. “Lee was a dear friend.”
“You live out here all alone?” Preach asked.
“Don’t forget Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff,” he said, sweeping a hand at the two canines, who wagged their tails at the attention.
“Akitas make good guard dogs.”
“You know your breeds,” he said in approval. “Handsome, aren’t they? Come in, gentlemen. Let’s chat in the parlor.”
They followed the author inside. Kirby kept a wary eye on the dogs as they padded along behind them. Damian led the officers past a foyer where two gleaming, full-sized suits of armor stood at attention, then down a hallway decorated with framed posters of classic horror films.
The paneled sitting room was furnished with high-backed leather chairs, a baby grand piano, a liquor cabinet built into the wall beside the fireplace, and standing glass cases that housed a cornucopia of bizarre objects and horror memorabilia.
Preach examined the contents of the glass cases while Damian poured himself a drink. Among the items on display were an Incan child mummy, the fused skeletons of Siamese twins, a pair of shriveled hands covered in fur, and copies of early horror novels so old he guessed they were first editions. Dracula, The Picture of Dorian Grey, Carmilla, The Castle of Otranto, and Frankenstein were all in the collection.
“I see you bring your work home,” Preach said.
“I’ve always had a taste for the macabre,” Damian replied, waving them into chairs.
Kirby was standing next to a ghost-white lamp shaped like an upside down lotus flower. “You seem like a pretty normal guy.”
“I hear that a lot. How does a regular guy from Creekville, who looks like a Boy Scout leader, come up with the stuff I write? It fascinates people. And my response to them is, why do you read what I write? But isn’t that the beauty and mystery of human nature? How we’re all so different, and you can never tell what’s lurking about on the inside? Take that lamp next to Officer Kirby. It’s the most innocuous item in the room, yet it’s supposed to steal your soul if you linger near it for too long.”
Kirby flinched, and Damian laughed. “The fact is, gentlemen, that I am a normal guy. Plain as toast. I write to escape my banality. Forgive my manners—can I get you something? Sweet tea, water, scotch?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” Preach said.
“Just let me know. I assume you’re here about Farley?” His voice softened. “What a terrible, terrible tragedy. Supernatural creatures perpetrate the murders in my novels, but human beings always remind us who the real monsters are.”
The fire had warmed the room. Preach unbuttoned his coat and forced his eyes away from the display cases, whose morbid contents possessed a magnetic pull. “How well did you know Mr. Robertson?”
“We grew up together in Creekville, and remained close. Damian Black is a pen name, though I’ve taken to using it with most people.”
Preach knew about the pseudonym. According to public records, the author’s real name was Evan Shanks. He owned a second house in Key West, four cars, and a private plane, which he kept in a hangar at Horace Williams Airport in Chapel Hill. No kids, never married, parents who were public schoolteachers. He was one of the mayor’s principal donors, and also the founder of Second Chance, a charity for street kids.
“Lee was a huge supporter of mine, even before I was successful. We were quite close.” Preach noticed him taking a longer sip than usual.
“Did he have any enemies?”
He thought for a moment. “No, not like that.”
“You mean no one with a motive for murder?” Preach said.
“Yes.”
“You paused.”
“I hate to mention it. It’s nothing serious.”
Preach clasped his fingers. “Indulge us.”
Damian hesitated, then gave a wry smile. “You probably know that Lee and I started a publishing house together. Just a small endeavor, a way to showcase local talent. We have a writer named J. T. Belker whose recent proposal was . . . not what we were looking for.”
“It wasn’t up to par?” Kirby asked.
“Oh, it was good. Brilliant, in fact. J. T. has true talent. His prose, depth of thought, intricate characterizations . . . my writing is childish and one-dimensional in comparison.”
Quite a departure from what Belker said about him, Preach thought.
“Isn’t popularity a form of genius?” Preach asked. “You’re touching a nerve with a lot of people.”
The sadness returned to Damian’s eyes, and he clinked the ice cubes in his Scotch. “You’re kind, Detective, but my work is trite and I know it. Still, I am a real writer, which has nothing to do with talent, and everything to do with compulsion.” He laughed and raised his glass. “When else in life do you actually get to tell the truth in public?”
“If Belker’s new work is so good,” Preach said, “why didn’t you publish it?”
“Partly because his first novel didn’t earn out, though frankly, many of our novels don’t. But in J. T.’s case, his submission was . . . how do I say this? It was ahead of its time. Too abstract even for us. His characters were unsympathetic, sadistic even. As if they were trying to crawl out of their own skins. Did you know he’s being treated for depression?”
“I did not,” Preach said.
“There’s also the subject matter of the submission.” Damian swirled his Scotch. “His new novel concerns an unpublished writer who snaps after his previous novel fails to sell. He kills one of the publishers who wrote a rude rejection letter, writes a roman à clef about the murder, posts the novel on social media along with pictures of the actual crime scene, and then hangs himself in prison.”
Kirby and Preach exchanged a disbelieving look. Preach didn’t think the author was lying—these were easy things to verify. But the revelations about Belker felt almost . . . calculated.
Damian continued, “As I said, it’s brilliant. The themes of identity and loss in a modern world are expertly explored. And for what it’s worth, Belker is excitable, but I’ve never seen his temper escalate beyond words.”
Neither do the tempers of lots of criminals, Preach thought, right until they snap.
He showed Damian the photo of the crime scene. Unlike Belker, Damian appeared not to get the reference. Preach filled him in, then watched him carefully.
“My God . . . do you really think . . .” He looked up and shook his head. “I haven’t read that novel since high school.”
“Did Farley have any particular connection to that work?” Preach asked.
“Not of which I’m aware. From what I remember, the protagonist was—” He cut off and gave Preach a sharp look, grasping the similarities with Belker.
“I need to ask you something else,” Preach said, “and I apologize if it’s upsetting.”
“What’s upsetting is Lee’s murder. I’ll help any way I can.”
“Did Farley have a drug habit?”
Da
mian pursed his lips and glanced away. “I’m not sure I should be talking about that.”
“We’re not concerned with arresting you for possession,” Preach said. “Do you know where he might have procured his narcotics?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Kirby leaned forward. “How about a guess? Maybe you two used the same hook up?” He glanced at Preach to see if he was overstepping. The detective let it go.
Damian took a long sip of Scotch. “I don’t use drugs. And I’d prefer not to speculate on Lee’s activities.”
Preach gave a sympathetic smile. “It’s fine. We’ll look into that for now.”
Damian averted his eyes. Preach wondered if he knew that Mac Dobbins supplied Farley and was afraid of naming him. Also, while the author seemed genuinely distressed by his friend’s death, Preach could tell he was holding something back.
He asked a few more questions and learned nothing new. Wanting to search Farley’s emails before he pressed Damian any harder, Preach stood to leave, but Kirby put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I gotta ask. What’s it like being famous?”
Damian looked amused. “Am I famous? I wouldn’t know.”
“You know for sure if you’re not famous,” Kirby said. “Trust me.”
The author looked down as he clinked his ice cubes again. “In that case, I live alone, my best friend was just murdered, and my life’s work is, by all accounts, pedestrian. So I guess your answer is that it can be just as shitty as anything else.”
Preach and Kirby returned to the station to finish their paperwork. When Kirby left for home, Preach could hear his footsteps padding across the deserted office. It was strange, after the hustle and bustle of the APD, to experience the hush of the Creekville station at night.
While the cicadas chirped their arias in the trees outside, Preach stuck around to read the last few chapters of Crime and Punishment. He’d barely slept the night before, trying to finish. He poured a fresh cup of coffee and bent over the novel.
Not long after he turned the last page, fingers tapping as he contemplated the ending, his cell rang. He glanced at the unfamiliar number. “Detective Everson.”
“Hi, it’s Ari Hale. From the bookstore.” Her voice sounded rushed. “You said to contact you if anything came up, and I think someone’s stalking me. A man followed me home from the bookstore last night, and I just saw him again, in the parking lot outside my window. I wasn’t sure what—”
“Ms. Hale, where do you live?”
She gave him the address. It was less than a mile from the station.
“Lock the doors and windows and stay put,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
10
Ari opened the door in a pair of black leggings and a long sweatshirt bearing a color-spattered, impressionistic drawing of the Eiffel Tower. A moody pop song played softly in the background as she eyed Preach with a mixture of gratitude and wariness.
“I’ve never reported a stalker before,” she said. “Just so you know.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I haven’t seen him since I called, but . . .”
“Why don’t I come in? It wouldn’t hurt to keep the cruiser in the parking lot for a few minutes.”
She nodded in relief, then ushered him inside and hung his coat by the door, next to a black concert T-shirt slung over a peg.
“I finished the novel,” he said, as she led him into the combination living and dining room.
Her eyebrows lifted, and he took a seat in a faux-leather reading chair. She curled up on the couch, feet tucked under her legs. A textbook titled International Human Rights Law was open on the coffee table, a closed laptop and a glass of wine beside it. He thought her place smelled like violets and coffee.
“But let’s hear about the stalker,” he said, settling into the chair and pushing up the sleeves of his gray sweater.
She told him about the figure in the overcoat who had followed her home from the bookstore, and how she had just seen someone similar, in the same hat and overcoat, standing on the edge of her parking lot and staring right at her window.
“You couldn’t make out any features?” he asked.
“The hat concealed his face.”
“Was he standing by a particular car? I took down license plates before I came in.”
“The green Corolla that looks like it should be in a museum. It’s mine.”
Preach pursed his lips. “If you see him again, don’t engage under any circumstance.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“It’s unfortunate, and I hate to say this, but there’s not a lot we can do at the moment. Try not to put yourself in vulnerable situations. Avoid walking alone, especially at night, and don’t answer unfamiliar knocks or calls. Keep everything locked. You might consider an alarm system, or a dog. Come to the station tomorrow and get a formal complaint on record.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “Thanks for believing me.”
He looked at her askance. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’ve been upset about the murder, and nerves can do funny things to the mind—but I know what I saw. And you know, women get stalked a lot, and the police have a tendency not to take it seriously.”
He frowned. “Which police?”
She gave a throaty laugh. “Creekville’s such a nice place,” she said, and then her laugh faltered. “Usually. So am I still a suspect?”
“You never were. But I verified your alibi. Your friends vouched for you.”
She nodded and rose to refill her wine glass. Unlike most attractive women, neither her movements nor her clothing were calculated to draw attention. Preach guessed her looks had appeared later in life.
“Shiraz?” she asked. “I don’t have much else.”
“That’s fine.”
She brought him a glass and returned to the couch. “You continue to surprise me.”
“Because I drink something other than Budweiser?” He flashed a smile that both chastised and charmed, his preacher’s smile.
A smirk touched the corners of her lips.
He said, “Maybe it’d be easier if you went ahead and got the rest of your assumptions off your chest?”
“It’s probably better if I don’t.”
“No, please. Impress me with your powers of observation.”
She swirled her wine and didn’t respond.
“I insist,” he said.
After a moment, realizing he was serious, she met his gaze and leaned back into the sofa. “Okay, then. You’re from Creekville, which, despite its quirks, is still a Friday Night Lights town for the high school set. I’m guessing you were the star quarterback and could have any girl you wanted, and did, and everyone in town treated you like, well, a little blond god. After high school, you . . .” She sat back with a guilty look.
“What’s wrong?”
“You seem like a nice enough guy. You came to help me tonight. This isn’t fair.”
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I appreciate the honesty. For the record, I wrestled instead of playing football. I can’t throw straight.”
She looked doubtful.
“Go on,” he said.
“I was finished.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I’ve misjudged you.”
“You’re not off base, but you’re still looking at me like you have something to say. Why don’t I finish for you, so I can carry on with my investigation?”
She took another sip and eyed him coolly. “Whatever you want.”
He rested his forearms on the chair. “Because I was all brawn and no brains, with even less vision in life, I was stuck in Creekville and eventually became a cop. I needed an outlet for my frustration and physical aggression, and it was either become a cop or join the army, and I’m far too much of an entitled pretty boy to shave my head and take orders all day. After a decade of paying my dues, and because Creekville is a one-horse town with
low crime, I somehow became a detective. Now I live a petty, insular life harassing Yankees and hippies and grad students.” He smiled, and could tell from the way she averted her eyes that his assessment had hit home.
Looking uncomfortable, she shifted to cross her legs under her again, on the other side. “So tell me who you really are, then.”
“Words are cheap, Ms. Hale. I’ll let you judge for yourself.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s unfair. Now I’m embarrassed and I don’t even get a chance to—”
“It’s okay,” he said. “As I said, I just wanted that out of the way. Now you can look at me like a human being, and not a member of genus blondus footballus starus. So let’s talk about the novel. I want to run a few theories by you and see how they might apply to your employer.”
She opened a palm. “Let the judging begin.”
Preach began tapping on the arm of the chair, debating how much to discuss with her. She already knew about the crosses and had led him to Dostoevsky, so he saw no harm in exploring that angle. He wasn’t convinced the staging of the crime scene was anything more than a diversion, but he would be remiss not to consider other implications.
He said, “I’m wondering if the two crosses had nothing to do with Farley—and everything to do with the murderer. A statement.”
“That’s rather terrifying, given the nihilistic nature of the crime.”
“Exactly. Raskolnikov wanted to be some kind of superior being who had the right to take what he wanted from life, even committing murder.”
“But he failed,” she said, guessing where he was going. “Raskolnikov was a slave to his moral conscience. A true Napoleon would have no guilt, no remorse, no doubts as to whether he was a Napoleon. He would simply kill and get on with it.”
“That’s right,” Preach said. “At first I thought the killer was telling us that, unlike Dostoevsky’s character, he had no remorse. He could kill without conscience. But now I’m not so sure. There’s so much more to the novel. Themes of isolation, sacrifice, redemption, the guilt associated with immoral actions and the question of where that guilt comes from. If the novel is taken at face value, Dostoevsky seemed to be saying that there are real and powerful consequences to our actions.”