[2010] The Violet Hour

by Daniel Judson

  To see what he could see, satisfy somehow the nagging feeling that something else—something more—was going on here.

  Knowing this time that the house was nearby, and with nearly all its windows lit up, didn’t matter much; Cal still couldn’t see it through the complex thatch of branches. Nor could he see much at all; without Angstrom’s flashlight, the darkness within that tight cluster was as complete as any Cal had ever known.

  He made his way through slowly, by feel, mostly. It wasn’t till he was nearing the path’s end that some of the light spilling from the windows along the back face of the house and reflecting off the white stones of the rear driveway began to seep in.

  Clear of it finally, standing at its hidden opening—if hidden, and if Angstrom had never been to this house before, then how exactly did he know it was there? And why did he just happen to have a flashlight?—Cal paused and looked toward the row of windows straight ahead.

  The dim reading lamp Angstrom had switched on was lit still, and standing near it were two figures. Face-to-face, talking—calmly, it seemed to Cal. One of the figures was obviously Angstrom—the monk’s robes and the long hair were recognizable even from this distance—but it was the other figure that Cal was interested in now.

  A tall man, from what he could see, broad-shouldered, wearing robes as well, but not a monk’s robes, instead the dark, tattered robes of none other than the Grim Reaper.

  He was listening to Angstrom intently, nodding occasionally. Cal watched them, waiting. When they finally moved in the direction of the door leading out to the driveway, he made his move as well.

  Bent at the waist, ducking like a man under fire, he hurried from the path’s opening toward the house. Reaching the side that faced the line of trees, he inched his way to the corner, stopping just as the ornate door was closed. He listened to the footsteps on the stones—two sets that covered a short distance and stopped—and then he heard a man’s voice, deep and, even over the sound of the waves and wind, clear.

  “Thanks for your help,” the man said.

  Cal got down into a crouch, peeked around the corner, had to see.

  The two men were standing face-to-face again, Angstrom with his back to the beach, the Grim Reaper with his back to the house. The Reaper held out his hand, and Angstrom took it. They shook once, then released grips.

  “Glad to do it,” Angstrom said.

  “You’re sure he bought it.”

  “He seemed scared, got out of here quickly enough.”

  The Reaper nodded, then said, “What did he look like?”

  “He was a kid. Dark hair, unkempt. Skinny.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty, maybe. Boyish. Do you know him?”

  “That narrows it down. I’ll have my man run the license plates, see what that turns up.” He paused. “Did he say anything? About her? About them being together?”

  “No. Nothing at all.”

  Another pause, then, “Thanks again.”

  “No problem.”

  “You’re welcome to stay the weekend. In fact, I prefer that you do. I might need you to identify the kid when I bring them back later. Make sure he’s the one.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “There’s a room for you upstairs. We gave you a water view. And, of course, whatever woman you want, she’s yours till Monday.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I reward loyalty. Enjoy yourself. All I ask is that you keep your cell phone on. We don’t go around knocking on doors here, for obvious reasons.”

  “No problem.”

  Angstrom thanked the man again—so much for his not staying—then turned and crossed the stones to the small grassy divide. Stepping over it, he headed down the beach, for the bonfire and the people gathered around it.

  Cal, though, kept his eyes on the Reaper, was ready to lean back and hide again around the cornerstone the moment the man turned to head back inside.

  He felt a compulsion to see this man’s face. All that had been visible so far was part of the man’s profile—not enough of it to identify him.

  It sure as hell looked like him, though. Same build, same height, same arrogance in his voice ...

  After a moment the Reaper turned, and Cal ducked back behind the cornerstone, listening as the man returned to the study. The heavy door closed with a solid, metallic click, and Cal, still in his crouch, took a few breaths, then began to stand up, moving slowly.

  He ceased his rise just below the bottom of the window above, his knees bent. He was preparing himself to rise the rest of the way and take this chance—maybe his last—at seeing all of this man’s face.

  Facing the wall, his hands on the cold stone to brace himself, he was just one electrical impulse away from peering over the sill when, from the pocket of his jeans, came the ringing of a cell phone.

  He flinched—it might as well have been a gunshot, fired at close range, given the effect he had on him. He scrambled to reach into the pocket of his jeans to silence it, managed to do so just as the second ring began. Muffled by the fabric slightly, it was nonetheless loud enough to have announced his presence.

  He froze, pressed against the stone. Looking up at the window, he was unable to see anything but the face of it. The light inside the study went out, and a second later Cal heard the sound of footsteps on wood. It didn’t take long for the Reaper to reach the window. Cal didn’t see him there, didn’t dare look, but he knew the man was certainly standing at the glass and looking through it.

  Cal pressed himself against the stone even more, holding his breath. A long few seconds passed, and then he heard the footsteps moving away. Seeing his chance, he bolted for the path, more concerned now with speed than stealth, and reached the hidden entrance in a matter of seconds. Ducking inside, he took a few strides, then stopped, crouched, and turned. Hiding beside the trunk of a tree, he looked back at the house. Even with the path floor clear of debris, finding his way through it would have meant making noise, enough for him to be detected. And anyway, there would be no hurrying through without a light.

  His only hope, then, was to keep as still and silent as possible, stay out of sight no matter what.

  He watched as the study door opened and the Reaper emerged. Moving to the corner of the house, he stood where Cal had been when the phone rang. When he turned the corner and saw no one, the Reaper stopped and looked around, first at his immediate surroundings and then toward the beach. Finally, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he looked toward the opening to the path.

  Cal didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Watching the Reaper, he waited for some indication that he had been spotted. By the way the man’s head turned slowly, though, Cal knew he was scanning the area around the path’s opening. If he was scanning, he hadn’t found anything. After a moment, the Reaper started toward the path, stopped again when he reached its opening. He was now just feet away from Cal, and the light reflecting from the driveway running behind the house—just the edge of it reached him, a faint wash at best—made a black silhouette of the man.

  No chance of seeing his face.

  Neither moved, and finally a sound came from the Reaper, the rustling of fabric. He was reaching under his frayed robes for something. Cal couldn’t see what it was at first, but then the Reaper moved, taking a step onto the path and turning in a way that allowed the light that had been behind him to fall upon his right hand.

  A flash of illuminated chrome, a dim blur but unmistakable.

  The Reaper had reached for a gun.

  Another step, and then another, the Reaper moving cautiously. His shoes were so close at this point that Cal could have reached out and touched them. He could, too, hear the man’s breathing, didn’t dare breathe himself. Just a few more steps and the Reaper would stumble over him.

  Then what?

  Cal focused on the man’s knees, or at least on the spot, based on the noise the Reaper was making as he moved, where his knees should be. He would need to hit his target just right—no room fo
r error here. He braced himself for what seemed inevitable, saw it in his mind: a double-leg takedown, scooping the Reaper’s legs out from under him; the Reaper hitting the packed ground hard; and once Cal was on top of him, had him pinned, the fight to possess the weapon, a blind and mad grab for it, everything coming down to Cal’s prying it away or, at least, controlling it.

  His heart pounded, and the sounds of the water and the wind had long since fallen away. His muscles flexed, hard, but he told himself to relax, stay loose, conserve energy. He’d had a hundred matches as a high school wrestler but no fights—certainly none that were a matter of life and death. He listened as the Reaper began to take another step, sensed the man’s shift in balance, knew if he was going to strike, this was the time to do it.

  Before it came to that, though, a voice called from the back driveway.

  “Sir? Sir?”

  It was a male’s voice, but not Angstrom’s, Cal could tell that much right away. Older, deeper—professional sounding. Faint, thanks to the waves and wind Cal could suddenly hear again.

  The Reaper turned toward it. “Here.”

  A figure appeared at the driveway’s end and stood there, searching the line of trees.

  “Mr. Pamona, you all right?”

  Cal’s heart dropped into his gut at the sound of the man’s name.

  Heather’s husband, just inches away.

  Pamona retracted his pending step. He paused, perhaps less than willing to give up on the game he’d been hunting. Not that it was certain anyone was actually there.

  He turned finally and stepped to the path’s opening. “Yes, I’m fine.” There was impatience in his voice.

  The man took a few more steps in Pamona’s direction. Cal could see him through the trees now. Backlit, but he didn’t need more than that to see that this man was dressed in a business suit, not a costume. He was a big man, and yet, by the way he spoke to Pamona, subservient.

  “There’s something I need you to see.”

  Pamona walked to the driveway. The man moved in close, spoke in a subdued voice.

  “The equipment is working fine,” he said. “It seems, though, that the car has stopped a few hundred feet down the road. It might have broken down. Or the driver might be making a call.”

  Pamona looked back at the line of trees. “Take one of the Town Cars and drive past,” he ordered. “See what’s going on, then report back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man in the suit headed back toward the house. Pamona continued to study the path’s opening. Cal still couldn’t see his face—the man was, again, nothing more than a silhouette—but what did he need to see?

  After a long moment—Cal counted half a dozen waves—Pamona returned to the house. Once the man was inside, Cal stood and made his way through the path, moving as quickly as he could till he was clear of it.

  Then he bolted with all he had across the parking lot and ran down that dark road.

  The ferry was docked when he arrived, and right away he was waved aboard by the ferrymen. He handed his round-trip ticket to the same guy he’d purchased it from. Looking at the unconscious girl in the passenger seat, the ferryman said nothing, though he did glance at the part of Amanda’s legs—in black fishnet—that her overcoat didn’t cover.

  When the ferryman was gone, Cal watched the rearview mirror for any sign of headlights—a Town Car’s headlight, specifically—but saw nothing. Even as the ferry pulled away he kept an eye on the landing, but he saw no activity at all there in the minutes it took to cross to the mainland.

  Yet, as he disembarked, leaving that island behind for good, he felt no sense of relief, wouldn’t, he knew, till he took care of one more thing.

  He chose to leave North Haven by a different route, taking the back roads through the woods of Noyac instead of retracing his tracks south through Sag Harbor and then west through the potato fields of Bridgehampton. It was on an empty stretch of Noyac Road, a good ten minutes from the ferry landing, that he pulled over once more.

  Removing the cell phone, he saw that the call that had come in was, just as he suspected, from the garage. Who else would it be? He located and hit REDIAL, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as he waited for Heather to answer.

  A little over a half hour later he pulled into the parking lot of Helenbach’s, her old restaurant. It had stood dormant all summer—that way since the disappearance last spring of the man to whom Heather’s husband had sold it. Blades of wild grass, some a foot tall and bent, grew in clusters through cracks in the pavement. The building was, of course, dark, its windows boarded over.

  The BMW X3 was waiting behind the building, out of sight. As the Citroën approached it, Heather, dressed in the same dark slacks and black silk blouse she had been wearing when she arrived two months ago, climbed out from behind the wheel. She had on Cal’s motorcycle jacket, which she wore unzipped to allow for her stomach. It was an old Schott café racer jacket, the black steerhide worn but still stiff. Like the Triumph, it had belonged to his brother. Short-waisted and tight on Cal, it was on Heather a surprising near-fit.

  Hurrying around to the passenger side, she opened the door and immediately got down onto one knee. She took hold of her kid sister’s face with her good hand, gently turning it so she could see it better. “Has she woken up at all?”

  “No.”

  Heather was clearly pained by what she saw. She took a breath, shook her head a little, then let the breath out and said, “We don’t have much time.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” Cal said.

  “Come around here.”

  He got out and hurried around to the right side of the Citroën.

  Heather grabbed the purse from the floor in front of the passenger seat, tossed it to Cal, then pulled the overcoat off her sister and tossed that to Cal as well. “Check these.”

  “What am I looking for exactly?”

  “It’s probably a small cylinder, maybe the size of a triple-A battery. It can’t be smaller than that, or it wouldn’t have enough range.”

  Heather leaned in through the passenger door and undid the seat belt. Laying her sister across the seat, she rolled her onto her back. There was nothing gentle at all about the way she handled her now. Removing the stiletto shoes one at time, she threw them into the woods behind the parking lot without even looking at them.

  Cal placed the purse on the hood of the Citroën and began to remove its contents. Glancing through the windshield, he saw that Heather had unzipped the maid’s costume and was beginning to peel it down her sister’s torso. He looked away quickly.

  Unfolding a pair of jeans, he felt the pockets, then stole another glance through the windshield, couldn’t help himself. Heather had stripped the costume from her sister and discarded it just as she had done with the shoes. Amanda was now dressed in only the fishnet stockings and a black see-through bra. Under the stockings she was wearing nothing at all.

  “If it’s not in the pockets, check the waistline or hem,” Heather said. “It could be sewn in.”

  He widened his search of the jeans to those places but found nothing. Setting the jeans aside, he went through the remaining clothing—underwear, a few T-shirts, and a hooded sweatshirt. He found, again, nothing. Next was the hair dryer, but the moment he removed it from the purse, Heather said, “Ditch it. He could have opened it up, planted it inside.”

  Cal tossed the dryer into the woods.

  “She has a toiletry kit,” he said.

  “Get rid of it, too.”

  He did. There was only one other item left in the main compartment of the purse.

  “What about her wallet?” He glanced through the windshield again and saw that Heather was removing her sister’s bra.

  “Empty it, then toss it.”

  Searching through it, Cal found less than twenty dollars, a driver’s license, and some photographs, one of Amanda and a much older man, the others of people Cal did not recognize. He placed these things on the hood beside the cloth
es, then threw the wallet into the woods.

  There were, he noticed then, outer pockets on one side of the purse. He noticed, too, from the corner of his eye, that Amanda was, with the exception of the torn fishnet stockings, entirely naked.

  Searching the outer pockets he found an iPod with earphones wrapped around it, and a ziplock bag containing a glass vial capped with an eyedropper. He shook it, determined that it was full, then held it up for Heather to see.

  “What about this?”

  She took a quick look at it, said decisively, “Keep it.” She leaned out and stood up straight, holding her sister’s black bra, feeling along its underwire.

  “My money says it’s here,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She didn’t answer, focused on her search. Suddenly she stopped, nodded. She tried to tear what she had found free of the thick fabric, finally had to bite it with her back teeth to rip the stitching holding it in place.

  Dropping the bra to the ground, she held up exactly what she’d said they had been looking for.

  A small cylinder, no bigger than a keychain penlight.

  “We need to go, Cal. Now.”

  “What do we with that?”

  “We use it,” she said.

  She opened the driver’s door of the X3 and tossed the tracking device onto the passenger seat. Moving around to the rear of the vehicle, opening the hatch, she removed a blanket. Back at the Citroën, she covered Amanda from neck to thigh with the blanket, then pulled the girl up to a seated position. She refastened the seat belt, then emerged from the car again and said, “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She climbed into the X3 and started its engine.

  “What about her stuff?”

  “Grab the clothes and things. Toss the purse and coat, just to be safe.”

  He did what he was told, then hurried around to the Citroën’s driver’s door and climbed in.

  Fifteen minutes later they were at the East Hampton train station.

  Heather parked the BMW by the small station house, climbed out, and tossed the keys as far up the tracks as she could. She walked around to the Citroën’s passenger door, leaned in again, undid the seat belt and slid her sister over, then climbed in beside her. Putting her arm around the girl, Heather eased her over gently till she was leaning against her shoulder.