The Search for Joseph Tully

by William H Hallahan

  Richardson watched him pour.

  “Easy, easy,” he said to Clabber.

  “You get that down. Then I want to hear what happened. I can explain everything to you. Slowly now. Slowly. Take some of that.”

  Richardson took a swallow of brandy and felt it fill him with long fingers of warmth. He was so tired. He would have gladly lain down there on the floor and slept.

  He filled his lungs and sat up attentively. Then he fixed his eyes on Abel Navarre.

  “Just tell me first, Clabber. Who is that sitting there?” “Abel Navarre.”

  13

  “Real,” said Clabber. “Very real. Flesh and blood and thirty pounds overweight.” He clapped a hand on Abel Navarre’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Richardson. I must have damn near scared you to death.” He turned and pointed. “Abel Navarre is my oldest and best friend. We were unfrocked together.” “Together?”

  Clabber nodded. “That’s right. Abel was a man of the cloth, as they say—just like me. The church thinks it renounced us— well, it didn’t. We renounced it.”

  “I don’t understand,” mumbled Richardson. “How can he be a dead detective and an unfrocked whatever?”

  “He’s just an unfrocked whatever,” said Clabber. “His father was the detective.”

  “Oh.”

  “After you and I went through Goulart’s stuff,” said Navarre, “what did you do? Call the precinct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And they told you that Navarre was killed years ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  Navarre shook his head in disgust. “That was something we didn’t plan on.” He looked with embarrassment at Clabber. “What did you plan on?” asked Richardson.

  Navarre looked at him, then looked at Clabber for an answer. Clabber hesitated. “More brandy?”

  “Clabber. All you ever do is soak me in brandy. Now what was the bit you put on with what’s-his-name here?”

  Clabber sat down on a carton. “Information. That’s all. I wanted some information. I thought you were holding out something that Goulart might have told you. I thought you’d talk to a detective. That’s all it was.”

  Richardson leaned over and carefully set the glass on the wooden floor. Then he stood up. “You know, Clabber, I think I’m going to kick the shit out of you. Right here. Right now.” Fie stepped toward Clabber and shook a finger at him. “Do you have any idea what kind of nightmares you’ve put me through?

  Do you know that I was actually believing that my mind was unhinged? I was ready to commit myself to Creedmoor as a raving lunatic. Do you have any idea what it feels like to think you’re going insane? Really insane? Ha! You meddling, nosy bastard, come here while I kill you.”

  Clabber had risen and stepped away. Hey. Easy. Don’t start anything you can’t finish, Richardson. Neither one of us needs this.”

  Navarre stood. He placed a hand on Richardson’s chest. “Sit down. Sit down. Sit down.”

  Richardson stood with the hand on his chest. He stared at Clabber. “It’s all your fault, Clabber. You and these cuckoo books on ghosts and spirits and all that cockamamie bullshit. I think you put Goulart around the bend. I think if he hadn’t met you and that screwed-up mind of yours, he’d still be alive.” “Believe what you want,” said Clabber. “I didn’t kill Goulart. Neither did these books. They didn’t hurt a hair on his head. That cold out there killed him, and he brought that on himself bad-tripping with hallucinogens. And he did that without my blessing. You heard Anna Quist tonight. We both told him to stop crapping around with drugs. Now you can say what you want—think what you want. I know the truth, and the truth is, Goulart killed himself with his own excesses. Period.” Richardson stood listening. He remained silent for a moment. “Tomorrow, Clabber, tomorrow. I’m too tired to tear your arms out of their sockets and stuff them in your ears. But tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’m going to do you in.”

  “Oh, nonsense.”

  Clabber and Navarre watched Richardson sit down.

  “What happened?” asked Clabber.

  “What?” answered Richardson.

  “What happened?”

  “Where?”

  “Just now. Just before you came in here. What happened?” The brandy and the warmth of the room were getting to him. He stood up and removed his overcoat. “Goddamnit, Clabber. This isn’t an apartment, it’s an oven.” He took off his suit coat and pulled off the sweater. He sat down again and found Clabber and Navarre silently watching him.

  “I had a dilly of a nightmare, that’s what happened. I fell asleep in my chair and had one dilly of a nightmare.”

  Clabber looked at Navarre. “See. There’s a bad manifestation in that building. It’s always been there.” He turned his head back to Richardson. “Describe the nightmare.”

  Richardson scowled at him. “Oh, come on—”

  “It’s all right, Richardson. Navarre has shared this case with me from the very first day.”

  “Case! I’m not a ‘case.’ I’m me. Pete Richardson.”

  “No no. You’re not a case. But this whole thing is a case. It’s a major outcropping of psychic phenomena.”

  Richardson turned his face away with disgust. “Oh, stuff it.” “Richardson,” said Clabber, “why did you come here?” Richardson considered his question. “I came to talk to you about a picture of my mother and my aunt.”

  Clabber shook his head slowly. “No.”

  “No, what? What do you mean, no?”

  Clabber shook his head. “No. That’s not why you came here. You came here for help. You think I can help you. And you’re right.”

  “Oh, God, here we go again.” Richardson lowered his arms to his knees and laid his head on them.

  “It’s true. You know from that sitting tonight that we’re the only ones who can help you. You know very well that someone or something is after you. You’re in danger. Much as you try to pretend that it’s just your imagination, you know it’s real. If you don’t get help, you’re a dead man.”

  Richardson raised his head. “What? Dead man? What are you talking about? What do you know?”

  Clabber shrugged. “Do you need an inventory sheet of psychic phenomena that have occurred in your life recently—and in Goulart’s, just to name two?”

  “Ah.” Richardson brushed a hand at him and stood up. “I’m going to get out of here.” He picked up his sweater.

  “You know, Richardson, there’s one thing you’ve not mentioned lately. When we first talked, you were obsessed with trying to remember something. Some vital fact or situation. You were always on the verge of remembering.”

  “Yeah,” said Richardson, nodding. “That’s right. It must be like amnesia.”

  “I think you ought to work on that angle.”

  Richardson shoved his arms into the sleeves of the sweater and butted his head through it. “God, I’m muscle-bound from this sweater. On and off all night.”

  “I don’t think you heard me.”

  Richardson turned. “Clabber. I heard you. And I know what you’re leading up to. Hypnosis.”

  Clabber slapped his hands on his thighs. “I can tell from the tone of your voice—”

  “Yes. I don’t ever want to talk about it. After that thing tonight, you can have your parlor games, handholding—the whole nine yards. What I need is a group from the police crime lab to go over my apartment. Then I need some good locks and an old-fashioned horse pistol to shoot the sonofabitch when he climbs through my window. That’s what I need, Clabber.”

  Abel Navarre cleared his throat. “What you need is hypnosis.” Richardson put on his jacket in silence.

  “There’s a part of your mind that’s been blocked off. One vital piece of information.” Navarre paused. “I have one overwhelming reason why you ought to be hypnotized.”

  Richardson stopped and looked at him. “Name it.”

  “It might save your life.”

  13

  He got the car started and sat in it, parked at the curb with th
e engine running, watching his breath vapor condense on the windshield.

  He was shivering again. Indifferently shivering now, cold and fatigue being part of his permanent state, something beyond protesting.

  He wasn’t going to go back to the apartment. He needed a rest from that building. He’d sleep elsewhere. Even the car with no heat was preferable to the torment of that place. He looked at his watch. Eleven-twenty. Incredible. He’d been to a séance, fallen asleep, had an incredible nightmare, fled across the city,

  been given a violent shock by Navarre, had a conversation with Clabber about hypnosis, and now sat in his car. And it was only eleven-twenty.

  He decided. He'd go to Abby’s.

  14

  The terrier’s claws scraped forlornly on the kitchen linoleum as he paced up and down, panting unhappily. Occasionally he’d sit and watch the two at the table. Then his eyes would begin to glaze and his head to drift to one side. The pacing would begin anew.

  “You go lie down,” Abby Withers said to him. “Go on.”

  He skulked like an alligator mournfully from the kitchen and to his bed. He settled down with a sigh and groan, composing his mouth with a yawn.

  “You’d think he’d have settled in by now,” said Abby Withers. “He’s terribly restless. I suppose he thinks he’s going to go back to the old apartment after a while. He’ll learn. My heaven, isn’t it cold tonight? I put on every stitch I had to take him for a walk but we only managed a block or so. He pulled me all the way home, shivering and sighing. Oh, what an act it was! That cold went right through me. Tell me, did you get an apartment yet?”

  “Ah ... no. No apartment,” said Richardson. “I have an appointment to see two tomorrow. That crane is right under the window, licking its chops and all set to pulverize Brevoort House.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it.” She waved her hands at him. “Oh, it’s so sad. Tell me about the two apartments.”

  “Nothing to tell. I haven’t seen either one yet.”

  Abby poured more coffee into his cup and nudged the dish of cookies closer. She eyed him thoughtfully, grasping the dressing gown at her throat. “Peter. You look so tired. You have circles under your eyes, and your face is drawn. You walk like you’re a hundred years old.”

  He nodded unhappily, with his eyes shut. “I’ll be okay. I didn’t tell you about the séance yet.”

  “Séance? What séance?”

  “Oh. Clabber took me to— Was the funeral actually this morning? It seems like years ago. It was this morning, wasn’t it?”

  Abby watched him askance. “Yes. This morning. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes. It’s just that so many things happened today.”

  “What about the séance?”

  “Oh. Nothing. It was a washout. Clabber took me.”

  “To Anna Quist’s?”

  “Yes. A washout. If I didn’t feel so tired, I’d tell you the whole story.”

  “Tell me in the morning. I’d like to hear all about it.”

  “Clabber says I need hypnosis.”

  Abby Withers pressed a small fist to her lips and sat back. He frowned at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.”

  “Do you know something I don’t know?”

  “It’s late. You’re exhausted.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing. Let’s go to bed.”

  “I want to know, Abby.”

  She shook her head at him. “I—nothing. I know nothing. We can talk more about it in the morning.” She waved a hand at him. “That’s enough now. Bed. Sleep is what you need. God’s best medicine.”

  15

  Trucks whined distantly. Scurrying through the frozen dark city through the tunnels to Jersey and turnpikes west. Warm in the cab and heading west. Coffee and talk with the driver and drowsiness. No mysterious noises, no nightmares. He wondered what to do, what was happening to him. He lay under blankets on Abby’s couch, smelling the camphor under the cushions, hearing the trucks whine and the ticking of Abby’s wall clock.

  Outside the cold waited. So tired.

  16

  Long columns of slanted sunlight. Coffee: the smell of fresh coffee. And a cigar? The sound of claws pacing again on the kitchen linoleum. And voices. Murmuring voices. In the kitchen. Yes. A cigar.

  Richardson looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen. He looked at it alarmed. Late. He’d slept as though drugged. Now, he had to get back to his own apartment, shave, shower, dress and get downtown to the office. He sat up and cast back the bed covers. Voices again. He tried to place them. One was Abby’s. The other was familiar. Soft. Low. A man’s?

  Richardson kicked on his trousers, then put on his shoes and socks. He walked toward the kitchen, stuffing his shirttails into his pants. It was a man talking= Christopher Carson, with cigar. “Well, like Aphrodite rising from the sea. You’ve arisen.” Richardson nodded. “Yes. And I’m late.”

  Abby stood up and went to the stove. She poured a cup of coffee. “Sit,” she said. “Sit here, Peter.” She placed the cup at a vacant place.

  Richardson sat. He put some sugar in his coffee and stirred it. He saw them watching him stir.

  “How have you been?” asked Carson.

  “Fine. Missed you at the funeral yesterday.”

  “Well, I got back just in time not to go. Still suffering from jet lag.”

  Richardson nodded. “You always have breakfast here?”

  Carson puffed at the ceiling. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. Do you?”

  “I called him, Peter,” said Abby. “I asked him to come over.” Okay. It’s your home, Abby, not mine.”

  “She called me because she was worried about you.”

  “Me? What’s to worry about?”

  “Nothing. At least nothing yet. Abby says that Clabber’s trying to get you under hypnosis.”

  “Oh. That’s it, huh?”

  “Pete. Let me tell you something about hypnosis. It’s very very very very very—is that six verys?—dangerous. There are very few men who are qualified to do it. Not everyone can be hypnotized. Not everyone should be hypnotized. In some cases it can be harmful even under the control of a true professional. And you know how I feel about that old crock Clabber. I wouldn’t let him hypnotize a chicken. He has to have the very worst credentials in the world. He can get you into something and not get you out again. He can create such psychic disturbances that you’ll end up in a mental institution for months or years or forever. Your mental state is not good now and—”

  “Enough!”

  “What?”

  “I said enough.”

  “Right,” said Carson. “Enough.” He puffed his cigar. “Beautiful day,” he said to Abby. “It’s still very cold out ... no warmer than yesterday. But beautiful sunshine. Air is clear as a bell.”

  “Please don’t go,” said Abby Withers.

  Richardson frowned. “What?”

  “Don’t go. Don’t let him hypnotize you.”

  Richardson sighed. The conspiratorial atmosphere between Abby and Carson was still evident. What had they been talking about when he woke up? “It’s okay, Abby.”

  “If you like,” said Carson slowly, “I can recommend several first-rate men. People I trust implicitly.”

  They were treating him as though he were sick. He was in bed in a hospital and they were visiting him, messengers from the world of the healthy and free, come to stare down at him and, in their eyes, reveal how bad he looked, how shockingly sick he was.

  A terminal case.

  He watched Carson write on a piece of paper. “Here. Here are five names. And I can get more. Pick any name and I can set things up. But if you’ll listen to me, you’ll skip the whole thing. No hypnosis. And whatever you do, stay away from Clabber.”

  For a moment, Richardson entertained the possibility of a conspiracy. Abby and Carson and who else? Hidden microphones. What else?

  He nodded at Carson. “Okay. I’ll
take it easy.” “Good,” said Carson.

  Abby patted his arm gently.

  Richardson saw a book on the table at Carson’s elbow. Genealogy for Americans.

  17

  He was right. He’d left his apartment door wide open all night. Now, sunlight from his living room window flooded the apartment and angled partway down the flight of hall stairs. He entered and looked around.

  Harmless. Bright and cheerful. Happy days. Marriage and laughter and parties and foreverness.

  He shed his clothes and showered and shaved.

  18

  He saw one of the two apartments at eleven. Then hurried back to the office, skimmed the telephone messages and ate a sandwich at his desk.

  He made a list in his head. He’d done everything he could think of. Thrown food away, had a physical, gone to a séance, checked his aunt, searched for hidden wires. The hell with it. Moving would solve all. He’d simply move out and not tell them where he w?as moving to.

  Conspirators. Abby and Carson and who else? Could they be in with Clabber? Maybe all the criticism of Clabber was fake. Maybe they were intent by reverse English on driving him to Clabber for hypnosis. Maybe he had walked in his sleep and had seen them freezing Goulart to death. He shook his head irritably and picked up a metal clipper holding a sheaf of galley proofs. That was the road to paranoia.

  At two he examined the second apartment. Outside, it was grindingly, wearily, inescapably cold. But the apartment was empty and he could move in right now. Today. Call a moving company and move in anytime.

  He stood at the window of the empty bedroom and looked

  out, thoughtfully. The landlord, a fat man with bad teeth, opened the door to the closet and said something lamely enthusiastic.

  “Can I sign the lease now?” asked Richardson.

  “Absolutely. Right now. Down in the office. You pay me the first month's rent in advance plus a security deposit equal to another month’s rent. Matter of fact, I'll tell you what. I’ll let you move in right now pending a reference check. Of course, if you flunk the reference test, you’re out. How’s your reference?”

  “Great.”

  “Well, there you are. See? Sign and move in.”

  He stared down at the back of a house. Streaks of snow lay in the shadow of a roof where the sun never reached. The backyard looked so cold. So everlastingly cold.