The Devil You Know

by Richard Levesque

  “I understand,” Marie said, her voice husky. She had wept most of the way here, a free hand alternately wiping at her tears and fingering the little wooden cross Jasper had given her. She felt frightened, sad, angry and terribly alone all at the same time, and being threatened with arrest now did not help. Once the officer went into the house, she could not help leaning forward and trying to peer past the usually darkened front room and through the doorway that led to the kitchen and dining area where she had spent so much time with Jasper and Tom. Everything was silhouette and shadow, now. It was impossible to make sense of anything she saw.

  About a minute later, the officer who had been guarding the door returned with another policeman in plain clothes. He was a bit overweight and looked to be in his fifties, with close-cropped hair going gray at the temples. “Miss Doyle, I’m Jim Clifford. We spoke on the phone.” He held out a hand, and she shook it.

  “Yes,” she said. “I got here as soon as I could.”

  “And we appreciate it. I hope Chuck here didn’t give you too hard a time?”

  Marie smiled weakly. “No.”

  “Come in then. Please. And if you could refrain from touching anything.”

  Marie followed the detective through the front room and into the kitchen area. She had expected and hoped to see Tom at the dining table, but everyone here was in uniform.

  “It looks like they came in this way,” said Sergeant Clifford. He pointed to the screen door that led out to the back yard. The intruders had slit the screen and broken the window in the back door.

  Marie saw that the detective was leading her toward the library, and she knew that Jasper’s body would still be there. She did not want to see it. Nearly panicking, she said, “Where’s Tom? Is he any better?”

  Sergeant Clifford turned to her with a kindly smile. “He’s out there,” he said, pointing toward the gazebo in the backyard. Before Marie could make a move toward the door, though, he said, “But before I send you out there, I’ll need to have you come in here with me. Please.”

  He moved so that they could step into the converted garage side-by-side. Marie realized she was holding her breath and made herself let it out as they crossed the threshold. In the nearest corner of the room lay the body covered by a white sheet. The shape that the body made under the sheet somehow looked far too small for it to have been Jasper, Marie thought, but her heart sank at the sight of it nonetheless. Other officers moved about the room, some in uniform and others in suits, but Marie was oblivious to all of them. She trembled as she neared the body.

  Detective Clifford moved ahead of her and got down on one knee. Gripping a corner of the sheet, he looked at Marie and said, “I’m going to pull this back a little. All you have to do is say yes or no, and I’ll cover him up again. You ready?”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly, and then watched as Clifford lifted the sheet. It was Jasper. He lay on his stomach, one hand stretched out past his head, the other still hidden under the sheet. She was grateful that his eyes were closed, but his mouth hung open in a strange, unnatural way. She gave the detective another quick nod, and he covered the body again, but the image of Jasper’s face stayed with her. At the same time, a picture of Julian Piedmont came into her mind—smug, good-looking, arrogant Julian Piedmont who had made her walk around him as they ended their meeting at his house. She wished he were here now, and she clenched her jaw at the thought.

  “Do you have any idea who broke in?” she asked as the detective got up on his feet with some effort.

  He shook his head. “We’ll have to work from prints. Unless the grandson saw something and just hasn’t been able to tell us yet. You don’t know of anyone who was maybe after some of Mr. Hollenbeck’s things? I assume some of these books are valuable.”

  Marie looked around now for the first time. Dozens of Jasper’s priceless volumes had been dumped onto the floor. The burglars—if that was what they were—seemed not to have been concerned about being quiet. “Yes,” she said. “Some are very valuable.”

  “Perhaps when this is cleaned up after we’re through dusting, you could take a look to see if anything’s missing?”

  “It would be hard,” Marie said, taking a few steps toward the nearest shelf. A very old and fragile edition of Just So Stories caught her eye. “I don’t know everything he had. Jasper wasn’t the type to write it all down. Not even in his store.”

  “I see. The store hasn’t been touched, by the way. We sent a car over, and there’s no sign of trouble.”

  Marie wondered if any of Julian’s sycophants had police records that would yield a match for the detective’s fingerprint experts. If so, it would only help the investigation if she told him now about the trip she and Jasper had made to the mansion on Tuesday afternoon. Her mind raced as she considered ways to tell Clifford that Piedmont was behind the break-in without telling him everything about the incubi, the book of spells, and all the rest. He would think she was crazy. No, she thought, still pretending to look at the books. Unless she was completely wrong about who had broken into the house—whether to scare Jasper or to steal his books—Marie would have to rely on herself to get justice.

  She turned toward the detective and said, “I have no idea who could have done this. Jasper never mentioned any rivals in the book-buying world. Do you think it’s possible it was just a random burglary?”

  Clifford exhaled sharply. “Could be,” he said. “Could be. Hopefully we’ll be able to rule a few things out once these prints are done.”

  “Yes,” Marie said. “Now, do you mind if I talk to Tom?”

  The detective waved his hand toward the door. “Be my guest,” he said.

  As she made her way through the damaged screen door and across the backyard, Marie saw that Tom was not alone in the gazebo. A uniformed officer stood off to one side, and a nurse sat beside him on the white bench. Near the gazebo, two more men in white suits stood beside a stretcher; the ambulance drivers, Marie thought, reasoning that the nurse had been called in with them. Another detective wandered around the garden; he poked aimlessly at branches and leaves with a pen, seemingly waiting for the situation to change. When Marie got close to the gazebo, the policeman in uniform turned toward her, and she feared a repeat of what had happened at the front door of the house. But behind her, she heard Clifford call out that she was here at his request, and the policeman’s demeanor changed. He stepped aside with a smile, and she rushed into the gazebo.

  Tom looked dazed, but she was relieved to see that he did not have the same complete lethargy that Elise had exhibited. He blinked and made eye contact with her, and she could sense some recognition in his gaze. “Oh, Tom,” she said as she took one of his hands from his lap and held it between both of hers for a moment before pressing it to her lips. Then more tears came—both out of grief for Jasper and from the relief she felt in her certainty that Tom had not been taken from her in the same way as Elise.

  After a few minutes, she felt the nurse’s hand on her shoulder, and she looked up to see the woman’s compassionate expression. “Perhaps you should come away for a minute,” she said. “You don’t want to upset him any more than he already is.”

  Marie nodded and kissed Tom’s hand one more time before laying it gently in his lap again and standing up. She followed the nurse out of the gazebo. The detective who had been poking at flowers came over now and stood with them. They spoke in hushed voices, as if to keep Tom from hearing their conversation, but he was really only just a few feet away; the charade was almost laughable to Marie.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with him?” the detective asked. “Is he always—”

  Marie cut him off. “He was in the war.” She looked at the nurse. “You’ve heard of battle fatigue?” The nurse nodded. “That’s what they say he has. He told me he used to be like this a lot when he first came home, but this is the first time I’ve seen it.” She turned now to look at him, but he was staring straight ahead, oblivious to the conversation taking place only a fe
w feet away.

  Now the detective spoke to the nurse. “Will he snap out of it?”

  The nurse shrugged. “He should. But it’s hard to say how long.”

  “His grandfather was taking care of him,” Marie said. “Tom wouldn’t have come as far as he has without him. He’s in shock now.” She put her hand on the nurse’s forearm, saying, “Please. Don’t let them take him away from here. Don’t let them lock him up somewhere. He’ll be all right. He just needs to let this pass. He won’t be able to if you take him away.”

  “It’s not up to me, honey. If the officers say he’s a danger to himself, we’ll let him recover in the county hospital.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Marie said without even thinking about it. “He can come stay with me, or I can stay--”

  “Uh, excuse me,” the uniformed officer cut her off. The three of them turned in his direction, and Marie was relieved to see that Tom had stood up and walked across the gazebo to lean on one of its white posts. He stared not quite so blankly at the rows of rose bushes on the other side of the lawn.

  “Tom?” Marie asked quietly. She smiled when he turned his head slightly toward her. “Tom, are you okay?”

  He shook his head. When he spoke, it was with very little expression, but Marie was thrilled to hear his voice. “My grandfather always said we should put some of those roses on his grave,” he said. “He tended them all the time. Do you think we can just bury him here? He loved this place.”

  Marie ran the few steps back to the gazebo and threw her arms around him. After several seconds, he raised his arms and returned her embrace, lightly at first. Then she felt him squeeze her hard, and she noticed he was shaking. After a few more seconds, he dropped his head onto her shoulder and wept. They stood that way for several minutes, neither saying a word, and when Tom raised his head, Marie looked up at him with a comforting smile and then turned to see that the policemen and the nurse had walked quietly away to give them privacy.

  “I’m so sorry, Tom.”

  He could only nod.

  She touched his cheek with the back of her hand and gently wiped at the tears. “If you’ll let me, I’ll try to help you the way he did.”

  He nodded again and now said, “Thank you.” With a sad smile, he added, “You know, he really thought you were something else. Talked about you all the time when you weren’t here. If I didn’t have you around now, I’d just…I don’t know.”

  “I know.” She kissed his cheek. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to make it all right again.”

  Tom looked at her without speaking for a moment and then stared out at the roses again. “We’ll have the funeral,” he said, his voice stronger now, more normal with every breath he took. “And we’ll go from there. It’ll be hard to know where to start.”

  “I have some ideas,” Marie said. Then she took his hand, and they walked out of the gazebo and toward the waiting detective.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bezgerek liked the smile Julian had helped him shape. It was charming, disarming. With the body’s dark hair and strong chin, he could look serious and determined without trying, giving off the confidence women loved. But when he smiled, the confidence was tempered with kindness. It touched a part of them that most would not have been able to articulate, and they were in his grasp with ease. It helped that he looked amazingly like the movie star the humans called Tyrone Power. He had gotten good at denying that he was the real thing, but he enjoyed telling women he had met the actor and found him not very personable. It shattered the women’s illusions, but left Bezgerek standing tall in their minds, and in their fantasies he stepped in to fill the gap and form new illusions, the last they would ever know.

  He was particularly fond of seeking victims at Grauman’s Chinese or Schwab’s drugstore on Sunset; these were the places most often frequented by the wide-eyed tourists he most enjoyed corrupting and for whom his resemblance to Power was most effective. Today, he chose Schwab’s, and the counter was packed with young women and men who had made the pilgrimage to the famous soda fountain.

  One woman caught his eye, not because she was prettier than the others or looked more vivacious. It was just the opposite, really. She was a plain looking little thing with no make-up and clothes that looked like she had slept in them. More significantly, she looked incredibly sad as she stood next to the rack of postcards beside the door, languidly turning the wire frames that held pictures of the Hollywood sign, the Chinese theater and other Hollywood landmarks.

  Bezgerek got off his stool and approached her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said when he got beside the rack.

  She looked up at him with surprise; her daydreaming had kept her from noticing that anyone was near. “I wasn’t gonna steal anything, honest,” she said quickly.

  “I know,” he said, putting out a finger to give the rack a light spin. “That’s not what you were thinking.”

  She looked a bit relieved. He could smell alcohol on her breath, and he saw now the glassy look in her eyes. “You were thinking,” he said, “that there’s someone back home who would be awfully surprised to get a postcard from you in Hollywood. Isn’t that right?”

  Her eyes regained some of their luster and opened wider. “How’d you know?” she said.

  Bezgerek shrugged. “I just know. Would you like me to buy you one?”

  “Oh, no….I couldn’t.”

  “Of course you could,” he said. “Pick one. How about this? Ought to get a laugh from the folks back home.” He had selected a postcard with a picture of a hot dog stand built in the shape of a giant dog. The actual hot dog stand was not far from Schwab’s.

  She giggled at the ridiculous image and nodded her agreement at his choice. Not wanting to let her out of his sight, Bezgerek led her to the cashier where he paid for the post card, and then the two walked out.

  On the sidewalk, she turned to him and offered her hand in an exaggerated show of decorum. “Francine Shaefer,” she said.

  Impulsively, he responded, “Pleased to meet you, Francine. I’m Tyrone Power.”

  The second the words were out of his mouth, he regretted having spoken. Francine’s eyes seemed to double in size, and her mouth dropped open for a moment before she covered it with her hand. He feared she would scream in delight, and the last thing he wanted was more attention drawn to himself on the busy sidewalk. He quickly placed a finger to his lips and looked nervously around, hoping she would see that he did not want a crowd to gather. Bending close, he whispered, “I don’t want anyone else to know. We won’t get a moment’s peace.”

  The message got through, and she took her hand away from her face, a sly, conspiratorial grin on her face. But a moment later, she asked, “You’re not really, are you? I mean, you don’t look quite the same.”

  “Make-up, lighting. Movie magic, you know,” he explained, and then half turned as though he intended to start walking, hopeful that she would stop scrutinizing his face.

  Francine did not fall into step beside him, and he feared he would lose her. Silently, he cursed himself for the stupid blunder of actually claiming to be Tyrone Power, and he stopped to look back at her. Her mind still besotted from whatever she had been drinking, Francine returned his gaze and then took the few steps to catch up to him. As they put Schwab’s behind them, Bezgerek told himself that he might have her after all, but then she said, “So tell me something, Mr. Tyrone Power.”

  “What is it?”

  “What was the last movie you made?”

  He clenched his jaw. Bitch! he thought as he struggled to remember anything he had learned about the actor. After a few more paces, he said, “You’re testing me, are you?”

  “Yes, I am.” She sounded pleased with herself.

  “Why?”

  “You never know what a man will say to a pretty girl in Hollywood.”

  Don’t flatter yourself, he thought as he glanced at the nose that was a bit too pointed and the eyebrows a bit too severe. Hoping to distract
her, he said, “I didn’t stop to talk to you because you’re pretty.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s because you looked sad. And a little lonesome.”

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  “Tell me your troubles, Francine. Maybe I can help.”

  Drunk enough to feel uninhibited, she poured out her whole story. Four months ago, she had traveled by bus all the way from Arkansas, hoping to get work in the movies. She didn’t want to be famous, she told him. It would have been nice, she added, but her main goal was just to be in the movies. They were so glamorous, and everyone who worked in the movies seemed to be so rich and happy and drive big cars and live in fancy houses with maids and lots of furniture and little dogs that sat at the breakfast table and ate chunks of bacon that you threw to them and….

  She went on, and Bezgerek had to steer her back to talking about her problems. “It didn’t work out for you, did it?” he asked.

  She wiped at her eyes again and shook her head. “No work,” she said, “and now no money. All gone.”

  “Everything?” he asked.

  “I’m a week behind at the hotel, and this morning the manager locked me out of my room. Everything I have is still in there.”

  “You didn’t even have enough for that post card, did you?”

  She shook her head. “Not even enough to send home for bus fare. I guess I was wishing I could get home just as easily as this post card could.” She waved it like a fan in front of her face for a moment.

  They had been walking along Sunset as they talked, tourists and locals passing them. Bezgerek had noticed several who stared at him, taken aback by his resemblance to Power. He had learned that the curious would not venture to make contact with him if he did not meet their gaze, so he kept his eyes on the street or the sidewalk as they walked. Now he asked Francine, “And what’s waiting for you in Arkansas?”