The Vanishing

by Gary Winston Brown

  Fallon’s voice boomed from the back of Prophet’s building. “Who’s there?” he yelled.

  Virgil struggled to his feet.

  Fallon called out again. “Answer me!”

  Lamplight. Swaying in undulating waves. Crossing the ground.

  Brighter, dimmer… brighter, dimmer…

  Virgil limped to the side of the building, peered around the corner, and watched as Fallon approached, the lantern in his hand swinging back and forth. He had heard the clatter when Virgil had fallen over the woodpile and was coming to investigate the source of the mysterious sound.

  He had to get inside Communion Hall before Fallon found him hiding in the shadows.

  Eyes now accustomed to the near absent light of the moon, he could, at the very least, avoid falling over any other debris scattered around the back of the building. Virgil looked over his shoulder, saw the entrance, only twenty feet away. He needed to get out of sight. Relying on the wall for support, he kept low and hobbled along the side of the building, limping beneath rows of dust-filmed windows until he reached the door, turned the knob, and slipped inside.

  Saved from total darkness by the dim moonlight pressing at the windows, Virgil quickly surveyed the room. The primary function of the old storeroom was that of a woodworking shop. Stacks of newly crafted wooden chairs stood floor to ceiling against one wall. Fabric bolts lined the shelves of another. Furnishings of every description, each in various stages of completion, were situated about the room: an unfinished dining table, end tables, bed frames. Wood shavings and sawdust covered the floor under a patina of swirling footprints.

  Virgil negotiated his way through the nearly lightless room, careful not to strike his inflamed leg, and wound his way through the wooden obstacle course until he reached the far wall of stored fabrics. He tore a strip of linen from one bolt and draped it around his neck. He would need the cloth later to dress the wound. But first, he needed to hide.

  Eerie shadows of lamplight rose and fell about the room as Fallon’s ghostly visage floated outside the moon-stained windows.

  Virgil slipped behind an upturned picnic table, peered through the slats, and watched Fallon’s phantom form as he searched the grounds at the back of the building and investigated the pile of tumbled wood. He held the lantern above his head and studied the area. As the glow from its flame flashed about the room, Virgil got a brief look at his surroundings. The service door leading into Communion Hall was to his left, perhaps ten feet from his hiding place behind the table. He wanted to scramble for the door and disappear inside before Fallon had the chance to investigate the room. Perhaps, he thought, with his curiosity satisfied after exhaustively searching the area and finding nothing, Fallon would dismiss the incident without further consideration. Virgil watched and waited.

  Outside, Fallon lowered the lantern.

  The storeroom plunged into darkness.

  28

  VIRGIL TOOK ADVANTAGE of the last flash of lamplight and committed to memory the location of the tables and chairs that lay scattered between his hiding place and the door leading into Communion Hall. With his escape route transfixed in his mind, he focused on the zigzag path he needed to take to get to the door and safely inside. As he crawled out from behind the picnic table, the white-hot fire that had been smoldering beneath his broken skin flared to life. He had no choice but to move. With Fallon lurking outside, he had to make himself mobile now. Which meant forcing his crippled leg to bear the unwanted trauma if he were to escape the room undetected. He unraveled the length of linen he had torn from the fabric bolt, wrapped it several times around his leg to maintain a tight, even pressure, and tucked the remaining fabric snugly into the top and bottom of the improvised truss. Waves of pain erupted through his leg as he tested it with his full weight.

  The amber glow of Fallon’s lamp floated up from the ground once again and peered in through the bank of windows as though it were an energy source of extra-sensory intelligence, aware of his presence and capable of revealing him at will.

  Trapped in the glare of the oracle lamp, Virgil felt his way around the obstacles in his path, keenly aware that the fiery eye that watched his every move from outside might close without warning and plunge him once again into total darkness. He slid his hands along the tops of the furniture as he moved, slowly and cautiously, each predetermined step a calculated risk, careful not to lose his way and find himself an open target should Fallon suddenly come crashing through the door, led to him under the powerful influence of the psychic lamp.

  Negotiating the first ten feet was relatively easy. Only two turns remained: the first around several stacks of wooden chairs, the second past a set of bookcases. As Virgil reached the second turn, the eye beyond the windows blinked, then narrowed its focus and followed him. It matched him step for step as it floated past the bank of windows, aware of his every step, and brought the room once more to life. Ethereal shadows danced across the floor, crept up the walls, and slithered back and forth between the ceiling beams. The bookcase ahead of him moved in the faint light, stepped in his way, grew wider and taller, and blocked his path to the door. The bookcase hadn’t actually moved, of course, not physically at least, but its shadow had, as did those of the rest of the objects in the room, shape-shifting in unison as the transient outside light fell upon them.

  The form that was Fallon was on the move again. Virgil watched as he turned in the doorway’s direction. Substituting heightened tactile senses for much preferred night vision, he felt his way around the monolithic shadow of the bookcase and passed wooden crates and packing boxes until at last his hand slipped around the door handle.

  Virgil cracked open the door which led into Communion Hall and listened. Above, voices carried from the kitchen and adjoining dining room where dinner preparations were underway. The service corridor lay empty. Virgil slipped out of the room into the corridor, quietly closed the door behind him, then watched through a crack in the doorframe as the room exploded with light. Too late, the oracle lamp had found his former hiding place and brought Fallon with it. His pursuer stood in the doorway, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp.

  Fallon swept the lantern from side to side, searching for signs of the intruder, anticipating a confrontation. He listened carefully for anything that might deceive his quarry into revealing their presence: a creak, squeak, or rattle. Other than the voices emanating from the kitchen area above, the workroom lay cemetery quiet. Nothing appeared out of place. He surveyed the room a second time with the lantern. Empty. Other than several stacks of tables and chairs, which the lamplight saw through, there was no place to hide.

  Perhaps it was all in his mind.

  Creatures of the night.

  And yet every instinct told him he was right.

  If someone had been in the room, they had already made good their escape.

  He took a last look around, then opened the door and stepped outside into the shadow of the silver moon. Perhaps a quick inspection of the grounds was necessary. If an intruder had infiltrated the compound, they would be found and dealt with, swiftly and permanently.

  The outside world was not welcome here.

  He walked back and forth, then stopped and inspected the fallen woodpile. Perhaps soaked from the downpour that had earlier hammered the grounds, the rain-slicked stack had simply collapsed under its own weight; a result of the logs being placed precariously atop one another. He nudged the remaining side of the pile with his shoe, tested his theory. As if by cue, they fell. A field mouse fled the bottom of the woodpile from the sudden earthquake that had condemned it to homelessness. Fallon watched it scurry away.

  Creatures of the night, after all.

  He placed the lantern on the ground, looked up at the clouds as they glided across the peak of Mount Horning, and reflected upon the time he had just wasted. It was almost funny.

  He reached down and picked up the lantern.

  A glint of lamplight bounced off a shiny metal object partially hidden at the botto
m of the toppled woodpile. He knelt, placed the lantern back on the ground, lifted several pieces of wood from the pile, cast them aside, and freed the object.

  Just a thin strip of plastic with a silver metal crimp. The kind used to bind lumber.

  He twisted the length of wet plastic in his fingers, tossed it aside, wiped his hand on his jeans, and picked up the lantern. As he rose to his feet, he noticed a smear on his jeans where he had just wiped his fingers.

  Fallon placed the lantern against his pant leg for a closer inspection, checked his fingers in the bright light, then frantically searched for the strip of plastic he had carelessly discarded. He found it lying on the ground several feet from the pile of fallen wood.

  He drew the band close to the lantern, examined it carefully in the lamplight.

  The binding was not rain-soaked, as he had assumed.

  It was covered in blood.

  He crumpled the plastic strip in his hand and shoved it into his pocket.

  Confidence overwhelmed him. An intruder was on the grounds, only now he would have an easier time of finding him. The blood on the binding was fresh, still tacky to the touch, and experience had taught him that wounded prey was always the easiest to track.

  And to dispatch.

  29

  WITH A MUG of hot coffee in each hand, Martin shouldered open the front door and stepped outside onto the porch, delicately balancing the steaming liquid. Maggy lay at Claire’s feet, chewing heartily on the rawhide Justin had given her when she arrived. As Martin stepped through the door, Maggy sat up and sniffed the air. Realizing that the smell was not on her list of allowable treats, she lay back down and resumed devouring the rawhide.

  “Thought you could use a little pick me up,” Martin said. “Black with two sugars, right?”

  Claire smiled. “Thank you,” she replied.

  Mark Oyama walked through the door behind Martin and settled into a knotty pine swayback chair across from Claire. He noticed the yellow file folder resting on her lap. “Case file?” he asked as he sipped his coffee.

  “A patient file,” Claire replied. “I thought it might prove useful.”

  “How so?”

  “Remember earlier, before we examined the photographs, Martin mentioned I had reason to suspect someone killed my parents?”

  “Yes. You believed it was Joseph Krebeck.”

  “Right,” Claire said. She opened the file folder and removed the case photo of Walter Pennimore. “This man was one of my patients. With his dying words he told me Krebeck had something to do with their death.”

  “What would a guy like Krebeck want with your parents?” Mark asked. “What’s the connection?”

  Claire shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Mind if I look?” Mark asked. “Sometimes a fresh perspective can help.”

  She handed Oyama the file. “If you can find something in here that I missed, something that will help me figure out how Krebeck is involved with my parent’s death, then go for it.”

  Mark flipped through the thick pages of Pennimore’s patient history. “How long had you been treating him?” he asked.

  “Twice a week for a little over a year at the request of the parole board.”

  “That seems unusual. PB’s rarely specify the treating physician.”

  “No, they don’t. But this case is different. They learned about the success I was having applying a series of psychoanalytical procedures my father had developed before he died. The results were nothing short of amazing.”

  “Your father was a psychiatrist as well?”

  Claire nodded. “One of the best in the country. He’d made significant advances in research over the course of his career. But the results he’d got with patients through the application of these specific methodologies were nothing short of spectacular. During my first couple of years in university he was testing these alternative approaches, applying them in practice on a select group of high-risk patients.”

  “What was the nature of his research?” Martin asked, “Did he create a new drug or something?”

  “The opposite, actually. He created a psychological model that, when applied in a state of deep hypnosis, enabled patients to affect immediate behavioral changes: a significant shift at the sub-conscious level. By working with the patient and introducing a behavior modification skill set that resulted in permanent attitudinal change, my father was able to treat the patient’s problem at its root cause without having to resort to the more traditional means of therapy you mentioned, such as prescribing anti-psychotic medications. His success rate over several months with neurologically healthy patients was almost one-hundred percent.”

  “Sounds to me like this was a major breakthrough,” Mark said, “and I assume one of immense proprietary and monetary value as well.”

  “Without question,” Claire replied. “Remember, my father was curing patients. They weren’t going through life reliant on their meds anymore, ready to snap or kill somebody just because their prescription ran out. This was a total and complete pain and pharmaceutical-free rehabilitation process of significant benefit to both psychiatric medicine and mankind. There was talk that with further research and greater refinement of his techniques, my father could have been nominated for a Nobel prize.”

  Martin glanced at Mark, leaned forward.

  “I know that look, Mark,” Martin said. “What’s on your mind?”

  Fingers steepled, pensive, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, Oyama’s body language was as subtle as a train wreck.

  “If Claire’s father’s research is as valuable as it sounds,” Mark said, “then it’s possible someone would be willing to kill for it. Professional jealousy, perhaps. Claire, did your father have any enemies you’re aware of or have a falling out with a past colleague or research associate?”

  “Many doctors were envious of his work and reputation,” Claire replied, “but I can’t think of one that would resort to murder.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Mark replied. “Not that you need a life lesson, but trust me, the human animal is as unpredictable as any you’ll ever find. Experience has taught me to start with all the possibilities, then rule them out as I go along. Sometimes the answers to the most troublesome questions are found in the most obvious places. So, let’s start with your father. I take it he kept a diary to track his progress?”

  “Yes,” Claire said. “My father was an exhaustive records keeper. He kept meticulous notes. He assessed each step of his research from the day he began the project until the day he died.”

  “Where are those records now?”

  “Locked in my safe at home,” Claire replied.

  “Does anyone else have access to that safe besides you?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Good,” Mark said. “We may want to have a look at those files. Maybe there’s something in your father’s records that can tell us more about this Joseph Krebeck character. Have you spoken to anyone else about this besides Martin and me?”

  “Yes. Inspector Chris Maddox. He’s with the Paulo Brava police department. He was also a friend of my father.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  “I told him what Walter told me. That my parent’s death wasn’t an accident. He made some inquiries but never came up with anything significant. Seeing Amanda’s picture in Martin’s book and recognizing Krebeck’s name is how I made the connection to the partial name Pennimore had given me.”

  “Just the same, I think I’d like to talk to Inspector Maddox and compare notes. He may know more about the case than he realizes. Do you have his number?”

  “I do,” Claire replied. “I’ll get you his card.”

  30

  AS CLAIRE ROSE from her chair, Maggy jumped to her feet and followed her inside, still chewing on her rawhide. Martin walked over to Mark and sat beside him on the porch railing.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Oyama shook hi
s head. “This is going to be a tough one, Martin. Think about it for a second. First, the daughter of a prominent doctor and scientific researcher disappears. Shortly after that, her parents are killed. Then the same daughter pops up again, years later, having successfully sidestepped what I imagine would have been an extensive investigation by both local and federal law enforcement. To make matters worse, when she’s finally located, she’s photographed in the company of her parents’ suspected murderer.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  Oyama’s face bore an experience-hardened look, but it was the glint of revelation in his eyes that Martin found most unsettling.

  “I’m just examining the facts as I see them, Martin. Evaluating them at face value. Putting the square peg in the square hole, so to speak.”

  Martin stared at the former FBI agent. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’m getting it now. You think Claire’s sister may somehow have been involved in her parent’s death.”

  “It’s too soon to tell if that’s true or not. But considering the facts as we know them, it’s a distinct possibility.”

  “Jesus! If you’re right about this, Claire’s going to be devastated. Her sister is the only family she has left.”

  Mark nodded. “I realize that, and I empathize. But you know better than anyone we don’t always like what we find in these matters. The evidence and the facts never lie.”

  “I just hope for Claire’s sake you’re wrong on this one.”