When Michael Calls

by Farris, John

  He filled her glass again, hesitated, then filled his own. When he sat back the chair creaked under his weight. The clock above the stove whirred in the silence. Helen, feeling bold, feeling ready, drank.

  "Michael called Hap tonight, didn't he?" she asked Doremus, and the detective, after a moment's hesitation, nodded.

  Helen felt a dolorous urge to laugh. "And then he killed Hap."

  "I don't know what went on up there. Michael is just a voice on the telephone to me, so far."

  "What did he say to Hap?"

  "Only Hap knew. The deputy who took the call—Enoch, Enoch Mills; know him?—didn't have too much to tell."

  "But it was Michael. Just a voice on the telephone, you say, but he can be anywhere, he can see anything, he wants to kill us!"

  Doremus looked up sharply. "Why did you say that?"

  Helen seemed shaken and lost.

  "Has he threatened you? Was there a call you haven't told me about?"

  "No . . ."

  "Then why did you say he wants to kill you?"

  "Because he must hate me! Because he . . . came back, and his mother wasn't there, she was dead . . . she died, she died in that place where I had her put away, and he blames me, he blames me, he always did and he—" Helen cut herself off with an anxious jerk of her head and stared helplessly at Doremus. "I have to stop thinking like that," she said softly.

  "Those two boys were running wild," Doremus said, "and your sister had no control over them— no control over herself, according to Hap." Helen grimaced at his choice of words but Doremus went on. "And I don't see where you had a choice in committing her to a sanitarium. She died, which was unfortunate, but you had to try to help her."

  "I wish now I'd never come to The Shades."

  Helen got up and walked to the back door, looked out through the glass. "No, I don't think I mean that; I loved Ed, and where would I be without Peggy? But I doubt if I have the . . . the courage to live through it all again. Poor scared Alice and Michael, Michael, always running away, I couldn't help him at all." She bowed her head. "I've had to resist running away myself, taking Peggy out of school and going . . . somewhere. But I won't have Peggy living afraid and besides, I'm not sure it would do any good. Wouldn't answer the telephone or open the door no matter where I was. Because . . . it might be Michael. That lost little boy. Two days ago when I was waiting at school for Peg one of the Waldrup boys came up behind me. He doesn't even look that much like Michael, but for a few seconds I was so shocked I thought I was going to faint. In broad daylight. I've told myself too many times that it's nonsense, there are no ghosts, but then I think, 'What if?' Two of my friends are dead, who knows why, and he keeps on calling, calling."

  Doremus studied her glumly, but he had nothing to say that might comfort her; he was too involved with the riddle of Michael Young. Presently he asked, as if he were thinking aloud, "How did Michael get along with Dr. Britton?"

  "Get along . . . ? I don't think Michael saw much of him. Andy might have treated him once or twice for a cold or one of the usual childhood illnesses, but I don't remember specifically. I scarcely knew Andy myself in those days."

  "Was Hap the sheriff then?"

  "Yes." She didn't wait for Doremus to ask, but said immediately, "And Michael knew him a little better than he did Andy. On two occasions when Michael ran away he was found and handed down the line by state authorities, eventually reaching Hap, who always took the time to drive him home. Hap treated Michael very well, sympathetically. I'd say Hap went out of his way to befriend Michael. But of course none of us had any luck there."

  "Suppose Michael was alive today—can you think of any reason why he'd want those two men dead?"

  "Alive?" Helen said, startled. "Do you think—"

  "I don't know what I think," Doremus replied patiently, "I'm just taking ideas out of the air. What about it, Helen? I know the boy resented you, but what could he have held against Hap and the doctor? It could be a little thing, actually, warped out of proportion by the passing of time. People have been murdered for any number of reasons, and not always by the criminally insane. So if Michael— Wait a minute."

  The detective's eyes glittered. "I could be asking the wrong questions. It's not how they treated him that matters; it's how they treated his mother." He looked to Helen for confirmation, but she seemed bewildered. "Is there any chance that Dr. Britton could have been making love to your sister?"

  "What an ugly— Of course not!"

  "As far as you know. But he was well acquainted with Alice, and admittedly she had a lot of boyfriends. He could easily have been one of them. If he was and if it went on for any length of time, then his wife probably knew about it. I'll have to ask her."

  "You couldn't ask Elsa something like that!"

  "Yes, I could. I'm used to being indelicate."

  "You certainly are," Helen said furiously, but her anger turned to mortification and she stared out into the dark again. Doremus seemed not to have noticed her remark. He said:

  "Hap was a born womanizer, I know that for sure, and he wouldn't have overlooked someone as attractive as your sister."

  "I don't think," Helen said in a strangled voice, "that it was just a . . . casual affair, although it probably started that way, for both of them. In the end Hap acted as if he loved her, despite all the trouble she caused him. He saw as clearly as I did that she had to have psychiatric care. He rode with me the day I took Alice to the sanitarium. He kept her laughing as long as he could, kept her from thinking about being locked up."

  "So you and Hap made the decision to have your sister committed. And she had to be certified incompetent by a physician."

  "Andy signed the papers."

  Doremus said reflectively, "A psychotic personality might find that enough justification for killing the doctor—for arranging his death. Was your sister committed by court order?"

  "Yes. The judge was a man named Schofield. But he died several years ago." Doremus looked questioningly at her. "I think it was a heart attack. He was a very old man." Helen came back to the table slowly and sat down, looking more intrigued than frightened. "I don't see how Michael could have survived that snowstorm. After all, his coat was found; I identified it. Bones were found. It couldn't have been some other little boy."

  "As far as I know, there wasn't a medical examination to determine how long the remains had been in the open. There was no attempt to match the teeth in the skull with dental charts. Hap did a sloppy job. It could easily have been another boy, one who had wandered off from the Greenleaf School months or possibly years before Michael Young was lost. I don't think it would be too difficult to check that out. Your nephew could do it for me."

  "I can't believe Michael is alive," Helen said stubbornly. "If he is, where has he been? How has he managed to live?"

  "By his wits," Doremus suggested. "He wasn't a baby when he disappeared. From all I've heard, he was a boy with a lot of determination, and he knew the woods, he knew how to protect himself." Doremus toyed with an unlighted cigar, thinking. "I'd much rather believe in a live Michael than a ghost," he said firmly. "If he's alive then probably he's been living here in The Shades, or nearby, for some time. You might have passed him down in the village a hundred times. He knows you, of course, but you'd never recognize him." Helen started to protest. "No, you wouldn't. Michael Young seems to be a clever, well-motivated and disciplined homicidal maniac. He scares me."

  "What about the telephone calls, Doremus? That isn't a man calling. It's a little boy."

  "That's one of the ways he scares me, with his elaborate playacting. Apparently he's worked this whole thing out carefully. It's significant that he called you first."

  Helen looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  "I'm sure it gave him a great deal of pleasure, settling up with the doctor and with Hap, but in a way they were incidental participants in the tragedy of his mother. You're the one who will have to suffer most for what happened to her. You came down here and meddled i
n their lives and sent the mother away to die. You're the one he came to hate with the kind of pathological bitterness that could eventually turn him into a murderer." Helen closed her eyes and looked momentarily ill. Doremus fidgeted unhappily and said, in an attempt to be soothing, "But he's not a ghost and, dangerous as he is, he's not omnipresent either. I think we'll—"

  He was startled when Helen left the table and half ran from the kitchen, and he rose to follow her. But, as he heard her going up the stairs, he sensed what was on her mind and returned to the kitchen to polish off the whiskey in his glass. He barely tasted it. While he was cleaning up and rinsing the dishes in the sink, Helen returned, still unnaturally pale but looking relieved.

  "I'm sorry. I thought that . . . I had to see if Peg—"

  "How was she?"

  "Sound asleep." Helen looked fearfully at him. "You said he wants me to suffer. Do you think he'll try to hurt me through Peggy? If he's insane, then, he's capable—"

  "I don't know what he'll try to do next," Doremus admitted. "So far he's been bright enough or cautious enough to stay away from this house. But if I've guessed right and you are next on his list, he'll have to come now." Helen took that with no flicker of emotion, but her hands as she gripped the back of a chair were bloodless.

  "How can we find him?" she asked. "Before he calls, before he comes? I don't know if I can take—"

  Doremus said gently, "In the morning I'll talk to Enoch Mills. From what I've seen of him he's a good policeman, and he has the authority as undersheriff to investigate anyone who could possibly be Michael Young once I convince him he should. That will take time, and I'm not sure it will help. In the meantime it would be sensible to pack Peggy off to relatives."

  Helen was silent. "I can't," she said eventually. "It would be better if we both went somewhere, for a few weeks, however long a time you need to find Michael."

  "I'm sorry. You'll have to stay here, Helen."

  "What do you mean?" she flared. "Stay and be killed? What kind of sense—"

  "If you leave The Shades he's bound to follow, and there's no way I can protect either one of you then. But if you're here it's possible to arrange protection. On second thought, maybe Peggy had better stay; a deputy can keep an eye on her while she's at school without scaring Michael off. I don't want anything to divert his attention from you—and from me."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I want to make it clear to Michael that if he tries to harm you in any way he'll have to kill me first." Doremus lighted the miniature cigar he'd been holding. "I think he'll accept the challenge."

  "How do you know he'll try to kill you?"

  "He'll have to, because I'll be with you twenty-four hours a day from now on." Helen frowned at this piece of news. "Because he's bright, he'll know why I'm sticking close to you and to Peg. Because he's been successful so far, he'll be eager to get on with it, to complete his revenge. I think I understand him well enough to know he won't be worried about me. And one mistake is all he needs to make."

  "You're going to stay here?" Helen said, trying not to sound dismayed.

  "I'd rather be on the ground floor," Doremus said obliviously.

  "I don't think there's room—"

  "Your office might be the best place for me; wasn't there some sort of couch in there? Let's have a look." He walked down the unlighted hall with Helen behind him. "What's that—cellar door?" He opened it, peered down the steps, then studied the lock on the door. "No good," he muttered. "Well, I can put a dead bolt lock on in the morning." He closed the door and went on. "That's a bathroom under the stairs, isn't it?"

  "Half bath; there's no tub, and the shower isn't very—"

  "All I need is a place to shave in the morning," Doremus said cheerfully, turning on the light in the foyer. He stopped in the office doorway and looked down at the clutter. The sofa he had referred to was a Victorian piece about five and a half feet long, rigidly padded.

  "Perfect," Doremus said. "No windows; I like that."

  "I suppose I could move some things out—"

  "No need to go to any trouble; I'll be comfortable here. In the morning if you have time we might run over to my place for a few things."

  "You can't sleep on that sofa; it would be like lying on a sidewalk all night."

  "I only sleep when there's nothing else to do," Doremus said. "I noticed you had a fine antique chess set in the other room. I'll borrow it for a few nights if you don't mind."

  Helen stared at him, hazily. "You're really staying, aren't you?"

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No. Oh, no."

  "Sure I won't be in the way here?"

  "We'll . . . we'll manage. Business as usual." Her eyes were stinging from strain. "I'll bring down some bedding and fresh towels for you. Then I think I'll . . . go to bed myself."

  "Good idea, get a good night's sleep. Mind if I go up with you?"

  "What?"

  "I'd like to study the layout of the house."

  "Oh." They walked up the stairs slowly; Doremus paused frequently to locate squeaking steps before proceeding. Once they were on the second floor he entered Helen's bedroom without asking, went over to the dormer windows, studied the backyard until he had every tree memorized. Then he opened one of the windows and leaned out, examining the line of the roof. When he was satisfied that the second floor was inaccessible from the ground except by means of a ladder, he closed the window, locked it and drew the blinds.

  Helen was pulling linen out of a hall closet when Doremus wandered out of her room. "Where does Peggy sleep?" he whispered. Helen showed him. He walked down the hall, eased Peggy's door open, looked inside. Then he turned to the door opposite the little girl's bedroom.

  "My husband's study," Helen said, approaching with an armful of towels and blankets. "Most of his things are still in there, and—"

  "I won't disturb anything," Doremus promised, and he went in, his cigar glowing in the dark. Helen sighed and turned the light on for him.

  "That's a nice collection of guns," Doremus observed, indicating a tall walnut cabinet near the door.

  "My husband was a game warden. Do you like guns?"

  "No. But I learned how to live with them." He pointed to a .22-caliber Colt automatic target pistol. "That one ought to do, provided you have ammunition to go with it."

  Helen gave him a blank look.

  Doremus said patiently, "It'll probably be necessary for me to shoot him if he comes around."

  "Do you really believe Michael will come here?"

  "I don't know what he's going to do. I only know what I expect him to do. But I could be all wrong, entirely wrong. . . ." He clamped down on his cigar. "We'll have to see," he said vaguely.

  Helen opened the glass doors of the cabinet and took the automatic out for him. Then she pulled out the ammunition drawer. "These have been in here for years," she said, looking doubtfully at the boxes of cartridges.

  "Doesn't make any difference." Doremus put the automatic inside his belt after checking it over and finding it reasonably clean. He picked up the pile of bedding and towels and went into the hall. "No need for you to go down again, I'll make out all right. Good night, Helen."

  He walked on to the stairs while she turned out the light and closed the door to her husband's study. At the stairs Doremus hesitated for a moment, and turned around. "Don't worry," he whispered, as if he felt it was required of him, then continued down.

  Don't worry, Helen thought; she went drearily into her own room and prepared for bed.

  She had expected to fall asleep immediately but her thoughts popped like sparks in her mind, memories gruesome and benign intrigued and disturbed her. Poor Hap, you never meant my sister any harm, I know that. . . . Michael, did you hate me so very much for what I did? You never said you hated me, why do you want to kill me now? She could not imagine him as being alive, grown up, murderous. Still lonely. How lonely you must be, Michael! She dozed, and her last conscious thoughts were of Doremus. And sh
e felt no sense of worry at all, because he was there in the house with his little cigars and a target pistol and a chessboard to keep him company; it was all right to sleep now.

  Chapter 10

  Not long after dawn, Amy was half awakened in her bed by the sound of Craig's car outside. She rolled over, eyelids twitching, her hand groping. The part of the bed in which he had slept was still faintly warm. She reached for his pillow, hugged it tightly against her bare breasts, sighed and dropped off to sleep again.

  The ringing of the telephone reawakened her.

  Amy struggled upright. "Craig?" she said thickly, and then remembered she had heard him leaving. She glanced at the bedside clock; the time was seven-forty-five. "Why didn't you get me up?" she said crossly. The phone rang again. Amy popped her eardrums with a yawn, shuddered, reached for the receiver of the telephone.

  "H'lo?"

  "I want to talk to Craig."

  "What?"

  "Let me talk to Craig," the boy repeated.

  "Craig . . ." Amy said, trying to get her bearing. "Craig isn't . . . it's eight o'clock in the morning; what makes you think he'd be here? Who is this, please?"

  "He was there," the voice said deliberately. "He was sleeping right there with you. Where did he go?"

  "Are you calling from the school?" Amy felt a chill that gripped her like jaws. "Who are you?"

  "Michael," he said emphatically, without hesitation, "and I want—"

  "Michael?"

  ". . . to talk to Craig."

  "Michael Young?" There was no sound on the line for several seconds. Amy felt as if she'd swallowed her tongue when she tried to speak. "What . . . Why do you want Craig?"

  "I have to tell him something," the boy said with great impatience.