Play dead jbakb-4

by Richard Montanari

  "You must remember the secret latch on the bottom," the old man said. "This is very important." The old man then held up another yellowed blueprint. "It is quite easy to get lost in Faerwood. There are many rooms here, many machines. If you do get lost, this will help."

  Lilly took the old blueprint. She instantly memorized the dimensions, the details, where the doors and hidden stairwells were located, where the switches were. It seemed each room had a secret.

  Before she could ask Karl Swann another question, Lilly heard the sound of a car engine. She looked out the barred window. Three stories below a van pulled into the driveway.

  Lilly grabbed the blueprint and ran to the corner of the room, to the secret passage. The man stepped in front of her. He put something in her hand. "You will need this."

  When she reached the opening, Lilly heard the old man add, "Remember the secret latch. Remember, Odette."

  Lowering herself into the dark shaft, Lilly had no idea if she was returning the way she had come. She scrambled forward as fast as she could, banging her knees and elbows. Her hands were slick with sweat. The passageway seemed endless, and even darker than it had earlier. After a full minute she stopped, felt the sides, the ceiling. Had she passed Claire's room? She had no idea. She listened for any change in the hot silence. She heard only her pulse.

  She continued onward. The sound of the classical music returned, this time louder. She was finding her way back. She was about to stop again when she saw the faint rectangle of light in the distance. She rumbled forward as quickly as she could, emerged through the panel, dashed into the room, gulping the fresh air. She heard footsteps in the hallway outside. A key turned in the lock.

  Lilly grabbed her shoes from the opening, letting the panel slide shut. She bolted across the room and dove under the covers as the second key turned. As the door opened, Lilly noticed she had dropped the old blueprint on the floor. She grabbed it, pulled it under the comforter at the last second, her heart racing.

  Joseph Swann.

  The Fire Grotto.

  Lilly did not know how she was going to get out of this, or if she would make it until morning, but she knew one thing for certain.

  She could not allow Joseph Swann to get her inside that box.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  3:20 AM

  They had nearly one hundred addresses of people named Swan, more than thirty for Swann. Uniformed officers from virtually every district were pounding on doors, calling in on police radios.

  They had gotten word on the publishing house that handled David Sinclair's books. It was a small outfit in Denver. According to the senior editor, no one there had ever met Mr. Sinclair. Sinclair had sent an unagented proposal to them six years earlier, by mail. The editor had spoken to the man many times over the course of the writing and editing of the book, but Sinclair had never come to Denver. They corresponded with the author via a Hotmail account and a street address in Philadelphia, an address that turned out to be a drop box on Sansom Street. Their records showed that the man had rented the box by the year, sending a money order for a year at a time. There was a high turnover rate in employees, and the few who were contacted at this hour could not recall the man who rented box 18909. The initial form that was filled out appeared to be typed on an old IBM Selectric, and the street address and phone number listed were both phony.

  Payments from the publishing house were made by company check, made out to David Sinclair. They had never been cashed.

  The bookstore in Chester County had no address for him, just the cell phone number the detectives already had. It was a dead end.

  At 3:20 AM a department car roared to a stop. It was Detective Nicci Malone. "We've got prints," she said. "They're on that Chinese box."

  "Please tell me they're in the system," Jessica said.

  "They're in the system. His name is Dylan Pierson."

  The team descended on a run-down row house near Nineteenth and Poplar. Byrne knocked on the door until lights came on inside. He held his weapon behind his back. Soon the door opened. A heavyset white woman in her forties stood before them, her face puffed with sleep, last night's mascara racoooning her eyes. She wore an oversized Flyers jersey, baggy pink sweats, stained white terrycloth flops.

  "We're looking for Dylan Pierson," Byrne said, holding up his badge.

  The woman looked from Byrne's eyes, to the badge, back. "That's my son."

  "Is he here?"

  "He's upstairs sleeping. Why do you-"

  Byrne pushed her aside, bulled through the small dirty living room. Jessica and Josh Bontrager followed.

  "Hey!" the woman yelled. "You can't just… I'll sue you!"

  Byrne reached into his pocket. Without looking back he tossed a handful of his business cards in the air, and stormed up the stairs.

  Dylan Pierson was nineteen. He had long greasy hair, a feeble soul patch below his lower lip, way too much attitude for the time of night and Byrne's mood. On the walls were a mosaic of skateboarding posters: Skate or Die; A Grind is a Terrible Thing to Waste; Rail Against the Machine.

  Dylan Pierson had been arrested twice for drug possession; had twice gotten away with community service. His room was a sty, the floor covered in dirty clothes, potato chip bags, magazines, questionably stained Kleenex.

  When Byrne entered, he had flipped on the overhead light and all but lifted Dylan Pierson from his bed. Pierson was cowering against the wall.

  "Where were you tonight?" Byrne yelled.

  Dylan Pierson tried to comprehend how his little kingdom had suddenly been invaded by big scary police in the middle of the night. He wiped sleep from his eyes. "I… I have no idea what you're talking about."

  Byrne took out a picture, a blowup of a computer screen capture of the Collector. "Who is this?"

  The kid tried to focus. "I have no idea."

  Byrne grabbed his arm, yanked. "Let's go."

  "Wait! Jesus. Let me look." He turned on a desk lamp, looked more carefully at the photograph. "Hang on. Hang on. Okay. Okay. I know who this is, man. He looks different with that beard and shit, but I think I know him."

  "Who is he?"

  "I have no idea."

  Byrne reared back, fists clenched.

  "Wait!" The kid cowered. "I met him on the street, man. He asked me if I wanted to make some money. It happens to me all the time."

  Jessica looked at Nicci Malone, back at Dylan Pierson, thinking, You ain't all that, kid. Still, he was young, and that counted for a lot on the streets of a city like Philadelphia.

  "What are you talking about?" Byrne asked.

  "I was hanging by the bus station, okay? On Filbert. You know the bus station?"

  "We know the bus station," Byrne said. "Talk. Fast."

  "He started talking to me. He pointed at this girl, maybe sixteen or so. Maybe younger. She looked like a runaway. He said if I would go up to her, give her some shit, and he came in like a white knight, he would pay me fifty bucks."

  "When was this?" Byrne asked.

  "I don't know. Two days ago?" The kid touched his cheek. "He burned my damn face. You should arrest this guy."

  Byrne held up a photograph of the Chinese box. "How did your fingerprints get on this?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Say 'I have no idea' one more fucking time," Byrne said. "Go ahead."

  "Wait! Let me think, man. All right. And this is true. When I met the guy I sat in his van for a while."

  "What color was the van?"

  "White. When I first got in he asked if I would move some of his things around in the back. This box was in there, I swear to God."

  Byrne paced, kicking clothes and debris out of his way. "Then what happened?"

  "Then I got out of the car, walked up to the corner, started talking to the chick."

  "Then what? He burned your face?"

  "Yeah. Like out of nowhere. And for no reason. When it was all over I met him around the corner and he gave me something."

  "What did he give you?
"

  "A book. He put the fifty inside it."

  "He gave you a book."

  "Yeah," Pierson said. "I don't really-"

  Byrne lifted the kid off the chair like he was a rag doll. "Where the fuck is it?"

  "I sold it."

  "To who?"

  "The Book Nook. It's a used-book store. They're right around the corner."

  EIGHTY-TWO

  3:42 AM

  The Book Nook was a used-book store on Seventeenth street.

  The grimy front window haphazardly displayed comic books, graphic novels, a section of recent best-selling fiction, some vintage board games. There was a single light on inside.

  Byrne knocked hard, rocking the glass door. Jessica got on her cell phone. They would find the owner. They did not have that much time, but protocol Byrne threw a bench through the door. He threw Dylan Pierson in afterwards, then followed him.

  — was clearly not going to be followed.

  "What was the name of the book?" Byrne yelled, flipping the light switch, turning on the fluorescents overhead. His fellow detectives scrambled to keep up.

  "I don't remember," Pierson replied, picking bits of glass out of his hair. "I think it was something about outer space."

  "You think?"

  Dylan Pierson began to pace. He had no shoes on, and he was hotfooting on the glass. "It… it had a red planet on the cover… it was something about-"

  "Mars?" Bontrager asked.

  He snapped his fingers. "Mars. That's it. Mars something. Guy named Hendrix wrote it. I remember the name because I'm really into old school stuff like Jimi-"

  Byrne ran down the Science Fiction aisle, found the shelf for authors whose last name begins with H. Heinlein, Herbert, Huxley, Hoban, Hardin. And then he found it. Mars Eclectica. Edited by Raymond Hen- drix. He ran back to the main room. "Is this it?"

  "That's it! That's the one! Dude. You are awesome."

  Byrne handled the book by its edges. He riffled through the pages. Then a second time. There was nothing. No notes inside. Nothing highlighted.

  "Are you sure this is the book?" Byrne asked.

  "Positive. Although, I gotta say that one looks a lot newer than the book this guy gave me."

  Byrne reached for Dylan Pierson's throat. Josh Bontrager was able to step between them. Byrne then flung the book across the store. His eyes roamed the walls, the shelves, the counters. Behind the front desk were a pair of push carts. One of them had a sticky note pasted to the side, with a handwritten New Books.

  Byrne vaulted the counter. He tore the books off the top shelf of the cart. Nothing. He ripped the books from the bottom shelf. And saw it. Mars Eclectica. It was a well-worn copy.

  He flipped through the book. It didn't take long. In the table of contents there were two places where something had been cut out with a razor blade. They were sections of author's names.

  White, The Retreat to Mars.

  Robert Williams, The Red Death of Mars.

  Byrne turned the book to Dylan Pierson. "What's missing here?"

  The kid looked. "I have no-I mean, I don't know. I don't read that much."

  One by one Byrne showed the page to the other detectives. "Anybody know these people?"

  No one knew.

  "Fuck!"

  "The other copy," Jessica said. "Get the other copy of the book."

  In a flash Josh Bontrager was at the back of the store, rummaging through the strewn books. He found the book in seconds, and was back. He put it on the counter next to Byrne's copy. They looked at both versions of the table of contents. With the missing names, the entries read: Cecil B. White, The Retreat to Mars Robert Moore Williams, The Red Death of Mars "Cecil B. Moore," Byrne said. He looked at Jessica. "The baseball field," she replied. They'd found the diamond.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  4:03 AM

  The Baseball Fields at Cecil B. Moore Avenue and North Eleventh Street were deserted. The mahogany cabinet sat at home plate. Its glossy surface shone in the light thrown from the sodium streetlamps.

  Byrne was out of the car before Jessica could stop it.

  "Goddamn it!"

  Byrne vaulted across the field, reached the box first. There was no hesitation, no stopping him. He opened the box, stared inside. And froze.

  Jessica and Bontrager made it across the field. Jessica saw what her partner was looking at. Inside was a girl, wearing an antique white satin dress. It looked to be a wedding gown from the 1920s or 1930s. A veil covered her face. The bodice of the dress was soaked with her blood.

  Byrne reached in, put two fingers to the girl's neck.

  "She's alive."

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  4:16 AM

  The ambulance screamed off into the night. The girl had lost a lot of blood, but when the paramedics got her onto the gurney, her pulse was stronger, her blood pressure stable.

  Jessica returned to the car, took the laptop out. She refreshed the killer's GothOde page. "It's up." She clicked on the new file. Same red curtains.

  PART SIX: THE BRIDAL CHAMBER

  She started the video. It already had sixteen viewings.

  "Behold the Bridal Chamber," the killer said. He gestured to the mahogany cabinet, which was unquestionably empty, doors wide open. He closed the doors of the cabinet. "And behold the lovely Odette." He held out his hand. A teenage girl walked onto the stage wearing the old bridal gown. She was pretty and thin, with strawberry-blond hair cascading out from beneath her white veil. He kissed her hand, sent her offstage. He then turned the closed cabinet around three times, stepped back, drew a chrome revolver from his pocket and fired it into the cabinet. A moment later, he opened the cabinet to reveal the bride inside.

  He waved a hand, and the screen went black. AT 4:20 Byrne's cell phone rang. He checked the screen. Private number. He knew who it was even before he answered it. The communications unit had put "David Sinclair's" number on autodial, calling it every twenty seconds. They had not, of course, gotten an answer.

  Byrne flipped open his phone, remained silent.

  "Time is passing, Detective," the killer said.

  "Would that were not true," said Byrne, trying to keep his rage in check. "Youth is fleeting."

  "I never had a youth, I'm afraid."

  "Why don't you stop down at the Roundhouse? We'll trade sob stories. You and me."

  The man laughed. "Six Wonders down, one to go."

  "Well, that's not exactly true."

  Silence. "What do you mean?"

  "The Bridal Chamber. Looks like you were left at the altar."

  This time, a longer silence.

  "We're at the diamond now-this is the diamond, right? The parallelogram part of the tangram puzzle?"

  "What about it?"

  He didn't deny it. They were right. "The girl is alive."

  "That's not true. It can't be true."

  "I don't make the weather, man. Besides, why would I start lying to you now? It might sully our beautiful friendship."

  Silence again. Then the killer raised his voice. He was starting to crack. "It's not true. It's not. And wait until you see what's next, Detective Byrne. You will never forget it. Never."

  The line went dead.

  Byrne threw his phone halfway to center field. A few minutes later, Josh Bontrager jogged out to get it. THEY HAD six of the tangram pieces-five triangles and one diamond. The killer had left the bodies of Caitlin O'Riordan, Elise Beausoleil, Monica Renzi, Katja Dovic, and a girl they had just identified as Patricia Sato-a runaway from Albany-in North Philadelphia parcels of land that were in the shape of a triangle. He had left his newest victim, as yet unidentified, still alive, on a baseball diamond. All that was left was the square. They had tried dozens of configurations with the pieces they had, trying to build the swan diagram. The horrifying truth was that just about every building in North Philly was either a rectangle or a square. AT 4:28 Jessica's phone rang. They were still at the Cecil B. Moore scene. The crime-scene unit was processing the cabinet. It
was Tony Park calling.

  "Anything on the canvass?" Jessica asked.

  "Nothing yet," Park said. "It's late, it's hot, we have a lot of pissed- off people named Swan or Swann in Philadelphia this morning."

  "They'll get over it."

  "I do have something interesting on what that magician fellow found. Something about Cygne."

  "What about it?"

  "There's a Galerie Cygne," Park said. "Spelled exactly the same way. It's the only listing in the city with a name even close."

  "Where is it?"

  "Twenty-fourth and Market."

  Tony Park gave her the address. Jessica clicked off, told Byrne. "I'm going to go check on this," she said.

  Byrne held up his handset. "Stay on channel."

  "You got it."

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  4:30 AM

  Swann carried the box. It was heavy. He had forgotten how heavy it could be.

  They were lying to him. It was a trick. Their trick. Claire was dead. She was in the Bridal Chamber. They would pay for this.

  "You have failed."

  "I have not."

  "Acceptance is not enough, Joseph."

  "It is not just acceptance. It is certainty."

  Just about everything was in place for his grand finale. They would forever remember him. He would find a niche in the hierarchy of all things magic, all things puzzling, all things inexplicable. Even Thoreau believed that human beings require mystery.

  "People must believe the impossible."

  "They will believe."

  "All magic is mentalism, Joseph. All magic makes people believe. The effect is in the mind."

  He could no longer carry the box. He put it down, began to drag it.

  "All magic is mentalism," he repeated. "All magic."

  He got the box into position. He sat down next to it.

  The effect is in the mind.