by Tim McGregor
“Nothing. We’re all frustrated and scared of what’s going to happen next.”
“I’m aware of that thank you,” Jen said coldly. “What’s your point?”
“Bitching about something you can’t control doesn’t help. It just sets everyone on edge.”
“Tell that to Kyle!”
Tammy simply closed her eyes, unwilling to carry the conversation any further. Jen continued to refold perfectly folded garments on the display table. The clock ticked down a few minutes of silence before one of them blinked.
Jen sighed, crossed her arms to keep them still. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bitch at you. It’s just comes out that way.”
“I know.” Tammy sat up. “I’m not myself today.”
“Another bad sleep?”
The last two nights had been wretched for Tammy, thrashing herself awake from some of the worst nightmares she’d ever experienced. In her dreams, she was standing outside that awful house on the hill. Kaitlin was inside somewhere, crying out for help but Tammy was unable to move, frozen in a kind of paralysis. Too afraid to go further, too afraid to run away. When she finally broke the spell and ran inside, what she saw burned her eyes raw in horror. Kaitlin was strung up with wires, her limbs flopping about like a puppet while something unseen pulled the strings. The wires were laced so tightly round her limbs that they sliced the flesh and her friend was covered in blood. Kaitlin, helpless to save herself, stared at Tammy with eyes crazed with pain. Her mouth gibbered a single phrase over and over. Help me.
“Something like that,” Tammy sighed, trying to push the awful images out of her head. She had told no one of the nightmares. Jen most of all. “Have you heard from Billie?”
“No. Why?”
“I got a text from her. She said she’d be out of town for a day.”
Jen spun around. “Out of town? What for?”
“I was hoping you knew.”
“How can she go away at a time like this?” Jen fumed. “With Kaitlin in the hospital. I can’t believe her.”
“I’m sure she has a good reason.” Tammy watched her friend start refolding everything again and decided to swap out topics of conversation. Digging into her bag, she plucked out her Hasselblat. A clunker of a camera but she liked the pictures it took. “I brought the camera. Do you want to shoot some stuff for the website? Maybe some new designs?”
Jen soured on the idea. “There are no new designs.”
Tammy aimed the lens at her friend. “Then why don’t you pout your lips at me and we’ll shoot some cheesecake.”
Jen laughed and mocked a pin-up pose.
The bell over the door rang again. A woman in dark bangs and black clothes crept inside and looked over the interior with a certain sheepishness.
“Hi,” Jen said. “Can I help you find something?”
“Maybe,” said the woman. “Do you know the psychic woman?”
“Excuse me?”
“She was on the news a few weeks back,” the woman said. “She was helping the police in that awful case. I’m pretty sure she was at your shop when she was on the news.”
Tammy drew up alongside Jen, sensing trouble. Two weeks ago Billie had been ambushed by a reporter right outside the Doll House.
The woman continued. “I think my place is haunted and I really wanted to talk to this woman on the news. Is she a friend of yours?”
“No,” Jen said. “I don’t know who you mean.”
Tammy snapped her eyes back to Jen but her friend ignored her.
“Oh,” the woman said, disappointed. “I’m pretty sure it was this store I saw.”
“You have the wrong place.” Jen turned and went back to the counter.
The woman seemed unsure of what to do next. She looked over the place one more time and then headed back out to the street. Tammy walked the woman to the door and then turned to look back at her friend. Jen gathered up some boxes and carried them to the back room without meeting the other woman’s gaze.
~
Billie climbed into the passenger seat and smiled at the homicide detective behind the wheel. “All set?”
“Yup,” Mockler said, pulling the car back into traffic. He handed across a map. “You navigate.”
Folding the map into a manageable size, she pointed to the pinprick speck that was their destination. “It’s not hard to find. It’s just out of the way.”
“How long is the drive? Two hours?”
“Almost,” she said. “It’s all country roads. I guess you’ve never been there, huh?”
He shook his head. “I’d never heard of it before this. What’s it like?”
“Like any small town,” she shrugged. “Half of it is shuttered and boarded up. People moving away.”
“Is there a bowling alley?”
“No. Why?”
Mockler smiled. “Doesn’t every small town have a bowling alley?”
“You’re such a city boy,” she said. “No. What every small town has is the Chinese restaurant.”
“Get outta here.”
“It’s true. You know the old style Chinese restaurant? The kind that serves made-up stuff like chop-suey. Every one of them has a sign that reads ‘Chinese-Canadian cuisine’.”
“And what exactly is Chinese-Canadian cuisine?”
“Egg rolls and french fries.”
Mockler nodded as he turned the car onto Beckett Drive that would take them up the mountain. “I guess we know where we’re stopping for lunch.”
Away from the city, the trees of the countryside had changed to deep hues of red and orange. They passed fields of hay bails and pumpkin patches and a few stands selling the last offerings of the pear orchards. They chatted about the farms they saw and the songs on the radio and what it would be like to abandon the city to live in the country. The day was fine and the company agreeable and for a time it felt like a simple road trip. The banter slowed and the mood changed when they passed a road sign welcoming them to the township of Poole. Pop 1680.
The road carried them onto the main drag and Billie noted how little had changed in the town she had grown up in. A few more businesses had shuttered, their dusty windows placarded with ‘For Rent’ signs.
Mockler slowed the car to take in the sights. “So this is it, huh? Hometown.”
“Picturesque, isn’t it?” Billie gazed out her window. “I didn’t think it could get anymore grim but I may be wrong on that score.”
“It looks like it’s seen better days. Where the Chinese restaurant you promised?”
She pointed at something up ahead. “Kim’s is up here. On the left.”
He pulled the car to the curb before a squat storefront of faded red with black trim. A weather-beaten statue of a dragon stood sentry outside the door.
“Oh no.”
“What is it?” He leaned over to see what she was pointing at. A cardboard sign was taped to the inside of the window. Building for lease.
Billie gazed at the padlocked front door. “Damn. Half my teenage life has been put up for rent.”
“That’s a shame.” His face drew long, the breezy mood of the road vanishing quickly.
“We can go somewhere else if you want?” Billie asked, feeling a need to make it up to him.
“Let’s just get on with it.”
“Where to first?”
“The police station. Is it near here?”
She directed him another two blocks and then north on a side street called White Pine. The police station was a squat bunker of brown brick and dusty windows. Like everything else he had seen of the town of Poole, it was worn out and beaten down.
Mockler killed the engine and looked at her. “Is there somewhere you can wait? I can’t bring you with me.”
“Why not?” Billie studied the police station. “Tell them I’m your assistant or something.”
“That’s not going to fly. And you and I are in enough trouble from last time. Trust me on this, okay?”
Billie soured but agreed. They climbed out of the
car and he turned to her. “Where are you going to be?”
“I dunno. I’ll go for a walk.” She strolled out of the parking lot toward the main strip and then called back. “Text me when you’re done.”
The interior of the Poole Police Station was just as drab as its exterior and, at first glance, appeared to be deserted. The front desk was unattended and the office area beyond it looked empty. Weirder still was the quiet. There was no squawking police radio, no chatter of conversations or ringing of desk phones. Sitting on the counter of the front reception was an old hotel bell. Puzzled, Mockler scratched his chin. Was this town that quiet that the police left the reception manned by a hotel bell? He tapped it once and its sharp peel rang through the empty office.
An officer came down the hallway behind the desk. Her shirt sleeves were rolled up and she was wiping her hands on a rag. “Can I help you?” she said, approaching the desk.
“Hi.” Mockler reached into his pocket for his I.D. “Is officer Merrick on duty?”
“Yes I am,” she said. “And you are?”
“Detective Mockler, Hamilton Police Service.” He stuck out his hand. “We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Oh right. I’d shake your hand but mine’s slick with motor oil at the moment.”
“The mechanic call in sick today?”
“No. I do double duty around here. Triple, quadruple, what have you.” Officer Merrick pushed the gate open and waved him through. “Come on in, detective.”
She led him past reception to the office in the back. Vacant desks and empty chairs, house plants dried up and withered on the window sill. Mockler took in the deserted look of the place. “Where is everybody?”
“Moved on, transferred or reassigned.” Merrick escorted him to the only desk in the room that looked occupied. “Have a seat.”
Mockler’s brow arched. “You’re alone out here?”
“Until I get reassigned,” the officer said. “The town couldn’t foot the budget anymore so we were folded into the Provincial Police. They started reassigning everyone. They’re keeping the lights on here as an outpost but they’ll eventually shut it down at some point.”
Mockler whistled. “You’re the lonely lighthouse keeper. You must be busy being the only cop in town.”
“I manage. It’s a quiet place, as you can see.” Merrick stood up and crossed to a desk behind her. “Now, you are here for the old Culpepper case. I managed to locate the evidence box. What’s left of it anyway.”
The officer returned and placed a cardboard storage box on the desk. It resembled a wilted cabbage. Crushed and partially collapsed, the cardboard showed signs of water damage and it smelled of mold.
“What happened to it?”
“A victim of the shrinking budgets. The archives went unattended for a couple years. Then a pipe burst during a deep freeze one winter. A lot of stuff got lost.” Officer Merrick removed the lid from the box. “This is all that was left.”
Mockler peered into the crushed container. There was a slim folder of documents and a few materials sealed in evidence bags. He lifted out the bagged evidence. A woman’s shoe, a set of keys, a necklace and a crude looking knife. He put the material back and opened the folder.
“Not much to go on, is it?” he said.
“I’m afraid not.” Merrick took her seat and nodded at the box. “Why the renewed interest in an old case?”
“We found the remains of her husband a week ago. He’s also the main suspect in Mary Culpepper’s disappearance.”
“Wow. Where did you find him?”
“In the basement of an old house.” Mockler handed across one of the documents. “Two of the investigating officers are listed here. Do you know either of these men?”
“Stanwyck and Croft,” she read aloud. “Stanwyck passed away a few years ago. Croft is retired now. He used to live on the other side of town.”
“Do you have an address or phone number for Croft?”
“If I don’t have it here, I’m sure I can find it for you. Might take a while. You’re welcome to stay.”
“I think I’ll get started on this.” Mockler returned the paperwork to the box and handed his card to the officer. “That’s my cell. Can you call me when you have something?”
Officer Merrick assured him she would and walked him to the door. Mockler thanked her for her help. “Where’s a good place to get some lunch?”
“Try Kim’s, just up the road.”
“The Chinese place?” he said. “It’s closed down.”
“It is? Damn. When did that happen?” Officer Merrick seemed genuinely saddened by the news. “The whole damn place is becoming a ghost town.”
Chapter 12
BY NATURE, JOHN Gantry was wary of any and all law enforcement, but he knew that certain members of the thin blue line could be excellent sources of information. The next best thing to an active informant within the police department was an ex-cop with time on his hands and stories to tell.
Nigel Walcott was just such a candidate. A retired homicide copper who had given up golf a long time ago when his knees blew out. He could still walk, just not very far. Fortunately for Gantry, the Burgundy Room was minutes from Walcott’s home. Gantry rang him up, asking if he could buy him a drink.
“Hello Wally,” Gantry said as he waltzed into the backroom of the bar, drinks in hand. A scotch and soda for the old man and a pint for himself.
Walcott looked up with rheumy eyes. “Johnny. I was surprised to hear from you.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’d heard you died in an explosion. In Norway, of all places.”
“Just singed a little in the fire. How’s the knees?”
“Don’t ask.” The retired detective waved at the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
Gantry settled into the leather armchair, one of two positioned before a cold fireplace. It was early afternoon and the bar’s backroom was empty. They could talk discreetly here.
Walcott took a sip from the glass. “What brings you back to the Hammer?”
“A girl.”
The older man smiled at this. “Is she pretty? I bet she is.”
“Yeah, she’s a heartbreaker. A tad strange, but there you have it.” Gantry set his glass down on the table. “Listen, Wally. I came across something nasty and I thought you might have run across it before.”
“Another girl?”
“A place. An old mansion halfway up the mountain called the Murder House.”
The old man went still, his eyes narrowing at the name. “Nasty place. My advice, stay away from there.”
“What do you know about it?”
“We had a body turn up there back in the early eighties. Poor bastard had been gutted. Awful.”
“Who killed him?”
Walcott looked at the dead hearth. “Unsolved. Caused a real stink too because there was a spooky aspect to it. Devil worship stuff, pentagrams and whatnot. Remember, this was the eighties, right in the height of the Satanic panic that gripped the nation. The thing is, I looked into the history of that place and this poor bastard wasn’t the first to get killed there.”
“So the nickname is true.”
“Yeah,” Walcott nodded. “But the murders were the same. Victim cut open in the middle of a pentagram.”
That made Gantry lean forward. “How many deaths?”
“Half a dozen that I know about. There was a hippie kid in the seventies, then another one a decade before. One in the fifties and then two in the forties, around the end of the war. Although one of those was a disappearance, not a murder. At least they never found the guy. A writer, I think.”
“H. G. Albee,” Gantry added. “He was a pulp writer.”
The retired officer snapped his fingers. “That’s the guy.”
“Is that where it started? With Albee?”
“No. The first murder was Edward Bourdain. He built the house back in the twenties for his wife. Evie or Ava?”
“Evelyn,” Gantry
offered.
“That’s her. Turns out Evelyn was into spooky stuff. Big into Aleistar Crowley and all that hocus-pocus. She killed her husband back in the thirties. Cut him open down in the basement, just like all the others. Same pentagram, just like all the others. Except she was the first.”
“What happened to her?”
“They put her in the asylum, the big one where the university is now. I think she was killed by another inmate a year later.” Walcott stretched his legs out to keep them from cramping. “Almost happened again too. Just last week. But this time the cops caught them in the act. I heard they arrested one kid but he doesn’t speak English. Was he Swedish?”
“Norwegian,” Gantry said. The old man was referring to Billie’s incident with that idiot, Mockler. “He died two nights ago in his cell. Choked on his own vomit.”
“Jesus. Did they get him to say anything?”
“No. The cops brought in a translator but the kid went mute.”
Walcott sipped his scotch and soda. “And now you’re involved in this, aren’t you?”
“A friend of mine is.”
“The girl?”
“Yeah. I think she walked straight into something dangerous.” Gantry sipped his pint and mulled over the details the former police officer had told him. Some of the puzzle was filled in but there were still pieces missing. Big pieces, too. Like how Billie was connected to this old house and its barmy owner, Evelyn Bourdain.
“Have you gone there?” Walcott asked. “The old house?”
Gantry thought back to the horrid face in the mirror and the thing that had attacked him. How it had tossed him about the cellar like a rag doll. He nodded.
“Did you feel the misery inside that house? The whole place was like a black hole of despair.” Walcott shuddered, as if sensing it all over. “I still remember it. And that was almost forty years ago.”
~
“That’s it?” Billie looked into the battered box again but there was nothing else in it.
Mockler nodded. “Not a lot to work with, is it?”
Billie looked over the contents of the evidence box. “There’s nothing here.”