by P. B. Ryan
Noises from another part of the house caught my attention. I decided to make myself scarce while Richard and Brenda breakfasted.
Back in my room, I sat on the edge of my bed. With eyes closed, I cleared my mind. The man in the newspaper picture was older than the face imprinted on my brain. Could I have met him? It seemed likely. But not in New York. It had to be years ago, when I still lived in Buffalo.
The newspaper said he’d worked for Bison Bank for over twenty-five years. Did I meet him at an early point in his career? I’d never had a bank account until I’d joined the Army. Maybe it had nothing to do with banking.
I thought back to my first summer job at Benson’s car wash. I’d wipe down sleek Corvettes and angular Cadillacs, wishing for a junker of my own. Was Sumner a customer? I remembered the job, but not the people associated with it.
Damned frustrating, those holes in my memory.
Another summer I’d flipped burgers at some fast-food joint—anything to keep me out of the house and away from the crotchety old Alperts.
I let it go. Eventually it would come to me.
Despite my faulty memory, the bright morning invigorated me. On a whim, I decided to reconnect with the rest of the house, avoiding the kitchen and Richard and Brenda. It was soon obvious that only three rooms were in use: the kitchen, the study, and—I assumed—the master bedroom suite upstairs. Like the living room, much of the furniture in the other rooms was still shrouded in sheets.
Slipping into Richard’s study gave me my first feeling of homecoming. The old leather-bound books had always attracted me. The dark-paneled walls lent a feeling of security. Years ago, Richard’s wizened grandfather used to live behind the big mahogany desk. Sometimes we’d sit at opposite ends of the room and read the old man’s books. He’d smoke his pipe, the sweet tang of tobacco filling my nostrils. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the empty silence. Mr. Alpert and I weren’t friends, but we weren’t exactly enemies, either. I couldn’t imagine Richard taking his place in the oversized, burgundy leather chair.
A set of the Encyclopedia Britannica filled the shelves behind the desk—the last edition available in hardcover, by their copyright date. Richard must’ve brought them from California. I pulled out a volume, intending to look up psychic phenomena, and quickly decided against it, shoving the heavy book back into the slot from where I’d plucked it. It might be better to bungle my way through the discovery process with no preconceived expectations—or limitations.
Could I make it work for me? I picked up objects in the room, trying to zero in on previous owners, previous history.
A heavy glass paperweight was cold in my palm. The delicate wings of the butterfly encased inside seemed poised for flight, but I felt nothing odd or sinister. Likewise with the dust-free pipes and stand on the polished desk, sitting there as though waiting for old Mr. Alpert to strike a match.
But something had happened to me when I’d first entered the house. I’d been hit with cold dread and horror. Melodramatic, maybe, but that’s what I’d felt. It was time to make another visit to the upstairs bedroom.
My sneakered feet squeaked on the polished floor as I rounded the corner. The hallway seemed to extend miles ahead of me, like a camera trick in an old Hitchcock film. The staircase, when I reached it, also seemed to have telescoped in length.
I swallowed and took a step. Okay. I was fine. On the second step, the sensation of alarm hit me and I knew something waited for me in old Mr. Alpert’s room. I forced myself to continue upward and tried to think logically. Could the house be haunted? Oh yeah, the skeptic in me taunted, that made a lot of sense. Just as reasonable as visions of dead men and deer.
My legs were lead by the time I topped the stairs. The closed bedroom door taunted me. Come on, chicken boy, face the worst.
I took another step forward, but panic made me turn, and I nearly stumble in my haste to get the hell away. I wasn’t up to facing whatever lingered in that room.
Not yet.
I grabbed my jacket from the hall closet and opened the front door. Outside the air was cold, and the blue sky was clear and incredibly normal. I felt calmer as I poked at the matted leaves around the shrubbery. Tulip spikes and the tips of daffodils protruded through the crusty dirt. The remnants of a hibernating garden lined the property. I followed it around to the side of the house and the driveway, facing the garage. Only drilled holes remained where a backboard had once been. When I was a kid, Richard and I had sometimes played one-on-one. Maybe it was still in the garage.
I went inside the large three-car structure, what had once been a carriage house, rediscovering the apartment above. The door opened with a painful creak. I tramped through the dusty galley kitchen, dining area, two bedrooms, living room, and small bath. I vaguely remembered a married couple—the housekeeper and gardener—living there when I was a teenager. My nose wrinkled in the musty, cobwebbed rooms. Old furniture, cartons of dusty books, gardening equipment, and other junk were still stored there.
A smile tugged at my lips, the seed of an idea forming, but it was too soon to hit Richard with any new requests.
Downstairs in the garage’s empty bay, I studied the clutter of my own furniture and boxes. Some kind of organization was definitely needed. I pawed through the cartons. My old business cards surfaced first. I’d kept two sets, one with the company address, fax and phone numbers, and e-mail address, the other a calling card. Figuring I could still use those, I stuffed them into my coat pocket, along with a tape measure and a couple of half-used spiral notepads.
My next find was my old analog watch, with one of those Twist-O-Flex bands. I slipped it onto my right wrist, since the cast covered my left and ended at the knuckle line. I’d reset it once I got inside. I also found my out-of-date passport, grabbed an old pay stub, a canceled check, a bank statement—anything with my name and address on it, in case I needed to prove who I was.
I’d once considered being a private eye, investigating the field after my four-year hitch in the service—I had even earned an associate degree in criminal justice. But New York’s mandatory three-year apprenticeship had been a major turnoff. I’d had enough of being someone’s lackey in the Army. Plus private investigators’ lives are damned boring. I couldn’t see myself on endless stakeouts, spying on adulterous spouses, looking for runaway kids, or repossessing cars from people down on their luck.
The insurance field is boring, too, and guarantees mountains of paperwork. But the pay and the hours are definitely better, the income reliable, and the work inherently safer. Too many people own guns these days—and use them. Through my work in insurance, I’d known a couple of freelance PIs in the city. Quarterly taxes left them cash-starved with no benefits.
No, thank you.
I foraged until I came across my good suit, a shirt, and my lined raincoat—enough for me to get started. Closing the side door behind me, I headed for the house. Inside, I found my family tucked away in Richard’s study.
“Uh, Brenda, where’s the iron?”
She looked up from her book. “In the laundry room. Do you need some help?”
“No, thanks.”
The dungeon laundry room was in the same place as in years before, although the appliances were brand new and top of the line. I tossed the clothes on the washer and awkwardly set up the ironing board. While trying my best to iron out the wrinkles, I ended up scorching my pants cuff. Moments later, I looked up to find Brenda standing in the doorway.
“I can do it.”
“Oh, I know you can—when you have two good hands. But right now, you’ve only got one.”
I let her take over. Now that my investigator’s training was coming back, I wanted to look my best—trustworthy—when I interviewed witnesses. Having that goal made me feel whole again.
Richard showed up as Brenda handed me the freshly ironed dress shirt. I eased it onto a hanger, catching sight of his disapproving stare.
“Why don’t you just say it?” I challenged.
/> “Oh, now you’re reading my mind, too?”
“It doesn’t take a mind reader to tell what you’re thinking,” Brenda muttered. She turned off the iron, set it on the washer to cool, stowed the ironing board, and stole out of the basement, leaving me alone with a man itching for a fight.
“Jeff, you’re not well.”
“I’m not sick, either.”
“No, but you are recovering from a serious head injury. I think you should just slow down.”
“I’m not exactly running around.”
He eyed the suit. “No, but you can’t just show up at the church and—”
“Now who’s a mind reader?”
“I read the newspaper, too. You plan to go to the funeral.”
“If I can get in. How else can I meet Sumner’s family and friends?”
“Jeff, you can’t just barge in, interfere with people’s lives—”
“And I just can’t sit around contemplating my navel twenty-four hours a day, either.”
He followed me upstairs and into the kitchen. I laid the suit and shirt across one of the chairs, and sat down, not daring to look him in the eye. “You don’t believe me.”
Richard took the chair across from me. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“I don’t know how to make you understand. It’s like a nightmare, only it doesn’t stop when I wake. I have no proof, just a strong feeling that what I know is true.”
“Jeff, is it possible you’re twisting the facts to support a delusion?”
“I knew that man was dead. I felt his death. Now I’ve got to prove to myself I’m not some kind of lunatic. But I can’t. Not until I see the place. Not until I talk with the people who knew him. Not until I can put all the pieces together.”
Richard stared at the table. “Okay. Then let’s prove—or disprove—it together. Let me help.”
I considered his offer. Was he only placating me? It didn’t matter.
“Okay.”
“Where do we start?” he asked.
“Tomorrow. At the funeral.”
Chapter 6
Richard and I showed up at Christ the King Roman Catholic Church half an hour before the funeral Mass was due to start. We had to park on a side street three blocks away.
Days earlier, I had realized I was picking up the feelings of my fellow passengers on the plane. Yet, even with that experience under my belt, I wasn’t prepared for the prickling sensations that radiated from the mob outside the church.
The murmur of voices vibrated through me like the buzz of a hive. The press of close-packed bodies seethed with a myriad of emotions. I penetrated the gathering, swallowing down sudden panic. Fists clenched, I gulped deep breaths of air so cold it scorched my lungs. Richard’s eyes bore into mine. Was he waiting for me to freak?
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Two policemen stood atop the church steps, keeping the horde of newsmen, photographers, and rubberneckers at bay. Private security had been hired, too. A man in a black overcoat checked the names of the mourners against a list on a clipboard. We didn’t bother to check in with him—he wasn’t about to let us in. With nothing much to see, I wandered through the crowd, eavesdropping.
Refused entry, a man spoke to a woman in low tones. “Matt and I were friends for over twenty years.”
“There’s no point hanging around,” she said. “Maybe United Way will have a memorial service for him.” She took the man’s hand and led him away.
I scanned the crowd and seemed to recognize one of the reporters, who stood with a still photographer, but I couldn’t place the face. I turned aside—didn’t want him to see me in case he recognized me, knowing I’d feel foolish when I couldn’t come up with his name.
Behind me a clique of young people stood huddled in a knot. “Do you think Diane even knows we’re here?” someone asked.
“I’ve never been turned away from a funeral before.”
“Like you’ve been to a million funerals,” her friend said.
A white hearse turned the corner, waiting for the crowd to part so it could stop by the church’s side entrance. I had to stand on tiptoe to watch as the funeral director and his associates escorted the bronze casket into the church. Where were the official pallbearers? This wasn’t like any funeral I’d ever seen or been part of.
Richard glanced at his watch. “Mass will be at least an hour long. You don’t want to wait until it’s over, do you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I should have done something. I should have asked people questions, but I didn’t know who to single out—or what to ask. If the people standing outside the church weren’t on the official attendees list, were they close enough to the victim to have known anything that would help me?
Richard stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Jeff, your cheeks are getting chapped. Your lips are practically blue. If I didn’t know better, I’d diagnose you as cyanotic.”
“Don’t you mean hypothermic?”
“Come on, let’s go home.”
I looked back at the crowd. He was right. Coming to the church had been a complete waste of time. Besides, Richard looked frozen.
“You win, old man. We may as well go before the cold settles in those arthritic bones of yours.” Truth was, I felt lousy, but I wasn’t about to admit it to him.
As we neared the edge of the crowd, I broke through a ribbon of triumph—the same as I’d felt in the dreams.
I whirled and scanned the blur of faces around me.
The killer was there. Somewhere.
I shouldered my way through the mourners, heading for the barred oak doors, but my inner radar had already switched off.
Organ music blared from loudspeakers mounted on the side of the building. Pain lanced my brain as I rushed forward, searching for someone I couldn’t even recognize.
The big doors banged shut behind a dark-coated figure. I dove for the brass handles, and a thick hand grabbed my wrist.
“Hold it, pal,” the officer said sharply. “Unless your name’s on the list—”
“I’ve got to get in there! It’s an emergency!”
“What kind of emergency?”
I stared into the cop’s skeptical face. “Who just went in?”
He glared at me.
“Please! It’s important.”
A hand grasped my shoulder. I spun around.
Richard. His eyes mirrored mine—an unspoken panic. “What is it?” he shouted over the music.
“The killer’s inside.”
He stared at me in disbelief. “Who?”
“I don’t know.”
I’d felt that presence, that gloating sense of triumph. Then the contact was gone—camouflaged by the mass of people still assembled on the steps, the trampled grass, and sidewalk.
o0o
Back in my room, I downed a couple of the little pink tablets and crawled onto my bed. My plan for the rest of the day was to keep a low profile. Richard hadn’t said a word to me on the short ride home. Maybe that was good. Then again, I didn’t like being condescended to either.
I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep, but my mind refused to rest. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d experienced at the church.
If I was going to work on this case—and that’s just what it had become to me—I’d have to approach it like one of my insurance investigations.
I got up, found a sheet of paper, and filled both sides, writing down everything I knew. Then, armed with a pair of scissors, I trucked out to the garage and the recycling bin to retrieve every newspaper article on the murder. I dumped the brain injury pamphlets in the trash, stashed the articles in the big kraft envelope, and deposited it in my bottom dresser drawer.
A fat phone book sat on the kitchen counter. I grabbed it and settled at the table to make a list of numbers. First up was the public library. Richard hadn’t offered me the use of his computer, and the Internet, and I wasn’t about to ask. I’d never been a sportsman, so I knew
next to nothing about deer hunting. I figured I’d better educate myself on the subject with some good old-fashioned books.
I called the Department of Motor Vehicles about a replacement copy of my driver’s license. With no ID, I was a non-person. I waded through the recording for what seemed like forever before speaking to a human being. Contrary to DMV lore, she was courteous and helpful. Good thing I’d gathered up so much potential ID. I’d need it to get a duplicate of my license.
Next on the agenda, I had to get started on the legwork before the trail got too cold. It was time to face the enemy.
Richard was in his study, parked behind the big desk, reading. He’d changed out of his mourning attire to yet another cashmere sweater and dark slacks, every inch the man of leisure.
I cleared my throat, feeling like a sixteen-year-old with a hot date and no wheels. “I need to borrow your car.”
“Are you crazy? You’ve admitted having hallucinations, your arm is in a cast, making you a danger on the road, and you want to borrow my car?”
“How else can I get around?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough excitement for one day?”
“Come on, Rich. I’m a good driver.”
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” His expression darkened in irritation. “And where would that be?”
“The cemetery. Then Orchard Park.”
“To do what?”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “To talk to people?”
“About Sumner? Why?”
“To find out who killed him, of course.”
“How are you going to pass yourself off?”
“What’s wrong with saying what I am—an insurance investigator.” This was beginning to feel like an interrogation.
“Because you’re not working for anyone at the moment. And misrepresenting yourself will cause trouble with the law.”
I stepped closer to his desk. “What do you suggest I do? I know things about this case.”
“It’s not your case!”
“What if the police never find who killed Sumner? Look, I have to do something. I know things about the situation—things I can’t explain knowing. Am I just supposed to sit around and do nothing while a murderer runs free?”