by Tom Savage
Anna …
No. He wouldn’t think about that now. Now there were things to do. He put the thought away, storing it in the sealed vault where he kept his most vivid memories.
He would wait until the writer turned the corner into the side street where he had parked his car, and then he would steal closer. He wanted to let the man feel his presence, be aware of him. He wanted Matthew Farmer to be afraid.
He wondered what the man was thinking about that would cause that odd look, that preoccupied, million-miles-away expression in his eyes.
He left the doorway and glided silently closer, reaching up inside his coat to finger the eight-inch blade in its sheath at his side. Perhaps I should forget about the game, he thought. Perhaps I should just finish it, right here.
Right now.…
17
The rain was the image that would not leave him. It had snowed for several days before, but then the snow turned to freezing rain. Not quite sleet: it was definitely liquid in form, falling uninterrupted throughout the night of Christmas Eve, and it continued on Christmas Day. Whenever he thought about it, which was every day of his life, he remembered the rain. That, and the bitter cold.
He had been in the warm bed in the warm apartment in Old Town, with the warm body of Judy beside him. He had gotten up and made breakfast for both of them, and it was all he could do to wake her. She had stood in the doorway waving, wrapped in a blanket, as he drove her battered old VW away through the cold rain, and he knew she would go back to bed as soon as the car was out of sight. But she had been the one to talk him into going to see his family on this holiday morning, and she waved from the doorway as a sign of encouragement. Dear, sweet, perfectly nice Judy, whom he would leave behind as he left Chicago behind. As he left Matthew Farmer behind. And all as a result of what he would find at the end of that morning’s twelve-mile journey. The end of his life. The end of Matthew Farmer.…
Mark came to a halt now at the corner of the side street where he had parked his car, and the memories of thirteen years ago abruptly left him. He stood there, feeling the chill of the evening. And something else, something he couldn’t quite define. He turned slowly around in a circle, his gaze sweeping the houses that lined the hillside street he had just descended. Porch lights glowed at the tops of picturesque steps, and he could see the two carriage lamps that framed O’Hara’s door, now far away up the hill. There were streetlights as well, and he could hear the low sound of voices from a television in the corner house beside him. Somewhere, away down the street he was just entering, a dog barked. He couldn’t see the dog or anything else in the darkness that surrounded him, the darkness punctuated only by those little porch lights. But everything seemed still, at peace: he was alone in the street.
Yet not alone. In that moment, as he stood there blinking at the darkness around him, Mark was overwhelmingly aware of the other presence. He was certain of it, as certain as he had ever been of anything.
Scavenger was here. Scavenger was very close by, watching him from the shadows. The tall man with the black hair and the scar down his face, the man who had reminded Marisa Ramos of the horror movie star. Mark could feel the man’s gaze boring into his skin. He fancied he could almost hear the man’s breathing, his heartbeat. He felt his malevolence, coming at him from everywhere at once, everywhere in the dark.
The writer in Mark came suddenly forward, filling his mind with vivid scenarios. Perhaps the man was waiting in one of the doorways, or crouched behind a car, clutching a long, sharp blade as he watched Mark’s progress down the street. Perhaps he would leap suddenly, silently, out of nowhere, everywhere, to grasp Mark in a viselike hold, forcing his head back as he whipped the cold steel across his throat. The blood would gush silently out, and Mark would fall to the sidewalk, choking, dying, as the huge, dark figure of Boris Karloff slithered quietly away into the darkness—
Mark took a slow, deep breath and let it out, thinking of the gun in the suitcase, locked in the trunk of the rented Chevy. Willing himself not to run, not to display anything that could be construed as panic, he walked forward through the deep shadows toward the car. It was parked halfway down the street, perhaps a hundred yards from the corner, and the walk seemed to take forever. The echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet, empty place, bouncing off the houses and parked cars as he passed them, doubling back on him. His own footsteps seemed to be following him.
Despite his best effort at composure, he actually ran the final few steps to the car, pulling the keys from his pocket as he went. He hurried around the car, and he was reaching down to unlock the driver’s door when he stopped short. He leaned over and pressed his face against the rear window, peering into the backseat. No, there was no figure concealed there. Of course not, he told himself. The car was locked. He actually chuckled to himself as he opened the door and slid onto the driver’s seat. The well-maintained engine came to life with the first turn of the key in the ignition. He switched on the headlights and reached for the gearshift.
He froze, staring. There, in the passenger seat next to him, was a little box wrapped in shiny black paper, decorated with a shiny black ribbon identical to the one that had wrapped the newspaper in Brooklyn yesterday. A big black bow was centered on the top. A bizarre, deliberate, cruel burlesque of the usual form: it was a funeral gift.
A gift from Scavenger. Scavenger had been here, in his locked car.
Mark moved. He would later wonder at his action, because he did not hesitate, did not even think about it. He slipped the car in gear, pulled out of the space, and drove quickly away down the hill. He turned left at the corner, then right at the next one. He made several more random turns, finding himself at last in a wide, well-lit avenue. He had no idea where he was going, or even in which direction. He was only aware of his sudden, overwhelming need to get away from here, to put distance between himself and Scavenger.
Somewhere very close to him, a telephone rang.
He slammed on the brakes, nearly causing a collision with a car pulling out from a street just ahead of him. He swerved to avoid the other vehicle and pulled over to the side of the avenue. He sat there, staring down at the black gift-wrapped box on the passenger seat. The ringing was coming from there.
He waited a moment until his heart stopped pounding. Then he grabbed the package and tore it open, sending black paper and ribbon flying all over the front of the car. The black-laquered box followed the paper, and the black tissue paper as well. He was now holding a black cellular telephone, and it was still ringing. He pushed up the antenna, turned the phone on, and pressed it to his ear. He said nothing; there was no point.
“Hello, Mr. Stevenson—or should I call you Mr. Farmer? Well, no matter. I’m sure you know who this is.”
It was a deep, resonant voice, as Mark had known it would be. There was something assured about it, direct, almost to the point of being sinister. Now it continued.
“This phone is a little token of my gratitude for playing the game with me. I want you to keep it with you, and to keep it on at all times. That way, we can talk to each other whenever we wish.”
Mark found his voice. “Whenever you wish, you son of a bitch!”
“Oh, come, now, Mr. Stevenson. Don’t be that way. But yes, that is correct. Whenever I wish. But you will be rewarded, remember. I promised you certain … information, and I always keep my promises. Always.”
“Who are you?” Mark shouted into the instrument. He knew the man was somewhere nearby; he wondered if the man could actually hear his frustrated cry without the phone. It was entirely possible. With this man, anything was possible.
“All in good time, all in good time,” came the smooth reply. “Do you know where you’re going next?”
“Yeah, sure,” Mark spat. “O’Hara delivered your message. What are you, some kind of phone freak?” Now Mark actually giggled.
“This game will not continue if you are rude to me again!”
The commanding voice reverberated through
out the small space of the car. It seemed to echo on and on, and when it finally died away, it was followed by an ominous silence. Mark froze again, staring at the flimsy instrument in his hand. The heavy, even breathing of the other man continued to emanate from it. After the long, horrible silence, the voice resumed, once more low, mellifluous, in perfect control.
“I trust we understand each other, Mr. Stevenson. You know where to go next. You are looking for a mask. You have twenty-four hours, beginning at midnight tonight. I’ll be in touch. Good night.”
The line went dead.
Mark stared at the phone again, and then he dropped it back onto the passenger seat. He sat perfectly still, staring ahead through the windshield at the nearly empty expanse of what he now realized was Pennsylvania Avenue. A few blocks ahead of him down the wide boulevard was the White House, the home of the President, the centerpiece of civilization. The symbol of democracy, of power, of control: all the things that he no longer had for as long as the scavenger hunt continued.
Then he started to scream. He shouted every foul word he’d ever heard, and he began rhythmically beating his fists hard against the steering wheel. He filled the car with deafening sound, possessed of a sudden, utterly uncontainable madness. A fury that had to be released, unleashed, on something, anything. The wheel, the seat, the entire car vibrated from the force of his blows. The cell phone slid from its place and landed with a thump on the carpet under the glove compartment. When he ran out of words to shout, he still continued screaming, uttering piercing, meaningless sounds from deep within him until he was out of breath. He saw spots in front of his eyes, and he knew that he was hyperventilating. And still the noise and the pounding went on and on, until they could go on no longer. The shouting gave way to whimpering, the pounding to soft, ineffectual slaps of his palms against the hard plastic wheel. His hands were numb, his voice hoarse and ragged.
The whimpers diminished into hard breathing as his impotent rage dispersed. The windshield and side windows were now a misty gray, fogged from his exertion. He dropped his heavy arms to his sides and sat there, drained, shaken, sweating. Defeated.
But not for long. He thought of his family, and of the other families; of what this meant. This game, this grotesque mockery of him, of all he had been through. The mist on the windows dispersed, clearing the way for him. He knew where he must go, what he must do. And he would do it: he would see this through.
Alone in the car on an avenue in Washington, D.C., Mark Stevenson drew himself up. He shifted the gears, grasped the steering wheel, and drove away into the night. Past the White House toward Union Station, where he would turn in the car and purchase a ticket on the overnight train to New Orleans. He could not fly with a gun in his suitcase, but he would get there as soon as possible. He would find Sarah Tennant, do whatever else Scavenger instructed. He had twenty-four hours to complete the next round.
He was going to win this game.
ARTICLE # 2
MASK
TUESDAY
18
Finding Sarah Tennant proved to be easy. Getting to her was another thing entirely.
New Orleans a few weeks after Mardi Gras has the distinct aura of a town that has recently been vacated. There is an unmistakable, unavoidable feeling that one is in a place where the parade has just passed by. Still, the local populace is reluctant to admit this: the streets are always colorful and charming, and the strains of zydeco and jazz and the tang of crawfish and jambalaya emanate from the brightly lit clubs and restaurants on every downtown corner. It is an inland port, surrounded by miles of wide river and dense forest punctuated with bayous that serve to give it an isolated feeling, even when it is brimming with revelers. Isolated, but never quiet. The truth about the city is that when the public party for guests is over, the private party continues throughout the year.
This was the town in which Mark arrived at noon on Tuesday. He emerged from the overnight train disoriented, trying to get his bearings, to remember what he could about the city. He’d been here once, years ago, but he barely recognized the place in what was essentially the off-season. He knew that the French Quarter was east of Union Passenger Terminal, where he was, and that he would find many small guest houses there in a wide variety of price ranges. He had already decided on looking for a good one in the medium range. That was his first task.
He found it on a relatively quiet little row off Decatur Street near Jackson Square. Mullins Guest House was just what he was looking for, and he thanked the cab driver for recommending it. There was a small foyer, actually a living room, and a dining room beyond it. One little downstairs room was a bar and cocktail lounge. Mrs. Mullins, a cheerful elderly woman with several cats, led him up the staircase and down a hall to an immaculate single room with a balcony above the front porch. She informed him that breakfast in the dining room was part of the package, and left him alone.
He took a quick shower and put on a clean shirt. Then he sat down on the bed and reached for the phone directory beside the guest telephone on the night table. He glanced at his watch: one-fifteen. He had exactly ten hours and forty-five minutes to find a mask.
He had some immediate luck. There were three Tennants listed in the phone book, and the first one he tried, a Mrs. Ada Tennant, was Sarah’s aunt. She and her late husband had taken Sarah in after the murders thirteen years ago. She sounded like a friendly woman, and she was perfectly nice at first. Then Mark told her that he was writing a nonfiction account of the crimes and that he wanted to speak with Sarah. At this point, Mrs. Tennant became more guarded.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “You obviously don’t know about Sarah. Well, she’s Sarah Gammon now. She married Robert Gammon, the lawyer. Perhaps you should talk to him. I don’t have his office number nearby, but it’s in the book. Chalmers and Gammon, over on Gravier. Call him, okay? He—he may be able to—to help you. Enjoy your stay in New Orleans, Mr.—uh—good-bye.”
She hung up so abruptly that Mark didn’t have time to thank her. He looked up the law firm, wondering why the woman had become so flustered. He dialed, wondering what Mrs. Tennant had meant, what it was he didn’t know about Sarah.
He was about to find out.
It took him a few minutes to get through to Gammon. He’d apparently just returned from lunch, and he had a client already waiting for an early afternoon appointment. The secretary who answered the phone was obviously the overly organized, fiercely protective type, and she was initially reluctant to let Mark speak to him at all. Mark finally prevailed by mentioning that he was a journalist working on the Family Man story. After a moment Robert Gammon came on the line. Not that it mattered.
“Absolutely not!” was Sarah’s husband’s immediate response when Mark had explained his errand. He had a low-pitched Southern drawl, the voice of a well-bred, educated, moneyed professional. There was also a band of iron in it: Mark was aware of that, too. When this man said no, he meant no.
But Mark had to try. “Mr. Gammon, this is very important to me, or I would never—”
“Look, Mr. Stevenson, that was the worst ordeal of Sarah’s life. She—she’s very fragile, and I can’t have anyone upsetting her. Especially now. I’m sorry, but your request is out of the question.”
No one else may know about the game. The words jangled in Mark’s mind once more, but he pushed them away as he made an impulsive decision born of desperation. As briefly and concisely as possible, he told the man about Scavenger, and about the “game” they were now playing. He went so far as to tell Robert Gammon that the mysterious Scavenger had as much as promised to reveal the identity of The Family Man.
There was a long pause then, and Mark knew that the man was considering all this. Mark could only imagine how Gammon and his wife would react to the prospect of learning the killer’s name. He held his breath, daring to hope for the best.
But it was not to be.
“I’m sorry,” Gammon said again. “I don’t want my wife involved in this.”
�
�Okay,” Mark said. “I understand. But I’ll leave my number here with your secretary. Please think about it, Mr. Gammon. I’ll be in New Orleans overnight. Call me if you change your mind. Thank you for your time.”
He was transferred back to the secretary, and he gave her the number of the guest house telephone. The cellular phone didn’t seem to have a number that he could find, and Scavenger had told him to keep the line open, anyway.
He was beginning to play the game almost automatically, he realized. A series of clues, a succession of locations, constant time limits: these things demanded a nimble brain, an ability to adapt quickly and efficiently to a variety of situations. He knew, as every journalist knows, that the first attempt to get a story may not be successful, and that fallback plans are often necessary. The people with the information were not always predictable. They had their own histories, their own agendas, their own ways of doing things. So it was with Robert Gammon, and Mark would have to adapt himself to that. He knew he could do it, and he knew that the mysterious, offstage character known to him only as Scavenger would expect it of him as well. So he would play the game as well as—better than—his opponent.
Now, in the room in the guest house near Jackson Square, Mark began to formulate Plan B. He had the address of the law firm from the directory, but no home address for Gammon. He figured that Gammon would leave the office between five o’clock and five-thirty. He intended to be outside the firm then, and he would follow him home. He reasoned that it would be much more difficult for Gammon to get rid of him on his doorstep. Besides, Sarah would be there, he presumed, and she might agree to speak with him.
Plan B was never finished, as it turned out. Exactly fifteen minutes after he’d completed his call to the law firm, the bedside telephone rang.
Robert Gammon had changed his mind, or, rather, his mind had been changed for him. But when Mark heard what the man had to say, he felt a thrill of apprehension.