The Dark House (19 page)

Through the telephone, he heard Al take a pull on a cigar. Rollins could almost see him: the shaggy eyebrows over black eyes narrowed on his favorite Macanudo as he hollowed his cheeks. He must have exhaled, because a rustling noise came on the line. “When the money comes out, they all grab for it, don't they?”

“I suppose.” Rollins didn't like to think about the deceits practiced by one generation against the next. It was getting stuffy inside, and he opened the telephone booth door slightly to let in a little of the cool night air.

“How long has it been, anyway?” Schecter asked.

Rollins thought for a moment, counted back to 1993. “It'll be seven years this September.”

“Well, there you go.”

Rollins felt a slight chill of annoyance. Schecter always liked to make those sorts of oracular pronouncements that left him scrambling. “I don't follow.”

“Probate's coming up. In most states, if a person is missing for seven years, they're considered dead for the purposes of probating the will. It's fourteen in Massachusetts, but seven's the rule in New Hampshire. No wonder the mice are starting to scurry. Your uncle Georgie must have figured he had to make a move, or he'd lose the house. It must be worth a shitload by now.”

“Half a million, anyway, with all the land.” There were over fifty acres.

“There you go,” Schecter said again, and took another puff.
“There could have been family heirlooms and all sorts of shit inside, too, that they didn't want to get away.”

And Sloane the go-between, Rollins thought. An image of him, with his thick hair, stocky build, and tight smile spread across Rollins' mind.

“Who'd Cornelia leave her stuff to, you ever find out?” Schecter asked.

“Her lawyer wouldn't talk.” It was an older man, very starchy, as Rollins recalled. Eliot someone. He'd agreed to an interview, much to Rollins' surprise, and then wouldn't tell him a thing.

“They're not supposed to, but sometimes you can get to them.”

 

A fingertip on his chin, then on the tip of his nose, and the brightest smile. The whole universe swirling around Neely's fingertip, wherever it touched. At the beach, is that where they were? Or on the lawn? Or was it indoors? Just a fingertip, that's all. Her fingertip, on him.

 

It could be irritating to have such memories bubble up from nowhere, especially the ones he couldn't quite track. Some aspects came through so clearly—an expression, a feeling. He could still feel that fingertip on him, as if it were there even now. But other points, like the exact place or time or person, were lost in the watery blur that marked the limit of his awareness. They made him long to go back and relive the experience, so he could see everything more clearly.

“You still there?”

“I'm here.”

“Thought I lost you for a second. Look, the will's basic, kiddo. Find out. The family must know, or they wouldn't be doing this. I'll bet my left one Cornelia named somebody outside the family. Obviously, it isn't one of them.”

“What about the fax number?”

“That's a son of a bitch and it's going to take some time. I got to take a boat in tonight for an overhaul, and you don't want to hear the rest of it. But I got the name of that guy with the Audi for you. Got a pencil?”

Rollins ripped a page out of the directory and pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket. “Okay.”

“Wayne R. Jeffries. He lives in Somerville, at two forty-three Braddock Street. He last renewed his license just six months ago, so the address should be pretty fresh. I got a phone number if you want it.”

“Please.”

Schecter gave him the number, and Rollins jotted it down, too.

Schecter took another puff. “You don't recognize the name, I take it.”

“No.”

“I did a background check on the guy for you. Get this. He served some time in Concord for aggravated assault. A beef over some broad in a bar. Your guy Jeffries pulled a knife, stuck it in the other guy's eye and got himself five years. Got out couple years ago.”

Rollins winced. “Into his
eye
?”

“That's my information. Maybe he didn't like the way the guy was looking at his girlfriend. Who the fuck knows? Here's the better question: Why's he after you?”

“I told you—I haven't any idea.”

“I smell bullshit, Rollins. Real heavy bullshit.”

“Honestly, I don't.” It was the truth, and yet it was not the truth. It was simply all the truth he could know or say right then.

“It doesn't have to do with this Cornelia thing, does it?”

And there it was. He shivered to hear Cornelia's name mentioned in this context. It was as if he were watching her get snatched right in front of him: She's walking down Pelbourne in the rain. A car comes out of nowhere, wipers beating. She's drawn inside. The car vanishes.

“I wish I knew,” Rollins said finally.

“Well, watch yourself. Don't try anything smart. Get me? And let me know what happens. I could use some excitement. I already got laid this month.”

 

The Somerville exit off 93 was marked by a car wash. Coming from the other direction, Rollins had last taken it the night he first followed the Audi to the dark house. This time, he felt he was traveling back in time, tracing the string of events back to their source.

 

A flash of red in the trees, and golden hair streaming behind, and a high, laughing voice. “Catch me, Eddie! Betcha can't!” And his own breath, and tiny thumping heart, and his high-tops beating on the forest floor as he rushed along. Search, she'd called it. She'd empty her pockets, leaving a trail of coins for him to follow her deep into the woods behind their house. Summer evenings, usually. Dusk settling around the trees. He'd pick up coin after coin. But just as he was about to reach her, she'd take off on her long legs. Squealing with laughter while he chugged after. He'd chase and chase.

 

Braddock Street lay off Highland Avenue, just past Somerville City Hall. Rollins slowed as he turned down the narrow street, the front yards bounded on either side by hurricane fences. It was nearly ten, but a few people were still out on their front steps, sipping a drink or having a smoke in the listless night air. Rollins drove slowly enough to hear the murmur of conversations and the buzz of the air conditioners as he tried to pick out the house numbers. Number 243 was four blocks down on the right-hand side. The shades were pulled on the front, but Rollins could see that a few lights were on behind. There was no sign of the Audi. It made his heart pump to see the place, and he had to drive once around the block to calm himself. He parked in front of the next house past Jeffries', killed the engine, and turned off the headlights. He twisted the rearview mirror so that he could zero in on the front of 243, and waited.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. No one came or went; no more lights came on, and none turned off. It was coming up on 10:30. Rollins needed to check on Marj. It troubled him that he hadn't reached her this evening.

He revved up the car again, took a right, and continued on down to Union Square where Rollins had first encountered the Audi. There was a pay phone by the Exxon station across from the newsstand where he had been idling that night. He tried Marj's number, but, once again, he got only her answering machine. Its chirpy outgoing message was no consolation for him now. He dialed 911, and a brisk dispatcher got on the line.

“I'd like to report a murder,” Rollins replied.

“Can you give me your location please?” the dispatcher asked with new urgency.

“Somerville. Two forty-three Braddock Street, near the corner of Ivory.”

There was a pause on the line, and Rollins could hear the dispatcher relay the information. Satisfied that it had been recorded accurately, Rollins replaced the receiver on its hook and returned to his car. He hooked a right, and then cut back over to Highland and retraced his route to Braddock Street. This time he parked around the far corner from 243. He waited until he heard the approaching sirens, then got out of his car to watch from beside a drooping acacia tree at the corner. There were two police cars, and they both pulled up by the house, their lights flashing, and three uniformed policemen raced up over the grass with guns drawn. One pressed the buzzer while another rapped heavily on the front door. Finally, the door opened, and a slim, tall man appeared. When the bright light swinging around from one of the police cars caught his face, Rollins could see the slight mustache. It was the gaunt man, after all. With that, Rollins returned to his car and took a right back up Braddock, staying well within the speed limit so as to attract no notice.

 

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into his space at the Hanover Street garage, grateful, as always, to find it there, untrespassed upon by some out-of-towner. Out on the sidewalk, he had to cross Hanover to avoid a drunk weaving past the metal-shuttered storefronts. Rollins' own head was heavy from fatigue, and he instinctively glanced behind him a couple of times, even though he had just left the gaunt man in ticklish circumstances in Somerville.

He slid the key into the lock of his apartment building and pushed open the front door. He swept up a couple of items of mail from the foyer table and placed them in his inside jacket pocket without opening them. The hall light was still out, and, with some annoyance, he'd groped about halfway up the creaky stairs in the near darkness when the door to the Mancusos' apartment blew open and, in the bright light from the doorway, two streaks of color came his way. “Here he is—
finally!” exclaimed the first one, a deep brown. It was Tina, he could see once she stopped by the banister, her dark face tipped down toward him. “We were waiting for you.”

Rollins had vowed to keep clear of Tina, and he would have kept right on going except for the other color, an unmistakable auburn, that hung by the apartment door. It was Marj. She seemed slightly flushed, from the heat he imagined. She was wearing a rumpled T-shirt and running shorts, and one hand was up by her mouth. The realization that Marj was
here
—in the upstairs hall of his own apartment building—was almost more than he could bear. “Marj!” he shouted, and surged up the stairs toward her.

He might have repeated the name again if Marj hadn't replied, without any exuberance, “Hi.”

“I didn't know you had a girlfriend,” Tina said.

“I'm not his girlfriend,” Marj said.

Rollins wished she hadn't said that quite so quickly. Now, he didn't dare go any closer to her. “It's good to see you,” he told her, although his words sounded stiff even to him. “I tried to call, but you didn't answer. Is everything—is everything all right?”

Tina put her arm around Marj. “She had a scare, poor thing.”

Rollins took a step toward her. “What happened?”

“I got a call, Rolo, at my apartment,” Marj explained hesitantly. “A man's voice. It said, ‘Hello, Marj.'”

“Maybe you shouldn't go into this in front of—”

“It's okay, we've talked,” Tina assured him.

“It was him.”

Rollins didn't follow. “Who?”

“
Sloane
.” Marj was angry now.

Sloane,
again
.

“It sounded just like that prick.” Marj fell silent for a moment. “'Hello, Marj.'” she repeated. “That's all. Click.” She mimed hanging up the phone. “It scared the
shit
out of me. He used my
name,
Rolo. He knew how to
reach
me. He knows where I
live
.” Her lower lip quivered as if she was going to cry. “He's in on these weird faxes, I just know it. This whole thing, Rolo, is getting to be too fucking much.”

Rollins moved toward Marj to comfort her, but Tina stepped out and blocked his path. “She's not feeling too good right now.”

Rollins glanced over at Marj; she did not meet his gaze.

“But hey, you should've seen her when she got here.” Tina rolled her eyes. “Whew.”

“What do you suppose he wanted?” Rollins asked.

“To scare the hell out of me,” Marj said. “Which he did. I was just coming out of the shower, Rolo. I hardly had any clothes on. I zipped right out of there.”

“And you came here?” That was the only hopeful sign.

“I didn't know where else to go.”

Rollins could tell that Tina was listening intently, and it annoyed him.

“Actually,” Tina interrupted. “Marjie and I've gotten to know each other real well.” She retreated toward Marj and dropped an arm over her shoulder. “Haven't we?”

“We've talked.”

“About you, Rolo.” Tina landed on the name, causing Rollins' blood pressure to rise. “You're a pretty interesting guy. Seems you like to go driving.”

“Marj!”

“Come on—what difference does it make now?” Marj said. “Everybody knows all about you.”

Rollins sat down on the top stair. He was so close to his apartment door right now. He longed to pass through that door, set his locks and burglar alarm, and drop into bed. It would be so wonderful to lie between cool sheets right now, with nothing but silence and darkness for company.

“There's something else, Rolo.” Marj came over to him quietly. This time, up close, Rollins could see that her eyes were rimmed with red, and a huskier scent dulled the sweetness of her perfume. “This came in on the office fax after you left.” She pulled out a folded-up sheet of fax paper from the pocket of her rumpled shorts and handed it to him.

Rollins took it from her. The words were handwritten. “Seen your
father lately?” the note read in a loosely flowing script.

His
father
? He rubbed his temples again.

“Well, have you?” Marj asked.