The Dark House (30 page)

At that, Schecter reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back.

Tina gasped, and her eyes widened.

“But why?” Schecter demanded. “Why'd you pick on my friend here?”

Tina's breath came faster, and her head was at an awkward, painful angle. “Because Jerry
told
me to. The money was good. Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses, each.”

Schecter twisted her hair, making her gasp. “I don't give a shit about you—you got that? I know everything I want to know about you. You're a fucking whore. End of story.” Schecter bent down to her, thrust his face into hers. “What did Jerry get out of it? Why'd he want to fuck with my friend?”

“We didn't ask questions.”

Schecter let go of her hair, stepped back and slapped her hard across the face, leaving an angry red mark. “Don't give me that.”

Tina squirmed and whimpered a little. Tears spurted down her cheeks. “Okay! Okay—just don't—just don't hurt me anymore. There was money.”

“Whose?”

“I don't know.”

Schecter whacked her again. Harder this time. A slim line of blood trickled down from her left nostril. Rollins winced, but he didn't dare try to restrain Schecter, who loomed over Tina. “I'm not going to ask you again,” Schecter said.

Terror was in Tina's eyes as she looked up at Schecter now. “Okay, goddamnit. Okay. It seemed like a big inheritance or something like that. Somebody was dying, and there was a lot of money involved. And you”—she lifted her eyes toward Rollins—“might screw it up somehow. That's all I know.”

“Go see if you can find a pair of pliers,” Schecter told Rollins. “We're not getting anywhere with this bitch.”

“Wait,” Rollins said. He dabbed at her nosebleed with a tissue he'd found. “Who was dying?”

“Like I said, he never told us.”

Schecter leaped at Tina, ready to smack her again, but Rollins held him back.

“Was it Cornelia?” Rollins asked. “Cornelia Blanchard?”

“He never gave any name.”

“She's holding out on us,” Schecter scowled.

“It was a woman,” Tina added hastily. “It was a woman, I know that much.” Her eyes stayed on Schecter.

“But where?” Rollins asked. “Where was she?”

“Shit, I don't know. I can't even think straight anymore. Some place near Boston. Waltham, Brookline. One of those.”

Schecter moved closer, his hand raised.

“Al, please,” Rollins stepped between Tina and the detective.

Tina looked up at Rollins imploringly. “Please, Rollins—Ed—don't let him hit me again! Jerry was always going in to town. That's all I know.”

“He ever say anything about a fax?” Rollins asked.

“A fax?” Tina scoffed. “Shit no.” Then she braced herself, obviously terrified of Schecter.

“Hang on a second, Al.” Rollins pulled up a wooden chair and sat down beside her. There was something he had to know, and he thought he might get more if he spoke to her from her level. “Did Jerry ever mention my father to you?” Just to say the words “my father” in this room under these circumstances made Rollins feel that he had committed a terrible betrayal. His insides went hollow as Tina squirmed, but she said nothing.

“I'll get the pliers,” Schecter said. “I'm getting tired of this.” He started to go into the kitchen. “Rip her nightie off—we gotta get going here.”

“No! Wait!” Tina shrieked. “Yes. Yes, he did. Once.”

Rollins' whole body filled with dread. “You're sure?”

Tina nodded.

“What exactly did he say?”

“I went to his house one time a few weeks ago, and Jerry was just getting off the phone, and he looked real tired, and he said your dad was a hard man to work for.”

The words seemed to have disabled Rollins' brain for a moment.

“Jerry Sloane's working for my father?” he asked. “For my
father
?”

“That's what it sounded like.” She said this casually, as if it were an insignificant detail.

Schecter yelled at her: “Give it up, you fucking bitch!”

“That's all I know, I swear.” She started to whimper again. “Please don't hurt me.” She turned back to Rollins. The blood from her nose had started to flow again, over her upper lip this time, but he merely
stared at her, transfixed. “He called him Henry,” she went on. “I had to ask him who Henry was, and that's when he told me, your father. That's right, isn't it? Your father is named Henry, right?”

Rollins nodded, but he still didn't follow. “What do you mean, ‘work for'? How could Jerry Sloane possibly be working for my father?” Even after the photograph from the dark house, it seemed inconceivable. Sloane could have known his father, sure. Sloane could have talked to his father. Sloane could have attended drug-infested orgies with his father. But Sloane could not have worked for his father. Not on this.

“For the money—the inheritance,” Tina said. “At least, that's how Wayne figured it. We sent Jerry reports.”

“Reports?”

 

Those tortoiseshell glasses of his father's, very thin and elegant, and the unusual way he read, his head up slightly, trying to maintain the correct focal distance, as if disdainful of text.

 

“Yeah, sometimes written, sometimes over the phone. Telling him what you were up to. Who you'd been with, where you went, like that.”

“But why?”

“He didn't tell us why! Okay?”

Schecter stepped closer.

The blood was trickling down over her mouth to her chin. Rollins swiped it away with the tissue. “All right, listen to me,” Rollins said, boring in on her. Another question had been building inside him. “One last thing. Did Jerry ever mention my mother, Jane Rollins?”

“Your
mother
?” Tina looked startled for a second, then her eyes softened into a fleeting look of sympathy before she shook her head. “Not that I heard. Just the dad, and just that one time.” Then, more quietly, she added: “Anyways, it's all over now, whatever it is.”

“What makes you say that?” Rollins asked, puzzled.

“Jerry told me I was all done.”

“Why?”

“I keep telling you—
I don't ask questions
. He paid me my money.
I'm done. I'm moving my stuff out of that apartment this afternoon.” She looked at Rollins, then Schecter. “That's it. Everything. You gotta believe me.”

“Course we believe you,” Schecter said. He went into the kitchen, and Rollins heard him rummaging through drawers.

“What's he doing?” Tina asked, frightened all over again. “What's he gone to get?”

“I don't know,” Rollins told her.

Schecter came back into the room with a long, serrated knife.

“Don't let him hurt me!” Tina shouted when she saw it.

“This is all I could find,” he said, casually. “Lucky for you.”

“Al, please,” Rollins said. “I think she's told us all she knows.”

But Schecter brushed off Rollins and held the knife in front of the bound Tina's eyes. “Take a good look.” He brought the tip of the blade down her nose, then down across her lips to her chin, then, trailing a thin white line down behind, dragged it down her throat to the neckline of her nightie. “You can fuck with him,” Schecter told her, “but you better not fuck with me.” He scraped lightly at the pale skin between her breasts. “You understand me? This is the end of it, right here. No more. Got it?”

Tina nodded.

Turning the knife sideways, Schecter brought the tip of the blade down the light fabric. It descended with a purring sound, over her belly, down to her crotch. Tina squirmed slightly to see it there, deep in the fold between her open legs. Schecter picked at the hollow with the knife tip, dimpling the fabric by her vagina. Tina's eyes were fastened on the knife as her chest heaved. She strained, trying to wriggle farther back in her chair, but the tape securing her ankles held her rigidly in place.

“Scared?” Schecter asked.

Tina nodded.

Schecter got a better grip on the knife and gently pressed. “Really scared?”

Tina flinched and sucked in some air. She nodded again.

“Good. Remember that feeling.”

Schecter bent down before her, blocking Rollins' view. He heard a ripping sound, then another. He expected screams, but heard none.

“There,” Schecter said, standing up. He'd released her feet. He went around to the back of the chair, and with another slice of the knife freed her hands.

Tina stood up, clutching her rumpled nightie to her chest. Scraps of tape still surrounded her wrists like a pair of bracelets. “Fucking bastards,” she said. The tears were streaming down her face, and the blood was dribbling from her nose onto the carpet

“It was nice to meet you, too,” Schecter said as he led Rollins out the front door.

Schecter shut the door behind them, then lit up a cigar as soon as he was outside on the walkway. “Decent piece of work, that,” he said.

Rollins could barely contain his fury. “You didn't have to hit her. You heard her—it was over. She was willing to tell me what she knew.”

“What do you know?” Schecter said, taking a satisfied puff. “She's a piece of shit. Okay? That's what she is. You want to get the truth from a piece of shit like that, that's how you do it. You don't act nice. You scare the crap out of 'em. It's the only way.”

“You lied to me.”

“Listen to you,” Schecter said, chuckling.

“You said you wouldn't hurt her.”

“So she cried a little. Big deal. Maybe she'll smarten up next time. The point is, we got what we needed. You can stop running now. We're hitting back. And if you ask me, it's about fucking time.”

Rollins would have argued with him, but he didn't see the Nissan where he'd left it behind Schecter's Cressida. He was suddenly afraid that something terrible had happened, but then he heard a horn honk, and he saw the Nissan come up around the corner, with Marj at the wheel. “I thought it would be better to wait around the corner, out of sight,” she told him when she pulled up.

Rollins told her they'd found out everything from Tina that they could, but they didn't tell her how.

“Can I see my mom now?” Heather asked from the backseat.

“Of course,” Rollins told her. He helped her out of the car, and
took her by the hand up the sidewalk. To his relief, Tina didn't appear when he rang the doorbell. But the door was still unlocked, so Rollins opened it and stepped inside with Heather.

“Mommy?” Heather called out from behind him.

Tina appeared at the head of the stairs. The nosebleed had stopped, but her eyes were red with tears, one side of her face was still raw from where Schecter had struck her, and her whole body looked limp.

“Hi, Mommy,” Heather said. “Mister took me to the beach.”

“Get the hell out of here,” Tina told Rollins.

“He took me to the beach, Mommy. We had a nice time.”

“Look,” Rollins said. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“Just go.”

Heather looked at him. “It'll be okay,” she whispered to him. “She gets like this. Don't worry.”

“I said, go!” Tina roared from the top of the stairs.

“If anything happens, leave a message for me with Marj Simmons.” He gave Heather the number and spelled the name for her, just in case. “If you forget, the number's in the Boston phone book, or call 411 for information. Okay?”

“I'll be okay.” Heather gave him a hug. “Bye, mister.”

 

Marj and Rollins had a quick lunch in the Ritz cafe while Rollins filled her in on Tina's revelations—carefully omitting the part about Schecter's rough tactics in obtaining them. Marj went pale when he told her that his father might be actively involved. “Jesus, Rolo,” she told him, slowly shaking her head. “Your
father
? He's behind all this shit?”

Rollins could barely speak. “It looks that way.”

Seeing her narrowed eyebrows and tightened lips, Rollins was afraid he was losing her. He reached for her hand. “Hang in with me, Marj, please,” Rollins begged her. “I need you.”

“Okay, Rolo. But God—”

When they returned to the room, the message light was on. “From a Mr. Schecter,” the Ritz clerk said when Rollins called down. “He says
he traced the fax number. It belongs to the Holy Name Hospice, six twenty-eight Franklin Street in Watertown.”

“Hospice?” Marj asked when Rollins relayed the information. “What the hell is that?”

“It's where people go to die,” Rollins said.

I
t was well after three when Rollins and Marj reached Watertown square, its ancient millworks by the Charles surrounded by modern office buildings and strip malls, and everything bright in the afternoon sun. Franklin was a side street a few blocks from the center of town. He spotted a parking space on Arsenal, the main thoroughfare, and he was pulling over to parallel park when he noticed the Audi behind them. A dark blue, he could see now. Not black. It was idling by the side of the road a half block back. And a slim man was driving.

“What?” Marj started to glance back behind her.

“Don't turn around. He's straight behind us. The Audi.”

Marj gave out a groan.

“I'm pulling out.” As soon as Rollins started to move again, he
could see in the rearview that the Audi was starting up, too. “He's following us.”

“Goddamnit!” Marj slapped her thigh. “What is wrong with them?”

Rollins clenched the wheel as he sped down Arsenal to the next light, then, with a quick glance behind to the Audi in his rearview, he pulled into the Arsenal Mall. At this hour on a weekday, the parking lot was nearly empty.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“There.” Rollins bobbed his head toward a narrow passageway between the mall's two wide buildings. It led to a second lot behind, Rollins knew, and he made straight for it.

“Look out!” Marj pointed to an eighteen-wheeler rumbling toward the passageway ahead of them.

Rollins jammed down the accelerator and felt himself thrust back in his seat as the Nissan charged ahead. A few pedestrians turned and stared. Trailing a cloud of exhaust, the delivery truck roared on toward the passageway.

Marj grabbed the dashboard.

Rollins floored it. The needle tipped toward seventy.

“You're not going to make it!”

The truck was just about to pull in to the passageway, leaving no room for the Nissan.

With one last burst of speed, Rollins charged forward and nipped in front of the truck, which braked and let out a furious blast from its horn as the Nissan flew past. The earth fell away as the passageway dipped underneath them, and then a terrible scraping thud as the belly of the Nissan smacked on the slight rise on the far side.

He almost didn't see the little VW coming.

“Rolo!” Marj whipped her arms up in front of her face.

He slammed on the brakes and pulled hard to the right. There was a screech of tires under him, and he could feel the Nissan slipping sideways, out of control. The Nissan's rear was spinning out toward the Beetle, but Rollins twisted the wheel back the other way, regaining some purchase. He braced himself for a crash—but none came. By a
miracle, the Nissan slipped by, leaving another cacophony of honking behind him.

“What about the Audi?”

Marj dropped her arm from in front of her face and craned her neck around. “Gonzo. No, wait! There!” She pointed behind them.

Tina must have called Jeffries, and he was taking out his rage on the only enemy he knew. The gaunt man made no effort to conceal himself now. It was personal. Rollins could feel the hatred, rising up like the heat off the asphalt. The terror that Schecter visited upon Tina was being returned to them.

Rollins stepped on the gas, and the Nissan shot ahead to the far end of the mall. Tires screaming again, he pulled a sharp left around the building, and sped to the rear mall entrance. But the light was red and Rollins had to slow. His heart pounded, and the side of his neck throbbed.

“He's catching up!” Marj said, her head twisted around behind. “He's almost on us!”

The cars were streaming by in front of them, but Rollins saw a slight gap in the traffic and gunned the Nissan across the wide avenue, causing drivers from both directions to slam on the brakes and lean on their horns. On either side, Rollins could see their faces contort in fury as the sound of squealing tires rose up all around him. But, again, the Nissan slipped through unscathed.

“He still coming?”

Marj twisted back around again. “I don't see him.”

Rollins hooked his first left, sped down two streets and then cut right. “He there?”

“No.”

Rollins pulled in behind a Dumpster and eased back into his seat. Sweat poured off him, and every pulse was racing. When he closed his eyes, he still saw cars careening toward him, but, as he sat there, breathing, the sight gave way to other flickering scenes from farther away—distant houses, shadows, and then Neely again, darting through the trees, her blond hair streaming behind her.

 

Catch me, catch me if you can!

 

Marj massaged her temples. “Now
I
'm going to get a migraine.”

Rollins glanced back, but his view was blocked by the Dumpster. “We lost him, right?”

“Yeah. Back at the light.” Marj unbuckled her seat belt and shifted around in her seat to face him. There was sweat on her cheeks and across her forehead. “Christ Almighty. I thought for sure we were going to get blasted.” He saw something different in her eyes when he glanced over. Before, she'd always seemed to look slightly askance, as if she were trying to make up her mind about him. But now, as she stared at him straight on, it seemed that she'd decided something. “You're a helluva driver,” she said.

Rollins waited there, resting, trying to find the calmness that would allow him to continue. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he leaned over and planted a kiss on Marj's hair. “Thanks.”

He started the car back up and, still watching for the Audi, wound back to Franklin Street. He pulled into a municipal garage. “I doubt he'll look for the car in here,” Rollins said.

“Wait—you're not still going in.”

“It's the only way, Marj.” Schecter had been right about one thing. He couldn't keep running forever. He took the ticket from the automatic dispenser. “We have to find whoever was sending those faxes.”

“He might be waiting for us inside. He must know why you're coming here.”

“It's a hospice, Marj. He can't go after us in there. It's too public.”

“I think we should call the police.”

“And tell them what?” He could imagine the smirking reports on the evening news—
A stalker today came to the police with bewildering claims of being stalked himself.
He'd be lucky if the police didn't arrest him on the spot—if they didn't put him in a psychiatric hospital for observation. “No, thank you.” Rollins pulled in to a space up on the second level, toward the back. He undid his seat belt and pulled back the door handle, then turned back to Marj. “Coming?”

Marj slowly undid her seat belt. “We could have gotten killed back there, you know. That VW, Rolo—did you see how close it came?”

“I did,” he said. He closed his eyes for a moment.

He climbed out of the car and went around behind to help Marj out. But she'd already gone on ahead, her running shoes squeaking slightly on the glossy floor of the garage. He hurried after her and caught up to her just inside the doorway to the stairs. She reached for his hand, pulled him to her, and hugged him tightly. “Just hold me for a second.”

He patted her back, stroked her hair. “It'll be all right,” he whispered. Finally, her grip eased.

“I get scared sometimes,” Marj told him. She opened her hand as if grasping for something. “I mean,
Jesus
. I don't care about this dying person, Cornelia. I just want to get away from these people.”

Her eyes had reddened, and her nose had started to run. Rollins dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and he helped her blow her nose. That made her smile a little. “I was thinking of having your friend Schecter try to trace my dad for me, you know. I was going to ask him last night at dinner. But then I thought, no. I really don't want to know. Wherever he went, he has his reasons. I don't want to drag him back.” She looked over at him. “You're being very brave, you know. When I said you were serious before, well, I meant it as a compliment. Most people keep their eyes closed their whole lives. They don't look because they're afraid of what they might see. But not you, Rolo. Your eyes are always wide open.” She raised herself up on tiptoe. She kissed his eyes. First one, then the other. Her lips were soft against his eyelids. She leaned against him. “Can't we go back to the hotel, Rolo? I'm
really
scared. Let's just forget about this whole hospice thing. I don't
care
who's there. I don't care about the faxes.” She whispered in his ear: “I'd kind of like to be in bed with you right now.”

That stirred him. He stroked her cheek and swept some hairs off her forehead. Still, he said: “Later, all right? There's one more thing we have to do.”

 

The hospice was a three-story Victorian about three blocks in from Arsenal Street. It must have been grand once. Now, the front door was patched with plywood. It was a terrible place to die. Rollins held Marj's
hand as they hurried up the sidewalk. He scanned the streets, but saw no sign of the Audi. He pulled open the door without pressing the buzzer and found himself in a small, paneled vestibule where an industrial fan moved the humid air. A nun in a black habit sat behind a desk reading a paperback.

Rollins glanced back through the window to the street behind him to check for Jeffries one last time. The nun was watching him intently when he turned back to her. “Everything all right?” she asked in that overly solicitous way that Rollins associated with the religious. Rollins assured her he was fine and explained that he was here to see someone.

“Might I ask who?” The nun pulled out a typed sheet from a manila folder.

“Cornelia Blanchard.” He could barely force out the words.

The nun glanced down at the sheet, then looked up at Rollins again. “I'm sorry. I don't see that name here.”

“She may be here under another name,” Rollins said desperately. He tried to steal a glance at the sheet, but the nun pulled it back toward her ample bosom. “I'm sorry, but this is private information.”

“But I need to see her. It's terribly important.”

“I'm sorry. Without a name—”

“Look, someone has been sending us strange faxes from this address,” Marj began.

The nun looked from Rollins to Marj and then back again. “I think I'll need to speak to Monsignor Crandel.” She picked up the telephone.

“Thanks for your help.” Marj pushed through the door just to her left.

The nun put down the receiver and stood up. “Excuse me. You're not allowed in there, miss.”

But Marj did not stop. Rollins could hear her footsteps continuing on as the door closed behind her.

“Wait here.” The nun threw out a hand and froze Rollins with a fierce look, then passed through the door after Marj, calling out for her again to stop. The moment the nun was gone, Rollins climbed the staircase to his right, beside a portrait of a cardinal. The steps were covered only with a thin rubber mat, and they creaked slightly with each step. He ascended slowly, so as not to alarm anyone.

A male nurse with a ponytail was standing by the door at the top of the stairs. “I thought I heard some sort of disturbance downstairs.”

“Oh, some girl barged in acting crazy,” Rollins said.

“Yeah, we get that here,” the nurse replied wearily.

Rollins kept on, saying he mustn't be late because his mother was expecting him.

“And who's that?” the nurse called after him.

But Rollins pretended not to hear. He continued briskly down the narrow hall, which opened into a common room where a few older people in bathrobes sat slumped in the chairs. Rollins thought of his mother's retirement center in Hartford, and the ghostly pallor of its residents. It was awful to see death hovering over everyone like a black angel. Rollins approached an elderly man, unshaven, who was reading a book with enlarged type. “Excuse me, sir, I'm looking for Cornelia Blanchard. Is she here, do you know?”

The man looked up at him, his eyes glassy, his skin cinched tight about the bones of his face. “What's that?” An ear stuffed with a hearing aid swiveled toward Rollins.

“My name is Rollins. Someone from here has been sending me faxes,” he repeated. “I believe they're from my cousin, Cornelia Blanchard. We called her—”

“Rollins, you say?” the man asked hoarsely.

“That's right.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

The male nurse caught up to Rollins and asked him his mother's name. “Maybe I can help you find her.” There was an edge to his voice this time.

When a few other people turned to look, Rollins ignored the nurse and turned to them and identified himself. “I'm looking for Cornelia Blanchard. Slim, average height, brownish hair. It may have gone gray.” It was so pathetic that he didn't even know what she looked like. “She might be here under another name. She's been sending me faxes.” He looked from face to face, hoping to see someone he recognized. “Any of you?”

They all slowly shook their heads, obviously mystified. They might have been a herd of cows.

“Her
name
, sir?” the nurse demanded.

“Cornelia Blanchard!” Rollins shouted back. “We sometimes call her Neely.”

“I'm sorry, sir, there's no one—”

Rollins turned away. Farther on down another hall, he could see a room with a lot of plants hung in the windows, and afternoon light pouring through. He moved toward the light, as toward the opening of a cave. He came to a small kitchen area, and a few younger people, not much more than fifty, were having breakfast at a table by the stove. “I'm looking for a woman who's been sending me faxes.”

“Those went to you?” one of them interrupted. It took Rollins a moment to realize that it was a woman. Her head was bald, but she wore lipstick and stud earrings. She was sipping coffee out of a lipstick-stained mug. “Hell, I didn't think anybody actually
got
those,” she said in a raspy voice.