The Dark House (8 page)

“I was fired.”

“Well, whaddya know. I thought
I
was the only one at Johnson who'd ever been fired.”

“It's a long story.” Rollins could still see the balding Grant Bowser gesturing angrily toward him in the glassed-in managing editor's office, while outside in the newsroom all the staffers continued to work away at their desks, pretending not to notice. “The short of it is, I wasn't much of a reporter.”

“And the long version?”

“I wasn't much of a writer, either.”

Marj smiled. “Well, I guess you did have a problem.”

Rollins was glad that she could see the humor of the situation. “It was more than reporting and writing, actually. It had to do with
what
I reported, and
what
I wrote. I'd have been fine if I'd stuck to my real estate column. But I tried to branch out, and I got into some trouble.”

She stared at him a moment. “Am I supposed to beg you to tell me about it? Is that what I do now?”

Rollins took a breath and began. “It was about a woman who disappeared six, seven years ago,” he began. “She'd been living in Londonderry, New Hampshire, and then, well, and then she wasn't anywhere. She hasn't been seen since.” He explained that he hadn't gotten on to the story until she'd been gone for almost two years. He spent months on it. He could have written a book. He turned in something like 125 pages, which at a paper like the
Beacon
was ridiculous. He might have dropped an encyclopedia on his editor's desk. That was Grant Bowser, a slender, bespectacled gentleman with possibly too great a fondness for bright bow ties. Bowser didn't know what to do with the story. He hacked most of it away, rewrote much of the rest himself, and buried the piece deep inside the next issue. Rollins wanted to go back to it for an update three months later, but Grant said he never wanted to hear of the story again. Telling Marj now, he was seized again with the massive feeling of frustration that had consumed him at the time. He had killed himself to do that story, worked himself absolutely to the bone. It had come to mean everything to him.

“But how did you get fired?”

“I guess I made a scene.”

“What did you do?”

Rollins supposed that he had to tell her, even though it had not
been his best moment. “I yelled a little and knocked some things off his desk.”

“Oh yeah?” She looked over at him, flashing that same feral look he'd seen at Georgio's. “You?”

Rollins nodded.

“I wish I'd been there.”

“I was younger. Anyway, he told me I'd gotten too close to the story. I said, ‘Damn right I have,' and threatened to quit.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. Big mistake. He said, ‘Fine, go clean out your desk then,' and that was it.”

“No more journalism for you?”

“Nope.” Rollins looked out the window, toward the houses lining the street. “I suppose it was good practice, though.”

“For—?”

“For finding out things. Used to be, back when I was working on that disappearance case, I'd go up to any of these houses.” Rollins gestured out the window. “I'd bang on the door, start asking questions.”

“Sounds ballsy.”

“I guess.” A trace of weariness came into his voice. “But it could get to you after a while.”

Rollins checked the dashboard clock: 9:21. “It's been a half hour. I don't think anyone's following us.” Rollins started up the car again and drove clear around the block. He cruised by number 29, which was still dark. But 31 next door was well lit. There was a rusty Oldsmobile in the driveway, and a light was on over the front door. Rollins opened the car door.

“Where are you going?” Marj asked.

Rollins nodded toward number 31. “I thought I'd try this one.” Rollins leaned over to the glove compartment and took out a small notebook and pen. “Might get some answers.”

“You're not leaving me here.” Marj scrambled out of her seat.

Outside the car, Rollins checked up and down the street. You get a different feeling for a place when you're out in the open. Rollins could feel the breeze on him, the same wind that rustled the leaves as it moved through the trees, could hear the cars rushing along 62.

Marj was standing beside him. “You all right?”

“Fine.” His body felt tight as he started across the street and neared number 31. But then he heard the car door thump shut behind him and, although he didn't turn to look, what must have been Marj's shoes scudding after him. It was a comfort to have her there. Despite all his brave talk, he wouldn't have been able to do this alone. Watching, yes. But not entering. Entering was different. In his limited experience, entering meant submitting to another person's consciousness, attitudes, and, potentially, control. Still, it wouldn't do to acknowledge such fears to Marj, and he did his best to step lightly as he climbed the brick front steps to number 31.

BEULEY
, it said in gold stick-on letters under the mailbox, although the final
Y
had peeled loose. Up close, Rollins could hear a TV going inside the house. “Follow my lead,” he told Marj as he pressed the buzzer. Inside, a dog yapped and scampered toward the door, then scratched at it with its claws. But no one appeared. Rollins buzzed again. Finally, a dead bolt was released with a click, and an elderly woman in a bloodred wrapper peeped out at them.

“Mrs. Beuley?” Rollins asked.

The woman nodded.

“I'm Christopher Black—from the
Chronicle
.” Rollins referred to the local paper, the
Reading Chronicle and Daily Gazette
. It was liberating to lie. “And this is my assistant, Meg Jones.”

The woman started to shut the door. “I get it already.”

“Oh, we're not selling the paper, Mrs. Beuley.” Rollins gently blocked the door with his foot. “We're reporters.”

The dog growled at Rollins, and Marj added brightly: “We're doing a story about the effect of the various leash laws on the different neighborhoods, and we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

Rollins wanted to cup his hand over her mouth.

“Would that be all right with you, ma'am?” Marj continued sweetly.

Mrs. Beuley looked them over. “Well, you two don't look like murderers.”

“Well, I'm not,” Marj said. “But I don't know about him.”

Mrs. Beuley gave Rollins another look. “Yeah, I see what you mean.” She closed the door for a moment to release the chain, then opened the door wide. Rollins took one last look back at the street—still nothing—before he stepped inside.

Mrs. Beuley continued to act a little put off by Rollins, but she'd obviously warmed to Marj, who was now busily petting the dog. She offered to take Marj's denim jacket.

“No thanks,” Marj replied, laughing. “I don't have much on underneath.”

Mrs. Beuley smiled at that. “Oh, gracious.” She herself was reed thin. But to judge by the way the skin hung off her, Rollins guessed she probably had been heavier once. She was a little older than his mother—seventy-five, maybe eighty. Rollins had always been conscious of shut-ins, since they tended to be watchers. He was inclined to stay away from houses that were too quiet.

Mrs. Beuley moved silently across the spongy carpeting in her well-worn pink slippers, carefully stepping around a pile of old newspapers and
TV Guides
in the front hall. “Pardon the mess.” The house smelled of Lysol.

Mrs. Beuley led them down a short hall lined with yellowing family photos and into a small kitchen, where she sat her guests down at the oak table while she put the kettle on the stove for tea. “What is it you want to know now?”

Although Rollins shot Marj a glance to get her to quit with this nonsense about the dog ordinances, Marj stuck with it and soon had Mrs. Beuley prattling on about her many experiences with neighborhood canines while Rollins doodled, pretending to take notes. Mrs. Beuley directed most of her remarks to her poodle, Prince, who was gazing eagerly at her from his mat by the refrigerator. Eventually, after pouring out some Lipton's for the three of them, Mrs. Beuley let slip a few details about her late husband's career with General Electric, and her oldest son's alcohol problem.

“How about your next-door neighbors over there?” Rollins prodded with a nod toward the dark house. “They had any dogs?”

Mrs. Beuley gave a fairly detailed history of number 29. The house
had been built two years after her own, in 1948. First came the McGrews, who'd had a spaniel at one time. Then a childless couple, the Reids, moved in. With that, Mrs. Beuley got up to heat some more tea.

“The Reids still there?” Rollins pressed.

“Oh, no. His work took him to Minnesota. So they sold the house to a family named Holtz. I didn't know them very well. I don't remember any dogs, though.”

“They still have it?” Marj persisted.

“Heavens, no. Sold it three, four years ago.”

“So who owns it now?” Rollins asked. It had been a long time since he had asked such pressing questions, and he couldn't tell if Mrs. Beuley was holding back or truly didn't know.

“The place is for sale. Didn't you see the sign? Besides, I don't know what this has to do with leash laws.”

“Sorry. Just curious.” Then, on inspiration: “I thought I saw someone walking a dog around there. A slender fellow, fifty, fifty-five, maybe, with a bit of a mustache.” Rollins drew his index finger across his upper lip to emphasize the idea. “Drives an Audi?”

“No one there ever had a car like that,” Mrs. Beuley replied. She sounded quite adamant, then added, “That place is quite a story, but not for any article. You won't be writing any of this down.” She wagged a bony finger at Rollins.

Marj's eyes and Rollins' eyes moved to Mrs. Beuley. A few moments passed, but she did not elaborate.

“How's that?” Rollins finally asked.

“Oh, just the things that went on there.”

“Such as?” he pressed.

“I don't think they'd want me gossiping about them. Ask that Sloane fellow. He knows all about it.”

 

“Leash laws?”
Rollins asked when he and Marj were back in his car. “Whatever were you thinking?” He shook his head to convey his displeasure, but not too vigorously. That gambit of hers, it wasn't what he would have done, that was for sure. But, in fairness, it had worked out well enough.

“It was the first thing that popped into my head. It got her talking, anyway.”

“You're lucky she didn't call the police.”

“She was
not
going to call the police. She was happy to have somebody to talk to. You're the one who blew it. If you hadn't been so pushy, we could have gotten a lot more out of her.”

Rollins sat unhappily in the driver's seat. There was some truth to this. “At least we found out that the gaunt man never lived there.”

“So why would he go in?”

“That's what I don't know.” It was quite maddening.

“And what's it mean that the house would make ‘quite a story'?”

“I don't know that either.” The questions were starting to multiply, just as they had when he'd written that story about the disappearance five years before. He glanced through his notebook. He'd taken only a few genuine notes. Mostly, he'd doodled a forest of question marks.

T
he more they talked, the more certain Rollins became that Marj wanted to ride back to Boston with him. Not that she said anything about it; it was the way she stayed there in the passenger seat, wondering about Mrs. Beuley and not making any move toward her car as the crickets thrummed and the night descended all around them. But Rollins didn't think it would be smart to leave her car overnight anywhere near the dark house, and there was no question about leaving his.

“You should probably get back to your car, don't you think?” Rollins finally asked.

“Oh, right,” Marj said, as if she'd forgotten. “I guess it's getting kinda late.”

To make sure she got home safely, Rollins followed her back down
93 to Boston. He whistled a bit of “Moon River” as he drove along behind Marj's little Toyota, with its ruddy rectangles for taillights. He drove with the window down, his elbow resting on the door frame, the wind howling in his ear, tossing his hair. It was a nice night, fairly clear, with the balmy air that reminded him of Florida in February, and palm trees and pink sunsets. There were few other cars on the highway, and he kept Marj no more than thirty feet in front of him the whole way down, past three malls, all nearly deserted at this hour, and countless road signs showing routes that Rollins, for once, felt no interest in exploring. It was wonderful to have her car right there in front of him, and to know she was happy to have him following right behind. For the first time, he felt joined to her, as though their futures were linked.

The Charles River was choppy, with little swells that lapped against the docks on the Charlestown side, when they drove back over into Boston. Figuring she could make it the rest of the way on her own, Rollins gave Marj a quick farewell toot of his horn as he veered off the expressway for the North End while she continued on around to the turnpike toward Brighton.

 

When he got back, the lights were out in the front hall, and Rollins felt all his anxieties return as he moved through the shadows to the staircase. His skin felt dead as he pulled out his keys and climbed up the carpeted stairs. He hurried inside and quickly bolted the door behind him. His eyes jumped about after he hit the lights, checking for anything amiss. Could someone be in the apartment with him at this very moment? He stood for a moment on the oriental carpet in his sitting room, listening for the sound of another's breathing. He might have been trying to find a ghost. He rounded the leather chair. “Hello?” he called out. “Hello?”

He had a start when he saw the lone silver candleholder out on the kitchen table. Then he remembered he himself had put it there just that morning. He glanced around the nook kitchen, then recrossed the living room, and snapped on the light by his bed. He cringed at the sudden explosive brightness. His room was just as he had left it.
The bathroom door was shut tight. Before touching the knob, he flipped on the switch just to the right and listened for a moment. When he heard nothing, he opened the door and poked his head in. The closed shower curtain swayed lightly. He counted silently to three, then charged forward and flung it open. There was nothing in the shower except the soap and the shampoo bottle on their little shelf by the shower nozzle. He retraced his steps, searched the bedroom closet, and then the one in the front hall. When he was finally assured that he was alone in his little apartment, he got out some Pouilly-Fuissé from the refrigerator, poured himself a glass, and quickly downed it, and then two more.

 

Light slicing across his bedroom from a crack in the door. Late. All so quiet, except for the ticking of his Baby Ben clock—and the creak of his rocking chair. She was in it, slowly rocking, as if in a dream. Neely. In her pale blue nightie, her hair down past her shoulders.

He'd turned to her. Not scared, just sleepy. “You all right?”

“Fine. I couldn't sleep, that's all.”

His head back down on the pillow; the gray ceiling up above. Breathing. She continued to rock.

“You ever get lonely?” she asked him. Her voice so gentle.

“I don't know.”

“I mean, even when you're with people?” Neely added.

Too confusing.

“Never mind. It's a dumb question.” She returned to her rocking. “You sleep. I'll be okay. Sleep.”

When he looked again, the rocking chair was empty.

 

As he passed back through the living room, a little dreamy now, he thought of Marj. Did she ever get lonely? He should call her to see if she'd gotten home safely—but really just to chat. No. He didn't want her to think him fretful.

When he finally stepped into his pajamas and slid into bed, someone was playing a Verdi opera in one of the apartments high up off the echoey courtyard in the back. He kept thinking he heard foot
steps in the hall, or, once, a hand rattling his doorknob. When a breeze ruffled his bedroom draperies, he was sure someone was trying to sneak in the window—even though it was a good fifteen feet up from the ground. Still, like an idiot, he got up to check, then closed the window and locked the sash. The window had offered his only breath of air, and he passed the rest of the night sweltering on top of his sheets.

 

In the morning, he left for work with just a few gulps of water in his stomach. His worries seemed stupid in the bright light. Still, he did check around once or twice as he made his way down noisy Hanover Street to his car, but he saw only the usual pedestrians hurrying by, and a steady stream of traffic passing his front door. At his garage, he impulsively glanced in the trunk of the Nissan and even checked under the hood—not that he knew what he was looking for—before he climbed in the car and started the ignition. Even then, he braced for an explosion when he turned the switch. When the car came to life just as usual, he told himself that he
had
to relax. He actually mouthed the words.

It was a relief to get to Johnson, to settle into his little office with just the one doorway to worry about. Marj came in a little after nine. She was wearing a long skirt and black boots that seemed to pound into the carpeting as she surged by his doorway with barely a glance toward him. At first, he figured she'd gone into stranger mode, as befitted office workers who were “seeing” each other. He felt a little rush of pleasure at the prospect—but then wondered if he wasn't being premature. And had he detected a trace of irritation in her tightly set mouth as she charged by?

He tried to attend to the numbers that were starting to stream across his computer screen. The overnight returns on the Asian markets augured a good day on the Street. Then the little mailbox in the lower right corner of his screen flashed on. He had e-mail.

It was from Msimm@jinv:

He felt that in his chest. He should have called her when he'd thought to. Something might have happened to her, just as something might have happened to himself.

Rollins typed:

Then he thought that might not be quite enough. He wished he had a good excuse, such as his phone was out of order, or he'd fallen sick. But he couldn't think of anything, and he didn't want to lie, not to her. After a few moments' thought, he decided to leave it at that, and he clicked on
SEND
. Moments later, his e-mail box was lit again. It was Marj:

It wasn't until lunchtime that he actually saw her. She dropped into his office quite jauntily, as though nothing could possibly be the matter between them. She slapped a thin file folder down on his desk. “Get a load of this. I just got it from Sally up on twenty-one. She's incredible at research.” She picked up a pencil off Rollins' desk and drummed it against the desktop. Rollins flipped the file open. It contained a brief computer printout from the third page of the “Metro” section of the
Boston Globe
.
TEACHER NABBED IN DRUG BUST
was the headline. It reported that Jerome Sloane, a substitute English teacher at Madison Park High School, of 43 Sandler Avenue in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston, had been arrested on charges of possessing three ounces of cocaine with intent to sell. The piece was dated February 17, 1989.

“I had her try Gerald, Jeremiah, Jeremy, and Jerome,” Marj said, still drumming. “This was the only thing that came up. You think it's our Jerry?”

“It's possible.”

“Think they put him away?”

“This the only story Sally found?”

Marj nodded.

“Then probably not. Somebody would have followed up. He probably got off with a fine or probation.”

Marj stepped over to Rollins' window and leaned against the sill, hands outstretched, filling up the view. “That might have been what that Mrs. Beuley was talking about.” She stood up again. “Hey—maybe the guy you saw was running drugs. Like, that was why he seemed so edgy. Maybe they were using the Elmhurst house for drug deals.”

“I looked all over the house, and I didn't see any sign of it.”

Marj tapped Rollins' shoulder with the pencil. “Like they're going to leave powder and stuff just lying around.”

“I'd think there would be some indication. But the whole place was spotless.”

“So they cleaned up.” Marj put the pencil back on the desk.

“Sloane didn't seem exactly reluctant to show us around.”

“Like I said, Rolo, they cleaned up. All right?”

“Maybe.” Rollins had stopped listening. He'd glanced down at the printout again and noticed that there was another sheet behind it. He slid the printout over to the side and found a fax that came with a cover sheet from the
Boston Globe
. Behind it, a black-and-white photograph that nearly stopped his heart: an attractive, thirtyish woman with long, light hair flowing down her shoulders. Neely.

CORNELIA BLANCHARD
, the caption said in block letters,
AUTHOR OF
MEMORIES OF EDEN
. A publicity photo, it looked like. The image had turned blotchy coming through the fax machine. Still, seeing it, Rollins could feel the blood drain from his head, and he felt a strange inward pressure at his temples, as if his skull were being hollowed out. He pushed his hands out to the desktop to steady himself.

“What's the matter? God, Rolo, you're
sweating
! Are you all right?”

Rollins didn't answer for a moment, he was so lost in the photograph. Neely's eyes—not their black-and-white facsimiles, but the actual hazel orbs themselves—seemed to be staring right at him.

“What's this doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought your friend Sally did a search on Sloane.”

“She did. Why—who is it?”

For a moment, Rollins was reluctant to say. “The woman who was in that big story I was telling you about.”

“The one that got you fired?”

“Yeah.”

“She was a writer?”

“A poet.
Memories of Eden
was her first book. Published in eighty-eight, I think. I have it someplace. She had a bit of a following. She was always reading at some coffeehouse in Cambridge.”

“Cornelia Blanchard,” Marj said again, staring at the picture.

“We called her Neely.”

“We?”

“The family. She was my old baby-sitter, a cousin on my mother's side. She lived with us for a while.”

“Wait, she was your
cousin
? It was your
cousin
who disappeared?”

Rollins nodded.

“Why didn't you say so?”

Rollins took in some air and shook his head. Why hadn't he? To give himself some space from his past, he supposed, not that that was much of a reason. And, possibly, to spare Marj, too.

“I don't know. Maybe I should have. I'm sorry.”

Marj plucked some tissues from the box on his desk and handed them to him wordlessly. He blotted his forehead and temples, where he could feel the perspiration starting to drip.

“Well, no wonder you spent all that time on that story of yours,” she told him. “She was your cousin, Rolo. And your baby-sitter. And all the time I was thinking, ‘Here's another nutso thing.' Going crazy writing this huge story about someone you didn't even know.” Marj looked down at the photo again. “Kind of nice-looking.”

Rollins nodded. He continued to stare at the photograph.

“The last time I ever saw her was at Williams, my junior year. It must have been nineteen seventy-five. There was a bang on the door, and there she was. In my room.”

 

A drafty single. His narrow bed, a nonworking fireplace, and hardly anything on the walls. Silence there, too, except the muffled voices through the walls.

 

“She told me she was just driving by. She seemed quite disturbed, but wouldn't say why. I couldn't imagine how she'd found me, or what she wanted. I asked her if she needed a place to stay, and she shook her head. Then she said she'd made a terrible mistake, that she shouldn't have come. I told her I was glad to see her.”

 

Neely in glasses; her golden hair dulled. His hands reaching through the air toward her. And her hands up sharply to deflect them—“No, please don't”—as she backed to the door.

 

“But she pushed me away. She was out the door before I could stop her. And that was it.”

“What do you suppose was going on?”

Rollins shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Rollins looked down at the publicity photograph again. For the piece on Neely's disappearance, he'd accumulated quite an archive of photographs, but he'd never seen this one before. He'd taped the images up all around his desk. Snapshots, newspaper photographs, even sketches that friends had provided. There must have been fifteen or twenty of them. Neely had filled practically the whole wall of his partition at the
Beacon
.