The Fiend (25 page)

She heard a man's footsteps across the driveway, then Vir­ginia's voice, sounding so cold and hard that Jessie wouldn't have recognized it if it hadn't been coming from Virginia's back porch.

“You didn't find him, I suppose.”

“No,” Dave said.

“Well, that suits me. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as we used to say in my youth, long since gone, long since wasted on a—”

“Talk like that will get you nowhere. Be practical. You need Howard, you can't support yourself.”

“That's a wonderful attitude to take.”

“It's a fact, not an attitude,” Dave said. “You seem ready to quarrel with anyone tonight. I'd better go home.”

“Do that.”

“Virginia, listen to me—”

The voices stopped abruptly. Jessie went over to the window and peered out through the slats of the Venetian blinds. The Arlingtons' porch was empty and the door into the house was closed.

Jessie returned to bed. Lying on her back with her hands clasped behind her head, she thought about Virginia and how she needed Howard because she couldn't support herself. She wondered how much money Virginia would require if Howard never came back. Virginia had a car and a house with furniture and enough clothes to last for years and years. All she'd really have to buy would be food.

Without moving her head Jessie could see the half-open door of her clothes closet. In the closet, in the toe of one of her party shoes, were the two ten-dollar bills Howard had pressed into her hand. Although she would miss the money if she gave it back to Virginia, it would be a kind of relief to get rid of it and to be doing Virginia a favor at the same time. Twenty dollars would buy tons of food, even the butterscotch sundaes Virginia liked so much.

Once the decision was made, Jessie wasted no time. She put on a bathrobe and slippers, fished the two bills from the toe of her party shoe and tiptoed down the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door.

Moving through the darkness in her long white flowing robe, she looked like the ghost of a bride.

(19)

The illuminated dial
on his bedside clock indicated a few min­utes past midnight when Ralph MacPherson was awakened by the phone ringing. He picked up the receiver, opening his eyes only the merest slit to glance at the clock.

“Yes?”

“It's Kate, Mac. Thank heaven you're there. I need your help.”

“My dear girl, do you realize what time it is?”

“Yes, of course I realize. I should, I was asleep too when the pounding woke me up.”

“All right, I'm hooked,” Mac said impatiently. “What pounding?”

“At the front door. There's a man out there.”

“What
man?”

“I don't know. I came downstairs without turning on any lights. I thought that it was Sheridan, and I was going to pretend I wasn't home.”

“You're sure it's not Sheridan?”

“Yes. I can see his shadow. He's too big to be Sheridan. What will I do, Mac?”

“That will depend on what the man's doing.”

“He's just sitting out there on the top step of the porch mak­ing funny sounds. I think—I think he's crying. Oh God, Mac, so many crazy things have happened lately. I feel I'm lost in the middle of a nightmare. Why should a strange man come up on my front porch to cry?”

“Because he's troubled.”

“Yes, but why my porch? Why here? Why
me?”

“It's probably just some drunk on a crying jag who picked your house by accident,” Mac said. “If you want to get rid of him, I suggest you call the police.”

“I won't do that.” There was a silence. “It gives a place a bad reputation to have police arriving with their sirens going full blast and all.”

“They don't usually—Never mind. What do you want me to do, Kate?”

“If you could just come over and talk to him, Mac. Ask him why he came here, tell him to leave. He'd listen to you. You sound so authoritative.”

“Well, I don't feel very authoritative at this hour of the night but I'll try my best. I'll be there in about ten minutes. Keep the doors locked and don't turn on any lights. Where's Mary Martha?”

“Asleep in her room.”

“See that she stays that way,” he said and hung up. One Oakley female was enough to cope with at one time.

 

In the older sections of town the street lights were placed only at intersections, as if what went on at night between corners was not the business of strangers or casual passers-by. The Oakley house was invisible from the road. Mac couldn't even see the trees that surrounded it but he could hear them. The wind was moving through the leaves and bough rubbed against bough in false affection.

From the back seat Mac took the heavy flash-and-blinker light he'd kept there for years in case of emergency. A lot of emer­gencies had occurred since then but none in which a flashlight was any use. He switched it on. Although the beam wasn't as powerful as it had been, it was enough to illumine the flagstone path to the house.

The steps of the front porch were empty and for one very bad moment he thought Kate had imagined the whole thing. Then he saw the man leaning over the porch railing. His head was bent as though his neck had been broken. He turned toward the beam of the flashlight, his face showing no reaction either to the light or to Mac's presence. He was a tall, heavily built man about forty. He wore blue jeans and a sweatshirt, both stained with blood, and he kept one hand pressed against his chest as if to staunch a wound.

Mac said, “Are you hurt?”

The man's mouth moved but no sound came out of it.

Mac tried again. “I'm Ralph MacPherson. Mrs. Oakley, who lives in this house, called me a few minutes ago to report a man pounding on her door. That was you?”

The man nodded slightly though he looked too dazed to un­derstand the question.

“What are you doing here?”

“My dau—dau—”

“Your dog? You've lost your dog, is that it?”

“Dog?” He covered his face with his hands and Mac saw that it was his right hand that was bleeding. “Not dog. Daughter.
Daughter.”

“You're looking for your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think she might be here?”

“Her best—best friend lives here.”

“Mary Martha?”

“Yes.”

Mac remembered his office conversation with Kate about Mary Martha's best friend. “You're Jessie Brant's father?”

“Yes. She's gone. Jessie's gone.”

“Take it easy now, Brant. How did you hurt yourself?”

“Don't bother about me. Jessie—”

“You're bleeding.”

“I was running and I fell. I don't care about me. Don't you understand? My daughter is missing.
She is missing from her bed.”

“All right, don't get excited. We'll find her.”

Mac crossed the porch and rapped lightly on the front door. “Kate, turn on the light and open the door.”

The porch light went on and the door opened almost instantly as if Kate had been standing in the hall waiting for someone to tell her what to do. She had on fresh make-up that seemed to have been applied hastily and in the dark. It didn't cover the harsh lines that scarred her face or the anxiety that distorted her eyes.

“Mac?”

“Kate, you remember Mr. Brant, don't you?”

She glanced briefly at Dave and away again. “We're ac­quainted. That hardly gives him the right to come pounding at—”

“Be quiet and pay attention, Kate. Mr. Brant is here looking for Jessie. Have you seen her?”

“Why no, of course not. It's after midnight. What would Jessie be doing out at a time like this? He has blood on him,” she added, staring up into Mac's face. “Tell him to go away. I hate the sight of blood. I won't allow him inside my house.”

Dave pressed his hands together tightly to prevent them from reaching out and striking her. His voice was very quiet. “I won't come inside your house, Mrs. Oakley. I wouldn't be here at all if I could have gotten you on the phone.”

“I have an unlisted number.”

“Yes. I tried to call you.”

“People have no right to call others at midnight,” she said, as if she herself wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. “Mary Martha and I keep early hours. She was asleep by 8:30 and I shortly afterward.”

“Your daughter is in bed asleep, Mrs. Oakley?”

‘Why yes, of course.”

“Well,
mine isn't.”

“What do you mean?” She turned to Mac, touching his coat sleeve with her hand like a child pleading for a favor. “What does he mean, Mac? All little girls ought to be in bed at this time of night.”

“Jessie is missing,” Mac said.

“I'm sure she won't be missing for long. She's probably just playing a trick on her parents. Jessie's full of ideas and she truly loves to be the center of attention. She'll turn up any minute with one of her preposterous stories and everything will be fine. Won't it? Won't it, Mac?”

“I don't know. When did you see her last?”

“This afternoon. She dropped in to invite Mary Martha to go swimming with her. I didn't allow Mary Martha to go. I've been supervising her extra carefully ever since I received that anony­mous letter.”

Mac had forgotten the letter. He put his hand in the left pocket of his coat. There were other papers in the pocket but the letter was unmistakable to the touch. One corner of the en­velope bulged where the paper had been folded and refolded until it was no more than an inch square. Mac remembered enough of the contents of the letter to make him regret not taking it immediately to his friend, Lieutenant Gallantyne. Gal­lantyne had a collection of anonymous letters that spanned thirty years of police work.

Mac said, “Will you describe Jessie to me, Mr. Brant?”

“I have pictures of her at home.” He almost broke down at the word
home.
His face started to come apart and he turned it toward the darkness beyond the porch railing. “I must get back to my wife. She's expecting me to—to bring Jessie home with me. She was so sure Jessie would be here.”

Kate was clutching her long wool bathrobe around her as though somebody had just threatened to tear it off. “I don't know why she was sure Jessie would come here. I'm the last person in the world who'd be taken in by one of Jessie's fancy schemes. I would have telephoned Mrs. Brant immediately. Wouldn't I, Mac?”

“Of course you would, Kate,” Mac said. “You'd better go back in the house now and see if you can get some sleep.”

“I won't be able to close my eyes. There may be some mon­ster loose in the neighborhood and no child is safe. He won't stop with just Jessie. Mary Martha might be next.”

“Shut up, Kate.”

“Oh, Mac, please don't go. Don't leave me alone.”

“I have to. I'm driving Mr. Brant home.”

“Everybody leaves me alone. I can't stand—”

“I'll talk to you in the morning.”

The door closed, the porch light went off. The two men began walking in slow, silent unison down the flagstone path, following the beam of Mac's flashlight as if it were a dim ray of hope.

Inside the car Mac said, “Where do you live, Brant?”

“Cielito Lane.”

“That's in the Peppertree tract, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

The car pulled away from the curb.

“Have you called the police?”

“Virginia—Mrs. Arlington did. She lives next door. She and Jessie are very good friends. My wife thought that if Jessie were in any kind of trouble or even just playing a trick on us, she'd go to the Arlingtons' house first. We searched all through it and the garage twice. Jessie wasn't there. Virginia called the police and I set out for Mrs. Oakley's. I couldn't think of any other place Jessie would go late at night. We haven't lived in town long and we have no relatives here.”

“You'll forgive me for asking this,” Mac said, “but is Jessie a girl who often gets into trouble?”

“No. She never does. Leaving her bicycle in the middle of the sidewalk, coming home late for meals, things like that, yes, but nothing more serious.”

“Has she ever run away from home?”

“Of course not.”

“Runaways are picked up by the police every day, Brant.”

“She didn't run away,” Dave said hoarsely. “I wish to God I could believe she had.”

“Why can't you?”

“She had no money, and the only clothes missing from her closet are the pajamas she wore to bed and a bathrobe and a pair of slippers. Jessie's a sensible girl, she'd know better than to try and run away without any money and wearing an outfit that would immediately attract everybody's attention.”