The Paper Grail (25 page)

Howard had begun to feel genuinely guilty. Now that he stood in the sunlight, with the workaday world clear and solid around him, the mystical adventure in the shed seemed suddenly to have happened in some distant time. What did he think he had seen? A ghost? “I really am sorry,” he said again, and abruptly Sylvia grinned at him and mouthed the word “See?” He ignored her. “I didn’t know …”

“You’re right about that,” Jimmers said. “You didn’t know. What other keys have you stolen from me?”

“None. That’s it.”

“I’ll vouch for him,” Sylvia said cheerfully. “He means well, he’s just a nitwit. He’s always been like this. It’s a sort of Dennis the Menace complex.”

This seemed to make Mr. Jimmers happy. As if to celebrate, he kissed Sylvia on the hand and patted her head. “Ask next time,” he said to Howard patronizingly and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll let you have a glimpse through my telescope sometime. Perhaps you’d like copies of some of my literature?”

“Sure,” Howard said, relieved that he was being let off the hook.

Mr. Jimmers didn’t produce any literature, though. Instead he said, “I’ve got nothing to hide, nothing at all. You can go through my effects with a flea comb. Nothing up
my
sleeve.” He tugged his coat sleeve up, revealing the thin fabric of his mattress-stripe shirt and the pale flesh of his wrist. He nodded at his hand, turning it over slowly, and said, “Why did the turtle cross the road?”

Taken utterly by surprise at this lunatic question, Howard could only shake his head.

“Chicken’s day off,” Mr. Jimmers said very seriously. After making sure the padlock was secure, he picked up his hoe and began chopping at weeds again, working in his oddball garden. They left him there, Howard apologizing one last time and driving away miserably toward town. He hadn’t been caught in any such stunts for twenty years and had forgotten how humiliating it was.

He tried to explain the experience with the ghost head to Sylvia, who made him repeat the more lunatic aspects of the tale. “Do you know what I think it was?” she asked. Howard didn’t know. “A hypnogogic experience. A waking dream. You only
thought
you saw—who was it? John Ruskin’s ghost? Talking like a swarm of wooden bees?” She nodded but had a perplexed look on her face, and he caught her looking at him out of the comer of her eye. She was evidently satisfied to know that Howard had been face-to-face with the Unknown, and had come away shaken and confused. It was as they were pulling up in front of the boutique that Sylvia remembered about the picnic basket. They had left it with Mr. Jimmers.

“Damn it,” she said. “It isn’t mine, either, it’s Rosie’s, the woman who works for me at the shop. It’s expensive as hell, full of her plates and tablecloth and everything. What’ll I tell her?”

“I’ll go back after it,” Howard said promptly, although not really liking the idea at all. He would have to confront Mr. Jimmers again. It was the only gallant thing to do, though. “It isn’t ten minutes down the road. I’ll fetch it back here inside of a half hour. Tell her … tell her that I drove off with it in the truck by mistake, and that surely I’ll realize it and bring it back around. Then I will. Simple as that.”

“You’re sweet,” she said, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek, then moving away before he had a chance to respond. With a mock-wicked look she said, “You should have seen your face when Jimmers was yelling at you.”

“Pretty woebegone, eh?”

“Pitiful. I remember that look perfectly from when you were a child. Remember that time you got caught in the garage with Jeanelle Shelly? Don’t deny it. Your mother sent her home and then gave you that lecture about being struck dead by God. Remember?”

“I … What? How did you … ?” Howard couldn’t speak. He realized that he was blushing fiercely, confronted now with this old, mortifying sin.

“I was listening at the garage door, out in the driveway. You remember that I was there when you came out looking shameful. Anyway, that was the sort of look you had this time around, too. Mr. Jimmers and I saw the shed just vibrating like a tuning fork, and I said, ’What on earth!’ and Jimmers said, ‘My Lord!’ and to tell you the truth I didn’t know
what
we’d find. ‘He’s got Jeanelle Shelly in there,’ I remember thinking. Actually I think I said it out loud, which must be what confused Mr. Jimmers. He’s wondering right now who Jeanelle Shelly is and where you’ve got her hidden now that you’ve had your way with her in the shed.”

Howard discovered that it was utterly impossible to respond, so he smiled crookedly, like a man struggling to be a good sport.

“Look at you,” she said suddenly, pretending to feel bad about Howard’s deflated condition. “I’m awful, aren’t I? But you’re such an easy target.” She kissed him again, again unexpectedly, and then slid over and climbed out of the truck, keeping him consistently off balance. Poking her head in through the open window, she said, “Save the basket, will you? Before Jimmers turns it into a sanatorium for mice or something.”

She stepped away from the truck and waved at him as he backed almost happily out onto the street. He waved back and
then drove off slowly, still able to feel a sort of electric tingle on his cheek where she’d kissed him. He looked into the rearview mirror, and there were red lip marks, which he wiped off with the sleeve of his sweater. Whistling now, he pushed his foot down on the accelerator and angled south onto the coast highway, feeling suddenly as if he, were man enough, after all, to confront the curious Mr. Jimmers one more time.

M
R
. Jimmers wasn’t hoeing in the garden anymore. The meadow around the house was windy and deserted, and afternoon shadows stretched away across it. Howard was tempted toward the tin shed, having learned only about half enough to satisfy himself. If it had only been full of gardening tools, he could have been happy and gone about his business on an even keel. He didn’t have the key any longer, though, and he surely couldn’t afford to be caught meddling around there by Mr. Jimmers, who
would
call the police this time, machine or no machine. Or maybe take a shot at him with a load of rock-salt.

So he strolled toward the house thinking hard about Mr. Jimmers himself. Who and what was he? A sideshow magician and crackpot professor of fringe science, or an artful genius of great power, toiling at a deep and authentic mystery? Too bad you couldn’t just ask him. Howard stepped up onto the porch and slipped off his shoes, then raised his hand to knock.

The front door stood open a couple of inches. Howard paused, vaguely surprised. There was dirt on the sill and trailing into the house, knocked off of someone’s crepe-soled shoe—someone who clearly hadn’t been invited in under Jimmers’ watchful gaze. Howard shrank back against the wall, out of sight of anyone inside who might see him through the open door.

Suddenly tense, he looked around himself. He saw the car now—a red Camaro pulled in behind the long wooden shed that housed the chain-saw mill and workshop. His first impulse was to leave—head straight for his truck and gun it the hell out of there, up to Albion where he could call the police from the store. His starting the truck, of course, would alert whoever was inside, and by the time the police arrived they’d be gone, and Mr. Jimmers would be what? Dead? Robbed?

And maybe it was nothing at all. Steeling himself, Howard listened at the almost closed door. He heard nothing. He pushed it open, waiting for it to creak or slam or rattle, but it was silent, helping him out.

Ducking down into a crouch, he peered around it into the shadowy interior hall. He wished it were earlier in the day instead of nearly twilight, because he could see almost nothing inside.

He slipped in, anyway, hurrying across and pressing himself against the wall, where he would be mostly hidden but could still see a section of the parlor. From the light playing across the parlor carpet, Howard could tell that a fire still burned in the grate. The fireplace itself and Mr. Jimmers’ easy chair were both hidden by the intervening wall, though. There seemed to be nobody up and moving in the room—no shadows or noises.

He was halfway across the floor toward the doorway when he heard something heavy crash to the floor in an upstairs room, followed by the sound of a muffled voice. The place was being ransacked. He peered through the doorway into the parlor, and there was Mr. Jimmers, slumped in his chair—tied into it with a length of rope. He sat with his head on his chest. Blood oozed slowly out of a wound on his forehead. Howard stepped across, picked up Jimmers’ hand, and found his pulse, which was steady and regular. Jimmers’ eyes opened, blinked, and then opened wider, in contusion at first and then narrowing with anger. He grimaced, as if the effort had hurt.

Howard shook his head and put a finger to his lips. “It wasn’t me,” he whispered, looking into Jimmers’ eyes to see if there was any sign of concussion. “Move your right leg.” Mr. Jimmers shifted his leg, then moved his other leg and both arms in turn, without having to be asked.

“Did you see them?” Howard asked.

He shook his head once, slowly, and shut his eyes. “They’re upstairs,” Howard said. “I came back after Sylvia’s picnic basket.”

He felt foolish suddenly, explaining about the picnic basket, but he wanted to make very sure that Mr. Jimmers understood why he was there. Jimmers nodded weakly, keeping his eyes shut, and fumbled with Howard’s hand, pressing it a little. “I’m all right,” he whispered, opening his eyes then and seeming to summon his strength. “Leave now. They won’t find it. They’ll get out when they’re through. Don’t tangle with them. Leave me here. No police.” He drifted off, then abruptly whispered “’Mall right” again before giving up.

There was another crash upstairs, and the sound of heavy furniture being pushed around. Howard was helpless. His brain spun. Clearly he was involved in whatever was happening here,
and not only because he had stumbled into it. This was what Uncle Roy had been talking about that very morning. This wasn’t any sort of metaphoric vagary, like the business about the Tower of Babel or the attractions of numbers. Sides had been drawn in some sort of peculiar north coast war, and Howard had been drafted into it, on the side of Jimmers and old Graham and his uncle and aunt. And, of course, Sylvia.

But what did that mean? He had to take action—get Jimmers out of there. Except that maybe Jimmers was right. If Howard left him there, tied to his chair, the thieves would assume nothing and would go on their way, satisfied.

Or else they’d work Jimmers over. That was equally possible. And who were they? Was one of them Stoat? Would he stoop to this? Impulsively Howard bent over and went to work on the knots. It was thin nylon cord, though, pulled tight and knotted to each of the four legs. Whoever had tied Jimmers up hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, and the knots were a mess.

Suddenly there was the sound of a voice again: the words “We’ll
ask
him!” It was clear and loud this time, as if from halfway down the stairs.

Howard realized that Mr. Jimmers was mumbling something. Leaning closer, he heard the words “gun” and “closet.” Looking around, Howard saw the coat closet back out in the hall, near the front door. He pushed the rope ends under the chair and leaped across to pull the closet door open. There, behind three or four umbrellas, stood an old, beat-up shotgun.

He jerked it out by the barrel and carried it across to the wall, where he waited silently, listening and catching his breath. No one appeared. The voices were arguing now, from upstairs again. Whoever had been coming down had gone back up.

He looked at the shotgun, realizing that the cold metal of the barrel repulsed him. There was something deadly and final about it, and instead of making him feel that much safer, it meant that he was that much closer to real trouble.

His hand shook, and he closed his eyes and breathed evenly, trying to control himself, to think things out. He had used a shotgun once, to blast skeet off the stern of a ferry on a two-day voyage from England to Spain. He had got his share of the little clay disks and from a hell of a lot farther off than he would be now. He told himself that this was nothing he couldn’t deal with.

Only there was a moderate difference between shooting a lump of clay and shooting a man—a difference he couldn’t allow himself to experience. Maybe he had fallen into the middle of Uncle
Roy’s complicated troubles, but those troubles couldn’t involve him in killings. Still, there was Jimmers hit on the head and tied into a chair. The gun was protection for both of them—better than nothing. It was a good prop is what it was. He wouldn’t have to use it.

Having made up his mind, he hefted the gun again. It was wrapped heavily with old duct tape where the wooden stock joined the metal behind the trigger. The whole thing felt mushy, as if the tape weren’t just to help with the grip, but actually tied the halves of the gun together. The tape was dirty and old, too, and sticky with glue, and the barrel was flecked with rust from sitting in the damp closet. The whole thing rattled, as if all the joints were loose. All in all it wasn’t a very formidable sight.

So what? It would have to do. The mere noise of the shell being chambered would paralyze them with fear, especially if they were unarmed.

Feeling slightly more steely-jawed, he checked Mr. Jimmers again, who seemed to be resting as comfortably as a man might in his condition. His forehead wasn’t bleeding anymore. Howard went on past him, listening hard, padding silently in his stocking feet. They were still at it up above, taking the place apart.

He edged up the stairs, pointing the barrel of the shotgun up the gloomy well and wedging the stock against his stomach so that he could jam the shell home in an instant—if the gun was loaded. He turned it over, and through a little open door in the bottom he could see the brass disk at the end of a shell.

No one met him on the stairs. He heard them talking now, oblivious to him. He hesitated on the second-floor landing, looking for cover, and jumped at the sound of a door closing. He gripped the gun more tightly, forcing the wobbly stock against him. His hand slipped across the duct tape, which had gone from sticky to slick with sweat. The tape moved under his palm, and he could feel that the wood of the stock was cracked. Never mind, he told himself. It’s a prop, a gimmick. If he moved quickly and found a place to hide, they weren’t going to see him, anyway.