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After exiting the document, John looked at the nearest window down which rain washed in the fading daylight, and he thought of the dark urine flooding across the glass partition between him and Billy.
His disquiet quickened into fear. The house was warm, but he was chilled. He shivered.
He did not feel less of a man or less of a cop for being afraid. Fear was useful if it didn’t foster paralytic indecision. Fear could clarify and sharpen his thinking.
Calling up the directory again and scrolling through it, John searched for other document titles that might be surnames. Perhaps Billy had selected and researched other target families.
Whatever the young killer’s plans had been, surely they were now of no concern. The security at the state hospital was layered and reliable. He could not escape. The psychiatric board would not deem him cured at least for decades, if ever; they would not turn him loose.
Yet intuition warned John that his family was a target. The taut wire of his survival instinct vibrated, it hummed.
When he found no obvious surnames used as document titles, he closed out the program and shut down the computer.
From within the desk came a few bars of a song that John didn’t recognize. When he pulled open a drawer, the bars repeated, and he picked up a cell phone that must have belonged to Billy Lucas.
No caller ID appeared on the display.
John waited through fourteen repetitions of the song bite. When the call was not sent to voice mail, the caller’s persistence gave him the reason he needed to answer.
“Hello.”
He received no reply.
“Who’s there?”
Not a dead line. The hollow silence was alive, the caller unresponsive.
The best way to engage in any game of intimidation was to play boldly by the rules of the would-be intimidator. John listened to the listener, giving him no satisfaction.
After half a minute, a single word whispered down the line. He could not be sure, but he thought it sounded like Servus.
John waited another half minute before he terminated the call and returned the phone to the drawer.
At the door, when he extinguished the bedside lamps with the wall switch, rhythmic strobes of green light drew his attention to the fact that the clock radio, which had been keeping time when he first entered the room, was now flashing 12:00, 12:00, 12:00. …
When he stepped into the upstairs hallway, where he had left the overhead lights on, a more conventional ringing came from a telephone toward the back of the house. After a hesitation, John followed the sound, pushed open a door, clicked on a light, and found the former master bedroom, where much of the living-room furniture was now stored. The phone rang and rang.
He didn’t know what might be happening. He suspected that the worst thing he could do was encourage it, and he switched off the lights, closed the door.
In the hall, at the head of the stairs, he extinguished the ceiling fixtures – and darkness folded around him like great black wings, the landing window offering no relief.
His heart beat faster as he fumbled for the flashlight in one of his sport-coat pockets. The LED beam painted coils of light on the walls, made the pattern in the stair runner seem to wriggle with life, and darkled down the polished-mahogany railing.
Descending past Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, he was peripherally aware of something new and monstrous about the painting, the Chinese lanterns too bright, their orange color smeared across too much of the canvas, as if one or both of the little girls in white dresses had been set afire, but he refused to look directly.
The telephones shrilled in the living room, study, and kitchen. The pause between each ring seemed to be shorter than usual, the electronic tones harsher and more urgent.
He snared his raincoat from the newel post, didn’t pause to put it on. When he threw open the front door, the phones stopped ringing.
Stepping onto the porch, which lay now in the grip of night, he thought he saw a figure on the padded glider to his left, where Billy Lucas had once sat naked and blood-soaked to wait for the police. But when John swept the glider with the flashlight, it proved to be unoccupied.
He locked the house, slipped into his raincoat, found his car keys, and hurried into the rain, forgetting to put up his hood. On his head and hands, the downpour felt as cold as ice water.
In the car, as the engine turned over, he heard himself say, “It’s begun,” which must have been an expression of a subconscious certainty, for he had not meant to speak.
No. Not certainty. Superstition. Nothing had begun. What he feared would not come to pass. It could not. It was impossible.
He reversed out of the Lucas driveway, into the street, fence pickets flaring bright and shadows leaping.
The wipers swept cascades off the windshield, and the rain seemed foul, contaminated.
In the fullness of the night, John Calvino drove home to his family.
From the journal of Alton Turner Blackwood:
I am Alton Turner Blackwood, and I remember …
The south tower was chiseled stairs and stone walls spiraling up four stories to one round room, fourteen feet in diameter. Four pairs of leaded windows, beveled glass, crank handles to open. A truss-and-beam ceiling. From one of the beams, she hanged herself.
The family’s fortune started from railroads. Maybe it was honest money then. Terrence James Turner Blackwood – Teejay to his closest associates, who were not the same thing as friends – inherited the whole estate. He was only twenty-one, as ambitious as a dung beetle. He grew it bigger by publishing magazines, producing silent films, developing land, buying politicians.
Teejay worshipped one thing. He didn’t worship money, for the same reason a desert dweller doesn’t worship sand. He worshipped beauty.
Teejay built the castle in 1924 when he was twenty-four. He called it a castle, but it wasn’t one. Just a big house with castle parts plugged on to it. Some public rooms were accidentally lovely. Outside, from every angle, it was an ugly pile.
He worshipped beauty, but he didn’t know how to create it.
In one sense, the house was the opposite of Teejay. He was so handsome you could call him pretty. His worship of beauty was in part self-worship. But inside, he was as ugly as the outside of his house. His soul was not bejeweled, but encrusted. Not even Teejay could have named some of the needs that formed that crust.
The immense house was called Crown Hill, after the knoll on which it stood. The 280-acre property lay along the northern coast, which has always been a dangerous length of shore. Every coast is dangerous, of course: Land falls away to the chaos of vast waters.
Jillian Hathaway was the most famous and beloved actress of silent films. She made two talkies, as well. One became a classic: Circle of Evil. She supposedly married Terrence Blackwood in Acapulco in 1926. They were never wed. She moved in to the castle that wasn’t. In 1929, at the age of twenty-eight, she retired from films.
Jillian gave birth to Marjorie, her only child, also in 1929. The once-glamorous star hung herself fourteen years thereafter. She was still very beautiful. Even in death, she was very beautiful. Perhaps especially in death.
The Blackwood family continued to produce new generations. Decades later, Anita Blackwood gave birth to Teejay’s great-grandson. Terrence, connoisseur of beauty, wanted the deformed infant placed at once in an institution. The father, of course, agreed. But Anita would not allow her son to be discarded like trash.
In time, perhaps she regretted her decision. Over the years, though she taught the boy to read well at a young age, she otherwise distanced herself from him. Eventually she abandoned him at Crown Hill, to the mercy of the merciless old man.
She just went away. No good-bye. They said she had grown scared of the boy, her own boy, repelled by his form and face.
When he was nine years old and abandoned by his mother, the ill-made boy was moved from the guest house he had shared with her into the round room at the top of the south tower.
The boy wasn’t me yet. In time, he would become me.
The boy hated old Teejay. For many reasons. One reason was the beatings.
Another reason was the tower room.
An electric heater made the room warm in winter. Because of the ocean influence, the summer nights were seldom sweltering. A toilet and shower stall were added at some expense. A mattress on the floor made a good bed. There were as many pillows as the boy wanted. A fine armchair and a desk were built right there in the room because they couldn’t be hauled up the spiral stairs. Breakfast and lunch were sent up by dumbwaiter. Using an in-house phone, he could request any treat he wished. At night, he could borrow whatever books he wanted from the immense library off the main hall.
The boy was comfortable enough but lonely. The tower room lay high above everything and far from everyone.
In the evening, after others retired, if there were no guests, he was permitted into the house. A late dinner was brought to the boy in the library. He ate off disposable plates with disposable utensils. What might have touched his mouth must never touch another’s, although he had no contagious disease.
The staff was forbidden to interact with him or he with them. If a servant violated this rule, he would be fired. The old man paid them exceedingly well not merely to maintain silence toward the boy but also to remain silent about him to the outside world, about him and everything that occurred at Crown Hill. None would risk losing his job.
If the boy initiated conversation, they reported him. Then came the beatings in the privacy of the old man’s suite.
He hated Teejay. He hated Regina, too, and Melissa. Regina was Anita’s sister, the boy’s aunt, the old man’s granddaughter. Melissa was Regina’s daughter. They were beautiful, as the boy was not, and they could go anywhere they wished, anytime they wanted. Regina and Melissa spoke to the staff and the staff spoke to them. But because Teejay forbid it, neither of them spoke to the boy. Once he overheard Regina and a maid mocking him. How she laughed.
One evening when the boy was twelve, in the library maze, in a far corner, on a high shelf, he found an album of black-and-white photos of Jillian Hathaway. Many were glamour shots of the movie star in elegant gowns and costumes.
The last photo in the album might have been taken by police. The boy suspected old Teejay, then her young husband, took it. In the picture, Jillian hung like a wingless angel from a tower-room beam.
She stripped out of her clothes before climbing on the stepstool and slipping the noose around her neck. The boy had never before seen a naked woman.
The boy wasn’t embarrassed to be half bewitched by the nudity of a woman from whom he was directly descended. He lacked the moral training that would allow such embarrassment. He had the capacity to be ashamed of only one thing: his appearance. By cruel experience, he had learned that deformity was the only sin. Therefore his sin was that he existed.
She was some kind of grandmother to him, but nonetheless voluptuous. Her pale breasts. Her full hips. Her slender legs.
He removed the photograph from the album, returned the album to the high shelf, and took the picture to his round room in the tower.
Often the boy dreamed of her. Sometimes she just hung there in the dream, dead but talking to him, though he never remembered what she said after he woke.
In other dreams, Jillian descended from the beam like a spider on a silken thread. She removed the noose from her neck. She held it for a moment above her head, as if it were a halo. Then she tried to slip the loop of rope over the boy’s head.
Sometimes it became a nightmare as she struggled to strangle him. On other occasions, he accepted the noose and let her lead him to the stepstool. Although she never hung him, he woke rested from such dreams.
One night the dreams changed forever.
For the first time, he was naked in a dream. Naked, Jillian Hathaway descended but this time didn’t stop at his bedside. With the noose around her neck, she slipped beneath the covers, and the rough rope trailed thrillingly across his body. He felt her breasts against him, more real than anything he ever before felt in a dream. The boy woke trembling, wet, and spent.
For a while, he thought it was a thing that could happen only in a dream with a dead woman. Eventually he learned that the photo of a dead woman worked as well as a dream of her.
The boy wasn’t me yet. But he was becoming me.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_d1fbc505-760d-53c2-9c2b-132834be059a)
They lived in a handsome and spacious three-story house – four, if you counted the subterranean garage – that no police detective could afford, a consequence of Nicolette’s success as a painter, which had been growing for a decade. On a double lot, they had generous grounds for a city house and distance from their neighbors. Made of brick and painted white, with black shutters and a black slate roof, the place appeared Georgian, but it was not a scrupulous example of the style.
John parked in the underground garage, between Nicolette’s SUV and the Chevy belonging to Walter and Imogene Nash, the couple who kept the house well ordered and the family well fed. Because mornings were sacrosanct in the Calvino residence, the Nashes came to work at 11:00 A.M. five days a week, and were usually gone by seven.
An elevator served the garage and the three floors above. But the sound of it would announce his arrival and the kids would come running. He wanted a moment alone with Nicky.
On the drive home, he had called her and discovered she was in her studio, far past her usual quitting time. The master suite and the studio occupied the entire third floor.
In the corner of the garage where a few umbrellas dangled from a wall rack, he hung his raincoat on a hook.
Now that he was home, where life made sense and the madness of the world did not intrude, the events at the Lucas place seemed to have been dreamed more than experienced. He reached into his sport-coat pocket, half expecting the tiny silver bells would not be there.
As his fingers found the small box from Piper’s Gallery, three knocks and three more issued from the farther end of the garage, from beyond the parked cars. Sharp, insistent, the rapping knuckles of an impatient visitor at a door.
In spite of fluorescent panels, shadows swagged here and there. None moved or resolved into a figure.
Directly overhead, the rapping came again. John looked at the plastered ceiling, startled – then relieved. Just air bubbles knocking through a copper water line, rattling the pipe against a joist.
From a pocket of the hanging raincoat, he retrieved the six cookies that Marion Dunnaway had presented to him in a OneZip bag.
He unlocked an inside door and stepped onto the landing at the foot of the back stairs. The lock engaged automatically behind him.
The door at the top opened on Nicolette’s large studio. Working on a painting, her back toward him, she didn’t know he had arrived.
Girlishly slim, brown hair almost black and tied in a ponytail, barefoot, wearing tan jeans and a yellow T-shirt, Nicky worked with the litheness and physical charm of a dancer between dances.
John smelled turpentine and under it the fainter scent of stand oil. On a small table to the right of Nicky, from an insulated mug, the aromas of black tea and currants rose on ribbons of steam.
The same table supported a vase of two dozen so-called black roses that were in fact dark red, darker than a corrupted vermilion pigment in the process of reverting to a black form of mercuric sulfide. The striking flowers had no scent that he could detect.
When painting, Nicky always kept roses nearby, in whatever color her mood required. She called them humility roses, because if she became too impressed with any canvas on her easel – which could lead to a sloppiness born of pride – she needed only to study a rose in full bloom to remind herself that her work was a pale reflection of true creation.
Her current project was a triptych, three large vertical panels, a scene that reminded John of Gustave Caillebotte’s Paris Street: Rainy Weather, though her painting depicted neither Paris nor rain. Caillebotte’s masterly work was an inspiration for her, but she had her own style and subject matter.
John liked to watch his wife at moments she thought herself unobserved. When she lacked all self-awareness, her characteristic ease of action and elegant posture were so pure and unaffected that she became the essence of grace, and so beautiful.
This time, his belief that he had arrived with perfect stealth proved wrong when she said, “What have you been staring at so long – the painting or my ass? Be careful what you answer.”
“You look so delectable in those jeans,” he said, “it’s amazing you’ve painted something that could be equally mesmerizing.”
“Ah! You’re as smooth as ever, Detective Calvino.”
He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She turned her head, leaned back, and he kissed her throat, the delicate line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth.
“You’ve been eating coconut something,” she said.
“Not me.” He dangled the bag of cookies in front of her. “You could smell them through an airtight seal?”
“I’m starved. I came up here at eleven, never stopped for lunch. This bitch” – she indicated the triptych – “wants to break me.”
Occasionally, when a picture proved a special challenge to her talent, she referred to it as either a bitch or a bastard. She could not explain why, in her mind, each painting had a specific gender.
“A lovely army nurse baked these for the kids. But I’m sure they’ll share.”
“I’m not so sure, the little fiends. Why are you hanging out with army nurses?”
“She was older than your mother and just as proper. She’s a sort of witness on a case.”
John knew many cops who never discussed active investigations with their wives, for fear that evidence would be compromised during beauty-shop gossip or over coffee with the neighbors.
