***
While Jenny was visiting with Ted Hannigan, and Coffey was cleaning up after his visit with the homicide detective, Sean was walking into his last-hour seventh grade class. This being a rather tony private school-one conveniently located less than a mile from his house in Wilmette-the prospect of a student walking into class with a gun was never even considered. No metal detectors. No off-duty cops walking the halls.
Sean stepped across the threshold, looked at the four rows of desks filled with students, raised the .45 his mother kept in her nightstand drawer, and started firing immediately.
He killed three students before the teacher was finally able to wrestle him to the floor and take his gun away.
***
"No idea at all?" Ted asked.
"No idea at all," Jenny replied. "But as I said, I've developed these terrible headaches both times I heard about this murder at the motel the other night. I even threw up. I got so worked up."
Ted's studio ran the length of the building, which was considerable. The walls were brick, the floor hardwood. A few dozen completed canvases, of various sizes, were leaned against the walls. In the center of the studio was a stool where his subjects sat. The canvas he was working on sat on an easel, on either side of which were cabinets filled with tiny drawers which were, in turn, filled with tubes of paint, brushes, and other art supplies. A paint-spotted dropcloth covered the floor beneath the canvas. The painting of Agnes was a perfect example of Ted's masterful and deceitful work. He'd turned a rather plump, gray-haired society matron into a rather thin, silver-haired younger woman who bore a curious similarity to the older Grace Kelly. Jenny had smiled when she'd seen this.
She wasn't smiling now, though. For the past half hour she'd been telling Ted about her missing eight days. And how the murder at the Econo-Nite Motel upset her for no reason she could consciously construe.
"It could be a coincidence," Ted said. "Just because you happened to react twice to the same story isn't any kind of definitive proof."
"I know."
They were sitting on a large leather couch he had stuck over in a corner next to a radiator he'd painted a brilliant silver. On this section of wall he'd leaned several of his "serious" paintings, the ones he did for himself. Even though she didn't know all that much about art-she'd had an art minor in college, but that hardly made her an expert-she could easily see how derivative and empty they were. He had been greatly influenced by the French painters of the last century. He could steal their style for his commercial portraiture, but his thievery didn't work for real painting.
"Terrible stuff," he said, nodding to a painting of a young black girl running along the shores of Lake Michigan on a hot summer day.
"Oh, it's very good," she said. But they both knew she was just being nice.
He touched her hand. "I hate to say this but all you can do is wait and see what happens."
"That's all?" Jenny said.
"There was a segment on
60 Minnies
six or seven months ago. About various kinds of amnesia." He smiled. "That makes me an expert, doesn't it?"
"Are you ever able to fill in the missing time?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes. And sometimes not. Pretty helpful, aren't I?"
For all her consternation, she felt some peace sitting in Ted's presence. It was strange, not even her own parents could comfort her the way he did. This had been true since she was a small girl. There was always Uncle Ted.
Now, he took both her hands in his and leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. "I went through what you're going through now."
"You did?"
"Yes. I've never mentioned it. It-makes me uncomfortable." He paused. "I had a breakdown when I was about your age. I guess that was when I realized that I was never going to be anything more than a commercial artist. I'd done Paris and London and Rome, I'd won a few small awards, I'd even gotten written up in a few important magazines. But I realized that it was the force of my personality. A very bitchy woman critic wrote a line about me that really crushed me. 'If only his art were as seductive as he is.' I resented it because I knew it was the truth. Anyway, around that same time I went into this terrible depression. I left Paris and came back to Chicago, and my folks decided after a few months to send me to a shrink. I rarely left my room; I had no friends except for your mother. And I started having these very violent outbursts for no good reason at all. The shrink put me in a mental hospital." He laughed. But it was an angry laugh. "I even rode the lightning."
"You did?" Riding the lightning was what mental patients called electroshock treatments.
"Oh. yes. Sixteen times in three months." He withdrew his hands from hers. She sensed that he was withdrawing spiritually as well. The memories were sapping him. "I read once that Hemingway had sixty electroshock treatments the year before he died. I can't imagine that."
"God, I'm sorry, Ted."
He shrugged. "I couldn't face myself. That was the whole thing. All my life my teachers had told me what an artistic genius I was. And I believed them, of course. I
wanted
to believe that they knew what they were talking about. But then I got out in the real world. Paris and London-all I ran into was contempt. All I could do was keep collecting women. Rich, beautiful women. They were the only things I could put up against my disappointment." He looked at her with those shockingly blue eyes and that handsomely tortured face. "But you know what? Eventually, you don't give a damn. You make your peace; you settle. I'm happy now-at least as happy as I'll ever be-and I don't worry about not being a great artist anymore." He took her into his arms and held her. She slid her arms around him and held him, too. Home. That was how she always felt in his arms. It wasn't a romantic feeling-it was a childlike feeling, a
protected
feeling. He had been through so much in his life, but he had survived and now he was strong. She remembered a Leonard Cohen line from one of her poetry classes: "The simple life of heroes/the twisted life of saints." In his own way-and because of his suffering-he was a saint. Even if he did not have the skills of a great artist, he had the soul of one. He understood things-and felt things-that very few people ever did.
He let go of her then and smiled: "A friend of mine's opening a new pub over near the Talbott Hotel. What say we help him inaugurate it?"
She was caught up in his mood. "Now how could I refuse an offer like that?"
She needed to put her problems aside. He was always at his best in pubs. It was like watching a brilliant performance artist, with him getting half the people in the place to participate in his games and whimsies. She felt happy. She couldn't believe how quickly he'd changed her mood.
Five minutes later, they were in his elevator, heading for the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Coffey spent the rest of the afternoon writing. He was working on a scene where the hero heard a noise in the basement. It was near midnight. The hero lived alone. Heroes, being heroes, are supposed to be just as stupid as heroines. A noise in the basement? Think I'll go check it out. That's how a hero thinks. But not this hero. This hero crept outside and had a peek in the various basement windows, trying to determine if the wraithlike form had once again materialized in the basement. This was a lot better way to check things out than actually going down those dark steps and shining his flashlight around.
He was just peeking in a window, and just becoming aware of some kind of
presence
in the basement when…
… the phone rang.
"I just have a quick question for you," said his new friend Detective Margie Ryan.
"I'll answer if I can."
"Does the name Linda Fleming mean anything to you?"
"Linda Fleming?" he said, running it through the computer of his mind. "No, I don't think so. Any reason it should?"
"Just curious is all."
"I take it this has something to do with the murder at the motel the other night."
"You weren't real cooperative with me three hours ago," she said, "So I don't see why I should be cooperative with you. 'Bye, Mr. Coffey."
After he hung up, he glanced at the alarm clock he kept on his desk. He had to move Tess to read it. Tess guarded the clock face. She didn't want anybody to wear out the numerals by staring at them too often.
It was dinnertime.
He raised his eyes and looked out the window of the small bedroom he'd converted into an office. It was a brooding but handsome autumn dusk sky, clouds streaked with gold, clouds streaked with amber, clouds streaked with mauve, and a glowing brilliant silver quarter moon behind the city haze. That was one thing you had to give pollution. Ironically, it could be aesthetically pleasing to look upon.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms, yawned. He had been able to totally escape into his writing, had given virtually no thought to mystery women or murdered men in motels. Most of the time, he had that ability. Writing was like being in a trance for him. But now it was back to reality, as if the magical spell had been broken.
Once again, he started thinking about mystery women and murdered men in motels.
He knew who she was, now. But how was he going to contact her?
Tasha climbed up on his lap. He sat there, staring at the darkening sky, petting Tasha and trying to convince himself that what he had in mind would work.
He'd go see her.
He'd drive right up to her mansion and ask to see her. That was the best way, the only way. Direct.
And she'd see him. She'd be too curious
not
to see him.
"You think I should go see her, Tash?" he asked his good and true and elegant friend Tasha the cat.
She looked up at him with eyes ancient as Egypt. She looked as if she understood exactly what he was talking about. And then she spoiled the effect somewhat by yawning. If she did understand, she found the subject awfully boring. He kissed her on the top of her head, set her gently on the desk, and then went into the bathroom to clean up.
A man wanted to look his best when he visited a mansion.
***
Coffey was approaching the Stafford estate, when he saw the dark Ford van. The lights were out. And it was parked on the shoulder of the asphalt road that ran past the estate. He wished there was time right now to check it out. He wondered again what the small box on the roof was. He definitely had to check out the van. But there wasn't time to worry about it now.
Coffey pulled his cab up in front of the iron security gates in front of the Stafford mansion. The mansion itself sat far back on the vast lawn, a huge Tudor that seemed to have light pouring from every window. The moonlight on the lawn cast everything into deep and graceful shadows. He thought of the parties Jay Gatsby gave in
The Great Gatsby
; one of his favorite novels, the parties that extended all the way across the silver midnight lawn to the edge of the ocean itself. But any romance he entertained about the Stafford estate soon vanished when he looked at the security fence surrounding the estate proper. A security camera pointed down from directly above the left side of the gates. A concrete wall, at the top of which would be glass and spikes in case you were foolish enough to consider climbing said wall. And should you somehow make it over the wall-despite the odds-then you would be immediately confronted by the dogs. Dobermans. no doubt (Coffey could hear them barking now). Merciless and angry Dobermans. Coffey left his headlights on, climbed out of the cab, and walked up to the small two-way communication box mounted inside the gate. All you needed to do was reach through and push the SPEAK button.
A male voice answered quickly. "May I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to Jenny Stafford, please."
"Are you a friend of hers, sir?"
"Yes." It was the simplest answer. An explanation, an elaboration, would be foolish and pointless.
"May I have your name, sir?"
"Michael Coffey."
"I'll be right back, sir. I need to find Jenny or her father."
"Thank you."
On the other side of the wall, the dogs sensed Coffey's presence. And were getting ready for him. Even from here he could hear the growling. They were waiting for him.
While he waited, a couple of cars flew past, headlights painting him yellow momentarily. He looked down the road at the van. He sensed eyes watching him.
The voice came back on. "Sir?"
"Yes."
"Jenny said that she isn't familiar with you."
"Tell her it's about the other night."
"I'm afraid she's getting ready to go out, sir. The family would appreciate it if you would leave the premises."
"All I need is a few minutes."
"You wouldn't be happy if we were forced to call the police. And neither would we. Good night, sir."
There was a clicking sound in the communication box.
And they would call the cops, too
, Coffey thought. About that, he had no doubt.
Then he realized what the voice had just told him. That Jenny was getting ready to go out. If she was alone, it would be easy to follow her and then sit down and talk to her.
He had just started to back his car up, when he saw headlights lancing toward him. A car was moving quickly to the other side of the gate. Jenny.