Authors: Daniel Hecht
Suddenly amid the sadness, spiritual darkness, and depression, his brain seemed to catch fire . . . and with an extraordinary momentum his vital forces were strained to the utmost all at once. His sensation of being alive and his awareness increased tenfold at those moments which flashed by like lightning.
Reflecting about that moment afterwards . . . he arrived at last at the paradoxical conclusion: "What if it is a disease?. . . What does it matter that it is an abnormal tension, if the result. . . gives a feeling, undivined and undreamt of till then, of completeness, proportion, reconciliation, and an ecstatic and prayerful fusion in the highest synthesis of life?
FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY
P
RISCILLA STOOD IN THE DARK
driveway, looking up at the lodge's
windows, thinking:
How'd I get into this?
This was nuts, it was the
second of November and too cold to be going anywhere on a fucking motorcycle.
The whole idea was insane, even with Eddy's planning: how they'd make the
first trip on his motorcycle, which could get around the junked car, and which they
could park out of sight in the woods when they went inside to scope out the lodge.
They'd go through the place and select the stuff they were going to take and pile it
in the woods down near the road, under a tarp. It would take them several trips,
carrying stuff down the driveway in the dark, but the next day they'd need only a
minute to stop Eddy's station wagon, throw the stuff in, drive away. Nobody
would see them. Eddy in his Mr. Slick mode had explained how foolproof his
scheme was, how easy, how safe. He'd heard about the abandoned housefrom his
kid brother, who had a friend in high school over here. Some richperson had just
gone away and left everything inside, and the place was wide open for anyone
with the brains to see what an opportunity it was. Eddy prided himself on being a
guy who recognized opportunity when it knocked.
Priscilla felt her arms getting tired, and she put down the laundry bag full of
valuable things they'd culled from the wreckage. There hadn't been that much
after all, because the place was so badly vandalized, and few things were left
unbroken. The damage level was sicko, even Eddy had been taken aback when
they'd first gone inside, scared but trying to hide it.
What was Eddy doing?
One last thing I wanna get, "he'd said, and then
disappeared back into the house. Now he was taking his time, and she could hear
the bumps and thumps of him tossing things around inside. What was he looking
for? It was getting colder out here, the motorcycleride back to Waterbury would be
killer. Plus the looming darkness of the big house, so crazy wrecked-up inside,
had begun to scare her. This was the last time she'd do anything even remotely
crooked with Eddy. In fact, face it, it was time to ask herself whether Eddy was a
good emotional investment. His Mr. Slick facade had worn thin, and the real
poverty of what was beneath had begun to show through: a guy whose ambition
had already topped out at being a convenience-store clerk and small-time hood
running little scams like this. This was nuts. The whole relationship was nuts.
A little wind had come up, stirring the trees and bushes, spooking her.
i(
Eddy,
goddamn it, come on!" she called quietly.
It was strange to realize so suddenly that she was done with Eddy. It was so
unexpected, yet the realization had been therefor months. You could live on two
levels at once, living one reality outside you and another in your mind and heart,
and not even noticing there was a discrepancy between them until something
happened to wake you
up
—
some event that scared you or challenged you enough.
On one level she told herself they were okay together, went along with his
personas of Mr. Slick and Little Boy Vulnerable. But inside, she yearned to be
with a man who loved her, who she could really love, she had even played a movie
in her head of going to her mother with someone and saying,
(<
Mom, this is the
man I love," and being proud of him as she said it.
The problem was she'd always forget that movie as daily life made its demands
and offered its little problems and pleasures. Fervently, she vowed that when they
got back from this stupid trip she'd do two things: One, she'd start the complicated
process of disengaging from Eddy, trying not to hurt him but not being deflected
either. And two, most important, she would never again forget the important
things inside her, she would notice and honor them and be one person and not two
or three who hardly even knew each other.
A shape moved in the doorway as apiece of darkness detached itself from the black
rectangle and took humanform on the terrace. Atfirstshe felt relief: Now they could
start down and get the hell out of here. Then she realized it wasn't Eddy.
For a moment the shape stood in one place, just outside the door. But it wasn't
motionless, she realized. In the poor light she couldn't see well, but the person
seemed to be vibrating or rippling,every part moving, dancing in place, pulsating,
palpitating. It was the most horrible thing she had ever seen. With a jerk the oval
shape of the person's face turned toward her and saw her and she knew where
she'd seen that kind of movement before: her cat, hunting, tracking a bird's
movement with that almost mechanical tuntch of its head.
Then the person twitched again, moving in a blink and stopping between her
and the driveway down. A strange rhythmic noise came from the shape, and it
seemed to exude a current of warm air, thick with a sharp, plastic smell. For a
second Priscilla stood paralyzed by fascination and terror. Then it darted straight
at her, and she turned without thinking and began to run the only way open to
her, back into the deep black woods behind the house.
"M
R. SKOGLUND? I ’M MORGAN FORD . I'm an investigator with the Bureau of Criminal Investigation of the New York State Police. I'd like to talk with you for a few minutes, if you don't mind." Mo held out his badge.
The driveway had proven to be much steeper and longer than Mo had expected. As he followed its curves up, he realized that it would be hard to find a more likely spot for teenagers looking for a love nest or a place to cut loose in any number of ways.
At the door, a gangly kid wearing enormous basketball shoes had led him inside through a crazed junk heap that had once been a kitchen, and on into a room the size of a movie theater, where Mo stopped, stunned. It was, as Rizal had said, as if a bomb had gone off. Yet in some ways it was more appalling. A bomb was indiscriminate, creating a simple circular pattern of destruction with its locus at the point of detonation and progressively less damage farther away from the center. This was different. This damage was everywhere, and clearly it had all been done by deliberate acts—twisting, rending, smashing, ripping, throwing.
"You guys are something," Skoglund said. He was about Mo's age, dressed in jeans, work boots, and a lumberjack shirt. He raised both his hands and seemed to slap himself in the face, keeping a baleful gaze on Mo. "You going to play Rizal's game? Let me see a search warrant, Detective. I've cut you guys all the slack you get. Show me the warrant or get off the premises."
Mo was unprepared for the man's hostility. "I don't have a warrant. I'm just here to ask—"
"Then get out. Now," Skoglund said. "Fdrfe/" He choked back a cough and slapped his face again, mustache then eyebrows, two quick pats with each hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mo saw an old man coming toward him from the center of the big room. He took a step backward and turned fractionally so he could keep an eye on both men. "There's a misunderstanding, Mr. Skoglund. I hoped you might be able to help me locate some missing teenagers. I think some of them may have come up here, and we might find some indication of it in the house. Although I can see it's going to be harder than I thought."
A woman with red-blond hair appeared in the doorway next to Skoglund, putting her hand on his arm. "At least let him tell us what he wants, Paul. Why don't you come in, Detective—the cold's getting in with the door open. It's okay, Dempsey." Behind Mo, the old man stopped and waited.
Skoglund stepped back grudgingly, and Mo went through the door. Except for the kerosene heater and a row of file boxes, and the shattered mirror over the fireplace, the room was more or less normal.
"Thanks," Mo said. "Look, I hate to bother you—I'm sure you've got plenty to keep you busy." When they continued to look at him expressionlessly, he smiled awkwardly. "Sorry, supposed to be a joke. In any case, there seems to be some confusion here. It sounds like Trooper Pdzal has been by?"
"Rizal was up here hassling me a few days ago. I called in to complain about his first visit. I haven't decided what I'm going to do about today's crap. If I were really under suspicion, he wouldn't have come up here to warn me. Which says to me he's just harassing us. The only question I have is
why."
"Slow down, please. Suspicion for—?"
"Today he was back, telling me I'm a prime suspect in some drug selling. He implied he'd trump up drug-dealing charges on me if he felt like it."
Uniform troopers did sometimes run legwork for BCI Narco investigations. Conceivably Rizal was assisting some investigation connected with Highwood. It should be easy enough to check.
"I don't know anything about it," Mo said. "As I said, I'm looking into something else. I'm not accusing you, I'm asking for your assistance. In fact, I'm—" He hesitated, then plugged ahead: "This is a pretty unofficial visit. That's because this is what my supervisor considers a longshot lead. We disagree on that."
"Why don't you sit down," the woman said. "We were about to take a coffee break anyway. There's no electricity yet, but we've got a big Thermos."
Mo took a seat and accepted the Styrofoam cup she handed him. Paul Skoglund pulled a chair around and poured himself a cup of coffee, and the three of them sat facing each other. Mo introduced himself in more detail, then gave them a general overview of his investigation, avoiding details—just enough information to persuade them to give a consent search.
Skoglund and the woman, Lia McLean, explained how they came to be involved at the house. As they talked, Mo appraised them. Paul Skoglund was tall, fit, with light brown hair, and, now that his anger had dissipated, an open, friendly face. He seemed to have a lot of nervous gestures and occasionally repeated the barklike cough. Two thin vertical lines rose between his brows, the traces of worry that Mo associated with people of conscience.
But the woman. Lia.
Oh God,
Mo thought,
not this.
He tried to avoid looking at her except to meet her eyes occasionally, as he did Paul's, consciously distributing his gaze. She was wearing jeans and a thick sweater and absurd embroidered purple socks above white running shoes. A band of late-afternoon sunshine fell across her as she sat, setting her thick hair on fire. Perfect legs, exactly the kind of strength in her thighs he most admired. A heart-shaped face, youthful but for a faint band of purple below each eye which gave her otherwise confident appearance a touch of vulnerability that Mo found himself hopelessly susceptible to. And that
alertness
about her: incredibly clear eyes with a disconcertingly acute focus. There was no wedding ring on her finger, but from the way she looked at Skoglund, the way they touched each other, it was clear they were either married or at the very least shacking up. Mo felt the familiar misery of his longing come over him, and cursed himself.
"So there are several vectors that seem to intersect here," Lia said. "You're hearing that at least two teenagers were here shortly before their disappearances. And there's a possible connection to another case, which I'm presuming you don't wish to tell us too much about for confidentiality reasons."
"Exactly."
"There are a couple of things I'd like clarified," she said. "You have to understand, I grew up in a police family—my father's an investigator in Providence, I've taken some forensics courses, I work part-time as an investigator for a child- and spouse-abuse advocacy group. What I don't get is why you're only now looking into this. When the kids disappeared, what, three or four months ago?"
Mo cleared his throat. "My predecessor on the case retired, so there was a, ah, delay in things. I'm new up here. I was posted with a different BCI office before. It took me a few weeks to get oriented."
"You mentioned that your senior officer didn't really think there was much to go on here."
"I intend to change his mind."
Lia laughed softly. "My father used to get into trouble for playing the Lone Ranger too often. Do you often do things this way?"
"This is the first time that comes to mind," Mo lied.
Lia got serious. "When he did it, it was usually because either he didn't have a lot of faith in his superiors'judgment, or they didn't have a lot of faith in his."
It was clear he'd have to stay on the level with her: She'd catch him in any omissions or inconsistencies. At the same time, he wasn't about to tell her the whole saga of his checkered past.
"Let's just say this is a combination of both," Mo said.
"We're curious about what happened here too, as you can imagine," Lia said. "As you saw, there's a strange quality to the vandalism." She looked at Paul. "Detective Ford's being here might be a real stroke of luck, Paul! It would be great to have a trained forensic investigator here—he'll no doubt see a lot of things we'd miss."
The worry lines between Paul's brow deepened. "No doubt. But it's not our house. We'd have to ask Vivien." He bit back a cough, puffed his cheeks and forcefully blew out a column of air, then turned to Mo.
"My aunt has made it clear she doesn't want the police looking into this, Mr. Ford."
"Just 'Mo' is fine."
"She distrusts everyone, including the police, and she values her privacy. I doubt she'll let the police in here on the basis of what you've told us."
"I'd hoped she'd voluntarily let me in."
"Very unlikely," Lia said. "See, Mo, there's a lot we don't understand, beyond the unusual nature of the damage. Paul's aunt has done some strange things." She went on to explain that Vivien had left abruptly, without making any provisions at all to secure the house or protect her valuables. "It's almost as if she knew she had to get out quick."
"Could be." Mo rubbed his chin, thinking it over. "Tell you what. Give me your aunt's telephone number, I'll call her, try to get her consent to look through here. If she says yes, I'll conduct some routine forensics. In the meantime, I'd like to ask a small favor. Bend the rules a bit—walk me through the house today. Just so I have a general idea."
"Sure," Paul said. "If we're going to do it, we should go right away. Once the sun gets below the ridge, it gets dark in here. You won't be able to get as good a sense of it by flashlight."
Lia tied on a pair of boots, and then Mo walked behind her out into the big room, followed by Paul. Mo allowed himself to look her up and down: the cascade of hair down her back, the fine square shoulders, the supple stride. He looked quickly away.
In the main room, a lowering sun threw tree shadows onto the milky plastic over the west-facing windows. A man came through the door Mo had entered by, set down his toolbox, and rubbed his hands. Mo assumed he was the electrician whose van was parked out front. From outside came the roll and chunk of a sliding van door.
"We're out of here for the day," the electrician said. "Enough's enough already. Maybe you should have a refrigeration specialist come in, they're used to working in absolute zero. Myself, I'm losing the feeling in my fingers."
"How'd it go today?" Paul asked.
"Slow. It's dark and cold down there. Plus, in these old places, they ran the wiring down a central tree from the attic. Some of this conduit has been yanked so hard it's been pulled loose up there. The whole central wiring tree's screwed. I'll have to get up into the attic tomorrow. It means replacing more than I thought, more time in the up-and-down." The electrician rubbed his thumb and fingers together, the universal sign for money.
Lia and Paul introduced Mo to the old man, Dempsey Corrigan, who was just finishing packing his tools for the night.
"I take it this is an okay cop," the old guy said.
"I try," Mo told him.
"Well, good. And good night, kids. I'll be back in the morning." Dempsey swung his toolbox up and headed for the kitchen door.
Lia led them into the library, then into the downstairs bedrooms. Mo couldn't restrain repeated whistles of astonishment. There were drifts of rubble two and three feet deep in places—torn clothes and broken furniture, wrecked appliances and crumpled papers, dead houseplants, chunks of plaster from the walls.
"Holy shit," Mo said. "Excuse my French. Have you dug through any of these piles?"
"No. My priorities have been to close the place off against the weather, get the services back on line, set up for the long haul. My aunt wanted us to start with her papers."
"I mean," Mo went on, "you could easily have a corpse or two under all that. It's colder than a morgue drawer in here, so you wouldn't necessarily—" He stopped. He'd obviously upset his hosts with the idea.
Lia prodded him: "Wouldn't necessarily what?"
"Well, I was going to say that with the cold, no decomposition, your, uh, nose wouldn't necessarily clue you. Only way would be to conduct a manual search. Or bring dogs in."
"Terrific," Paul said. "Fucking terrific."
They started up the stairs in silence, the gruesome idea still with them. On the balcony, they stopped as Mo leaned against the railing and surveyed the room. It was a picture of the aftermath of a demented frenzy. On the way up, he'd had to step around a refrigerator door that had been ripped off its hinges and thrust through the banister railing. Downstairs, he'd noticed a sink that had been shoved hard enough that it had lodged, head-high, in the lath-and-plaster wall.
"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Lia asked.
"Nothing even close."
"What comes to mind when you look at it?"
"Psychopathology. Maybe combined with other motives—intimidation, revenge."
"We had surmised the same," Paul told him. "There's one other element that's suggested by the holes in the walls, the ripped-up heating ducts. We figured maybe somebody was searching for something."
Mo shook his head. "No. Or rather, not just that. Whatever other conscious motives, you've got to have some psychopathology here. Somebody with a lot of pressure inside."
By the time they descended the stairs, only a thin band of light lingered at the top of the tall windows, and the big room was starting to darken.
"You're welcome to come into the smoking room and warm up,"
Lia said.
"I'd like that." Mo rubbed his hands together.
"Yeah," Paul said darkly. "I know: colder than a morgue drawer." Mo chuckled. "Sorry. I could learn to keep my mouth shut once in a while."