Authors: Michael Jahn
The corridor of light finally vanished, silencing Magda forever.
Disoriented, Frank stumbled forward, away from the awful scene. Once he regained his balance, he began to run . . . faster and faster through the thick Maine coastal pine forest until at last he let out a long and harrowing cry that reached out toward the heavens, following the corridor of light that had been appearing all too often in his life.
Deputy Fred Gilman was on his way back to the station after a long day of answering routine calls. He was tired, hungry, and had his fill of family fights, screaming kids, vandalous teenagers, and speeding drunks on the coastal highway when he was flagged down by an upset citizen.
“It must be the full moon,” he said as he braked to a halt in the middle of the road. He shone his spotlight in the citizen’s face just to show him who was boss. The gesture might have been warranted in any case; the man was unshaven, wearing only baggy brown pants and an athletic undershirt, and had a gut the size of a suitcase.
“Can I help you, sir?” Gilman asked, rolling down his window just far enough to allow communication.
“You shoulda seen it, Officer.”
“It’s been a long day, sir,” Gilman replied with a sigh. “Believe me when I tell you I’ve seen it all.”
“These two cars were drag-racing or something. They came outta the town and were going like bats out of hell when one of them runs off the road and lands in that vacant lot over there.”
He pointed at the Mercury, which was still sitting with its front wheels in the ditch and its air bag deployed.
“Is anyone dead in it?” Gilman asked.
“What, do you expect me to go over there and risk my life?” the man said. “The streets are full of crazy people these days.”
“So I hear. Where’d the other car go?”
“It made the hairpin turn onto Bailey Road, the tires squealing like crazy, and took off.”
“How long ago was this?” Gilman asked.
“About twenty minutes,” the man said. “I tell you, Officer, every night it’s something else—speeding drunks, kids with the radios blasting . . .”
“I’ll check it out, sir, thank you.”
The man walked about fifty feet back in the direction of his house and stood with hands on his hips, apparently waiting to see if any more fireworks were in the offing that night.
Gilman put the car back in gear and drove into the lot and up behind the Mercury. He put the high beams on, switched on the red lights, and called into headquarters to run the Mercury’s plates. From the safety of his squad car, Gilman could see Bayliss’s head squished between the air bag and the headrest. He could also see the halo of beer cans that surrounded the car.
“Another goddamm drunk,” he said.
Within a minute, Gilman got his reply over the radio.
“The reporter, huh,” he said, picking up his flashlight and getting out of the car.
Gilman walked around the Mercury, inspecting it, then shone his flashlight in the driver’s-side window. Bayliss strained to turn his head toward the light, pushing hard against the air bag. He pressed his face against the window and stared balefully at the deputy.
“Can you lower the window, sir?” Gilman asked.
“Oh. The window.” Bayliss turned the crank and the window slipped down, tugging down the soft skin of his cheek as it did so.
“Are you hurt?” the deputy asked.
“Um . . . I don’t think so. Can you make this bag deflate.”
“What do you want me to do, shoot it?”
Bayliss’s eyes went wider than they were already. It was then that Gilman noticed the man was naked from the waist up. The deputy sighed, took a penknife from his pocket, and poked a hole in the bag. It deflated with a huge hissing sound; the bag disappeared a moment later with a flatulent sound that brought a faint smile to Gilman’s lips.
“Have you been drinking, Mr. Bayliss?” he asked then.
Flustered, the young man said, “I . . . uh, had a glass of claret back at the restaurant.”
“How big a glass?”
“About that big,” Bayliss replied, gesturing with his fingers.
“What about these beer cans I see all around?”
“Beer cans?” Bayliss craned his neck out the car window. “Oh,” he replied. “They must have been in one of the garbage cans I ran over.”
Gilman looked around and spotted the objects in question, both flattened like flounders on the weeds and rough grass. He said, “I have a report you were drag-racing.”
“Drag-racing? That’s crazy. I mean, that’s crazy, sir. I was following a lead.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m a reporter for the
Gazette,”
Bayliss said proudly.
“I’m aware of that.”
“And I was following a suspect. I mean, I was keeping an eye on someone I may write a story about.”
Gilman thought for a moment, then said, “Would that be a story like ‘Sheriff’s Office Wastes Taxpayers’ Money’?”
Bayliss’s breath caught in his throat. The deputy
had
read some of his stories.
“Or maybe like ‘Is Sheriff Fatty Fit for Office?’ ”
Bayliss was momentarily speechless.
“Was it a story like that?” Gilman asked.
“No, sir. This is a big investigative piece I’m writing about all these suspicious deaths around town.”
“And you were doing this without a shirt on?”
Bayliss then realized he had only gotten half-dressed when he fled Magda’s house. He looked down at himself and realized that his belt was unbuckled and he had put on his dress shoes without socks.
“It’s kind of hard to explain, Officer,” he said.
“I don’t doubt it. But try, anyway.”
“You see, I was undercover and—”
Bayliss stopped his narrative after realizing he couldn’t say
where
he was undercover—at Magda’s house—without spilling the beans about
what
he was doing there. Furthermore, he would go to the guillotine before admitting that Frank Bannister chased him out of his boss’s bed when he was buck naked and sent him running into the night. And another thing, what did Frank do with Magda, anyway? Whatever it was, Bayliss didn’t want to be implicated in it. He also didn’t want the publisher of the
Gazette,
an old friend of his grandfather’s and a deacon of the church, to find out what Magda and he had been doing—or not doing—in her apartment.
It was all so complicated and he was so young. He decided then that the only thing he could do was stick to his story and offer no details. Then he could only pray for a big scoop on the murder story, one that would resuscitate his reputation.
“Well, Clark Kent, I’m waiting to hear the rest,” Gilman said.
“I can’t tell you any more without compromising my journalistic ethics,” Bayliss said.
Gilman was unmoved. He said, “Just who was in that other car?”
“I can’t tell you that without revealing my sources.”
“Okay, Mr. Bayliss.” The deputy sighed, realizing that his long day was about to get longer. “Step out of the car and assume the position.”
“You mean?” Bayliss said, shocked.
“I mean that I’m going to ask you to take a Breathalyzer test. If you fail that, you’ll be spending the night as a guest of the county.”
Dawn always seems to come an hour earlier to towns on the East Coast, especially those where you can stand on the shore and pretend you’re looking all the way to England, Ireland, or Spain. With no mountains or even trees to stand between the sun and sleeping eyes, dawn arrives quickly and brightly. The first rays of this particular one were bombarding the Venetian blinds of the sheriff’s office when Lucy finally read and signed her statement. Perry and Dammers watched with expressions that showed less than satisfaction. Despite their best efforts, they had failed to convince her that Frank Bannister was either a wife murderer, a serial killer, or the devil incarnate.
“There,” she said, dating the paper and handing back the ballpoint pen that bore the logo of the local Chucky Cheese. “Are you happy now?”
“I’d be happier still if you saw the light about Bannister,” Dammers said.
“I know you think he’s Ted Bundy or something, but he’s not. He’s a good and decent man who has had some bad breaks.”
“Whatever you say. If Bannister attempts any form of contact—”
“Any form of
contact?”
she asked. “What are you suggesting, that he’ll reach out to me through the spirit world? That I’ll be staring into my teacup after breakfast and the leaves will spell out ‘help me?’ ”
She glared at Dammers and Perry, who added, “We mean, if he calls you or shows up at your door.”
“I’m not going to help you catch him,” she said.
“He won’t get far. We’ve got the county line covered.”
“I sincerely doubt we will see Mr. Bannister in the near future,” Dammers said, using one of those tones of voice meant to show that the information being stated was absolutely reliable. “The man is resourceful beyond anything you can comprehend.”
At that moment Frank walked into the sheriff’s office, embarrassing half a dozen deputies who had been looking for him all night. Sheriff Perry saw him first, walking calmly up to the reception desk. One of the deputies standing out there reached for his weapon, but Sheriff Perry pushed by Dammers and rushed out to where Frank stood quietly by the reception desk.
“Hello, Frank,” he said.
“Hello, Walt.”
“We been looking for you.”
Frank raised his hand. “I’ve come to report that Magda Ravanski’s body is lying near my car, off Holloway Road.”
Sheriff Perry’s eyes narrowed. “Did you have anything to do with her death, Frank?”
Bannister stared at Perry. He looked tired and defeated. The old fire he had when he fought the Reaper was gone, perhaps forever. Frank looked like he just wanted some peace and quiet, and maybe a jail cell wasn’t such a bad place to find it.
“I . . . I don’t know,” he said quietly.
Milton Dammers peered at Frank intently with his piercing black eyes. Lucy hurried out of the squad room and into the reception area. Rushing to Frank, she took hold of his hand. “Are you okay?” she asked, reaching up and touching his cheek with her other hand.
Frank shook his head.
“Can I talk to him alone for a minute?”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” Dammer said.
“Maybe not,” Perry replied. “But this is still my town, and until Frank Bannister crosses a state line, robs a bank, commits wire fraud, or threatens the life of the president of the United States, the FBI has no jurisdiction.”
“You invited me into the case.”
“As an adviser, Agent Dammers, and I can invite you out if I damn well feel like it. Now let’s all step back and let these two people have a few minutes of conversation alone.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Lucy said.
When she and Frank were at last alone, she moved closer to him and held both his hands so they could talk privately.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
“I went to her house. I was trying to save her.”
“Save her from what?”
“From the same . . .
thing . . .
that’s responsible for the other deaths in town, including Ray’s.”
“Ray’s? This thing killed Ray? You can see it?”
He nodded. “But I can’t stop it. I tried in the case of Magda, but it’s too fast and strong. It’s so overwhelming that I have to wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?”
Tears were in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, Lucy. I saw Debra back there, had a flashback to what happened that night. I saw Magda dying just like she did, in the same spot even, and I wonder if it’s . . .”
“If it’s what?”
“If it’s really some overwhelming, unearthly force . . . or if it’s me.”
“What, that you’re a murderer? Is that what you’re wondering? Frank, you’ve been through a tremendous shock. You need to see a doctor.”
“What I need is sleep,” he said. Lucy sensed that he was beginning to shut down his emotions. She hoped it was just for the night.
Perry and Dammers came back to them then, with Perry saying, “you two have had enough time. Boys?”
Two deputies suddenly stepped in behind Bannister and cuffed his hands behind his back.
“What are you doing?” Lucy asked. “Are you arresting him?”
“Go home, Mrs. Lynskey,” Dammers said.
“Frank, you need a lawyer. I’ll call one for you. In the meantime don’t say anything.”
It was then that he turned to her with sad eyes. “You don’t understand, Lucy. For your own good, just leave me alone.”
As Dammers heard these words a malicious little grin flickered across his lips.
As soon as Lucy left the building, Perry took Bannister down the hall to be booked. The procedure was simple enough. He had to fill out and sign three forms, empty the contents of his pockets into several manila envelopes for safekeeping, and then have his fingerprints taken.
After this, he was led into the part of the building where the cells were located. Only one was occupied that morning, and Bannister was put into the cell next to it. He stood silently, looking at the wall until the deputy went away, and then he sat on the bunk and stared sadly at the floor. It was only after ten or fifteen minutes that he became aware that the occupant of the adjacent cell was staring at him.
“Mr. Bannister,” Steve Bayliss said, “is that you?”
Frank swiveled his head far enough in the direction from which the sound came to recognize the young reporter. Then he went back to looking at the floor.
“It
is
you, isn’t it?”
“And the Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting goes to . . .” Bannister said dully.
“What did they arrest you for?”
“Murdering your boss,” Bannister said, again without emotion.
“Magda . . . dead?”
“Well, if she ain’t, she never will be.”
“Wow . . . I mean, that’s awful. Did you do it?”
“I dunno, kid. It’s been a long night and I really need to get some sleep.”
He lay back on the bunk and swung his feet off the floor, bringing them down onto the paper-thin mattress hard enough to set the springs squeaking.
“How could you not know if you killed someone?”
“Life ain’t as simple as it looks,” Bannister said. “I went to her house to save her life. I failed. Now they’re saying I killed her. Well, in a sense I guess they’re right. Look, I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but right about now my life sucks and I don’t give a shit what happens. I’m very confused. Does that help you any?”