Carrion Comfort

by Dan Simmons

  “Mmm,” said Gentry. He was holding his empty coffee mug and turning it slowly in his hands. “Already did. He’s who he says he is, all right.”

  Haines blinked. “You checked up on him before he came in today?” Gentry grinned and set the mug down. “After his call yesterday. I mean, it’s not like we got so many suspects that I’d be wastin’ my time making a phone call to New York.”

  “I’ll have the Bureau check his whereabouts for the period commencing with . . .”

  “Giving a lecture at Columbia,” interrupted Gentry. “Saturday night. Was part of a public forum on street violence. There was a reception afterward that lasted ’til after eleven. I talked to the dean.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Haines, “I’ll check his file. The part about Nina Drayton coming to him for therapy just didn’t ring true.”

  “Yeah,” said Gentry, “I’d appreciate it if you’d do that, Dick.”

  The FBI man picked up his raincoat and briefcase. He paused when he looked at the sheriff. Gentry’s hands were clasped so tightly together that the fingers were white. There was anger approaching rage in the usually jovial blue eyes. Gentry looked up at him.

  “Dick, I’m going to need all the help I can get on this thing.”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean it,” said Gentry and lifted a pencil with both hands. “Nobody gets away with committing nine goddamn murders in my county. Somebody set this shit into motion and I’m going to find out who.”

  “Yes,” said Haines. “I’m going to find out who,” continued Gentry. He looked up. His eyes were cold. The pencil snapped in his fingers without him noticing. “And then I’m going to get them, Dick. I will. I swear I will.”

  Haines nodded, said good-bye, and left. Gentry stared for a long time at the green door after the FBI man was gone. Eventually he looked down at the splintered pencil in his hand. He did not smile. Slowly, carefully, he proceeded to snap the pencil into smaller and smaller fragments.

  Haines took a cab to his hotel, packed, paid his bill, and took the same cab to Charleston International Airport. He was early. After checking his luggage, he strolled up and down the concourse, bought a Newsweek, and passed up several kiosk phone stands to stop finally at a series of phone booths set back in a side corridor. He punched in a number with a Washington area code.

  “The number you have reached is temporarily out of ser vice,” said a recorded woman’s voice. “Please try again or contact a Bell area ser vice representative.”

  “Haines, Richard M.,” said the FBI man. He glanced over his shoulder as a woman and child passed on their way to the rest room. “Coventry. Cable. I was trying to reach 779–491.”

  There was a click, a slight buzz, and then the hum of another recording device. “This office is closed for inventory until further notice. If you wish to leave a message, please wait until the tone. There is no time limit.” There was a half minute of silence followed by a soft chime.

  “This is Haines. I’m just leaving Charleston. A psychiatrist named Saul Laski showed up today to talk to Gentry. Laski says that he works at Columbia. He wrote a book called the Pathology of Violence. Academy Press. He says that he met three times with Nina Drayton in New York.

  He denies knowing Barrett Kramer, but he may be lying. Laski has a concentration camp tattoo on his arm. Serial number 4490182.

  “Also, Gentry ran a make on Karl Thorne and knows that he was really a Swiss thief named Oscar Felix Haupt. Gentry’s a slob, but he’s not stupid. He seems to have a bug up his ass about this whole thing.

  “My report will be in by tomorrow. In the meantime, I recommend that surveillance be initiated on Laski and Sheriff Gentry. You might consider canceling both these gentlemen’s policies as a precaution. I will be home by eight P.M. to night and will await further instructions. Haines. Cable. Coventry.”

  Agent Richard Haines hung up, picked up his briefcase, and moved quickly to join the throng headed for the departure gates.

  Saul Laski left the County Building and walked to the side street where his rented Toyota was parked. It was raining lightly. Despite the drizzle, Saul was struck by how warm the air was. The temperature had to be in the low 60s. When he had left New York the day before snow had been falling and the temperature had been hovering in the 20s for days.

  Saul sat in the car and watched raindrops streak the windshield. The car smelled of new upholstery and someone’s cigar. He began to tremble in spite of the warm air. The trembling turned to shaking. Saul gripped the steering wheel tightly until the shaking left his upper body and became a tense quivering in his legs. He took a firm grip on the muscles in his thighs and thought about other things; about spring, about a quiet lake he had discovered in the Adirondacks the summer before, about an abandoned valley he had come across in the Sinai where sandblasted Roman columns stood alone against shale cliffs.

  After a few minutes Saul started the car and drove aimlessly through rain-slickened streets. There was little traffic. He considered driving out Route 52 to his motel. Instead he turned back south on East Bay Drive, toward the Old Section of Charleston.

  The Mansard House was marked by an arched green awning which stretched to the curb. Saul glanced quickly at the dark entrance beneath and drove on. Three blocks farther he turned right onto a narrow residential street. Wrought-iron fences separated yards and courtyards from the brick sidewalks. Saul slowed, counted softly to himself, watched for house numbers.

  Melanie Fuller’s home was dark. The courtyard was empty and the house which bordered it to the north looked closed up with heavy shutters sealed across the windows. There was a chain and padlock on the courtyard gate. The padlock looked new.

  Saul turned left at the next street and then left again, almost returning to Broad Street before finding a parking place behind a delivery truck. It was raining harder now. Saul pulled a white tennis hat from the backseat, tugged it far down over his forehead, and pulled up the collar of his corduroy sports coat.

  The alley ran through the center of the block and was bordered by tiny garages, thick foliage, high fences, and countless trash cans. Saul counted houses as he had while driving but still had to check for the two dead-looking palmettos near the south bay window to make sure that he had the right house. He strolled with his hands in his pockets, knowing he was conspicuous in the narrow alley, unable to do anything about it. Rain continued to fall. The gray afternoon was sliding into the dimness of a winter evening. He would not have much more than a half hour of light. Saul took three deep breaths and walked up the ten-foot-long driveway that ended at what once must have been a small carriage house. The windows were painted black, but it was obvious that the structure had never been used as a garage. The back fence was high steel mesh, interlaced with vines and the sharp branches of a thick hedge. A lower gate, once part of a black iron fence, was chained and padlocked. A yellow ribbon of plastic wrapped alongside the chain read NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF CHARLESTON COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE.

  Saul hesitated. The only sound was the fusillade of rain on the slate roof of the carriage house and water dripping from the kudzu. He reached up, took a grip on the high fence, got his left foot up onto a crossbar of the gate, balanced precariously a moment above the rusted iron spikes, and then dropped down onto flagstone in the backyard.

  Crouching there a second, fingers splayed against the wet stone, his right leg cramping, Saul listened to the pounding of his heart and to the sudden yapping of a small dog from some nearby yard. The barking stopped. Saul moved quickly past flowers and a tilted birdbath to a wooden back porch which obviously had been added long after the brick house had been built. The rain, the dimming light, and the dripping hedges seemed to muffle distant sounds and amplify every step and noise of Saul’s. He could see plants behind panes of glass to his left where a remodeled conservatory extended into the garden. He tried the screen door to the porch. It opened with a rusty sigh and Saul stepped into the darkness.

  The space was long and
narrow and smelled of mold and decaying earth. Saul could see the dark silhouettes of empty clay pots set along shelves against the brick of the house. The inner door, massive, inset with lead-paned glass and beautiful moldings, was securely locked. Saul knew that there would be several locks. He also was sure that the old woman would have had some sort of alarm system, but he felt equally certain that it would have been an internal alarm, not connected to the police station.

  But what if the police hooked it up? Saul shook his head and crossed the dark space to peer through narrow windows behind a shelf. The pale white hulk of a refrigerator was visible. Suddenly there came a distant rumble of thunder and the rain redoubled its assault on the rooftops and hedges. Saul moved pots, setting them on empty counter spaces and brushing black soil from his hands, and then took down a three-foot section of shelving. The windows above the rough counter were securely latched from the inside. Saul crouched there, pressed his fingers against the glass for a second, and then turned to find the largest and heaviest of the clay pots.

  The shattering glass sounded very loud to Saul, louder than the thunder-claps which followed hard on the strobic reflections of lightning that turned the unbroken panes of glass into mirrors. Saul swung again, shattered the bearded silhouette of his own reflection as well as a muntin, tapped out the clinging shards of glass, and groped in the darkness for the latch. The sudden, childish thought of a hand touching his own made his neck go cold. He found a chain and tugged. The window swung outward. He squeezed in, stepped down onto Formica and broken glass, and jumped heavily onto the tile floor of the kitchen.

  There were sounds in the old house. Water coursed through rain gutters just outside the windows. The refrigerator made some internal adjustment with a thump that made Saul’s heart leap into his throat. He noted that the power must still be on. Somewhere there was a faint scratching, as of fingernails on glass.

  Three swinging doors opened from the kitchen. Saul chose the one straight ahead of him and emerged into a long hallway. Even in the dim light he could see where the darkly polished floor had been splintered a few paces from the kitchen door. He paused at the base of the wide stairway, half expecting to see chalked silhouettes of bodies on the floor as in the American detective films he was so fond of. There were none. There was merely a wide stain discoloring the wood near the first step. Saul glanced down another short hall to the foyer and then moved into a large but overfurnished room which looked to be a parlor furnished from the previous century. Light filtered through stained glass panels at the top of a wide bay window. A clock on the mantel stood frozen at 3:26. The heavy upholstered furniture and tall cabinets filled with crystal and china seemed to have absorbed all of the oxygen in the room. Saul tugged at his collar and gave the parlor a quick inspection. The room smelled. It reeked of age and polish and a bitter talcum and decaying meat scent which Saul had always associated with his ancient Aunt Danuta and her small apartment in Cracow. Danuta had been one hundred and three when she died.

  A dining room sat empty on the other side of the entrance hall. An elaborate chandelier tinkled slightly to Saul’s footfalls. The entrance foyer held an empty hat rack and two black canes propped against the wall. A truck moved slowly by outside and the house trembled.

  The conservatory, located behind the dining room, was much lighter than the rest of the house. Saul felt exposed standing in it. The rain had stopped and he could see the roses rising from the wet greenery in the garden. It would be dark in a very few minutes.

  A beautiful cabinet had been smashed open. The polished cherry was splintered and broken glass still littered the floor. Saul stepped gingerly across to it and crouched. A few statuettes and pewter plates sat overturned on the middle shelf.

  Saul stood and looked around. A sense of panic was rising in him for no apparent reason. The odor of dead meat seemed to have followed him into the room. He found his right hand clasping and unclasping spasmodically. He could leave now, go directly into the kitchen through the swinging door, and be over the gate in two minutes.

  Saul turned and went down the dark hallway to the stairway. The banister was smooth and cool to his touch. Despite a small, circular window on the wall opposite the stairs, darkness seemed to rise like cold air and settle on the landing ahead of him. He paused at the top. A door to the right had been all but ripped from its hinges. Pale splinters hung like torn sinews from the frame. Saul forced himself to enter the bedroom. It smelled like a meat locker weeks after the electricity had failed. A tall wardrobe stood in one corner like an overstuffed coffin set on end. Heavy drapes covered windows that looked out onto the courtyard. An expensive antique ivory brush and comb set lay perfectly centered on an old dressing table. The mirror was faded and stained. The high bed was neatly made.

  Saul had turned to leave when he heard the sound.

  He froze in mid-step, hands rising involuntarily into fists. There was nothing but the smell of rotting meat. He was ready to move again, ready to ascribe the noise to water in the clogged rain gutters outside, when he heard it once more, more clearly now.

  There were footsteps downstairs. Softly but with a deliberate, relentless care, they began to ascend the stairs.

  Saul pivoted and took four steps to the large wardrobe. The door made no noise as he opened it and slipped inside between the clinging wool of old lady’s garments. There was a violent thudding in his ears. The warped doors would not close completely and the crack in front of him showed a thin vertical line of gray light bisected by the dark horizontal of the bed.

  The footsteps climbed the last of the stairs, hesitated for a long silence, and then entered the room. They were very soft.

  Saul held his breath. The wool and mothball smell mixed with the stink of rotted meat in his nostrils and threatened to suffocate him. The heavy dresses and scarves clung to him, reached for his shoulders and throat.

  Saul could not tell if the footsteps had receded or not, so loud was the buzzing in his ears. Claustrophobic panic claimed him. He could not focus on the thin slit of light. He remembered the soil falling on upturned faces, the pale white stirrings of an arm against the tumble of black dirt, the white plaster on a stubbled cheek and the negligent weight of leg, gray wool black in the winter light, hanging over the Pit where white limbs pushed like slow maggots up through the black dirt . . .

  Saul gasped out a breath. He struggled against the clinging wool and reached to push open the wardrobe door.

  His hand never touched it. Before he could move, the door was jerked open roughly from the other side.

  FIVE

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, Dec. 16, 1980

  Tony Harod and Maria Chen flew into Washington’s National Airport, rented a car, and drove directly to Georgetown. It was early afternoon. The Potomac looked gray and sluggish as they crossed the Mason Memorial Bridge. Bare trees threw thin shadows on the Mall. Wisconsin Avenue was not crowded.

  “Here,” said Harod. Maria turned onto M Street. The expensive town houses seemed to huddle together in the weak winter light. The house they sought was similar to many others on the street. There was a no-parking zone in front of the pale yellow garage door. A couple passed, both swathed in heavy fur, a quivering poodle straining at the leash.

  “I’ll wait,” said Maria Chen. “No,” said Harod. “Drive around. Come by here at ten-minute intervals.”

  She hesitated a moment when Harod got out and then she drove off, pulling out in front of a chauffeur-driven limousine.

  Harod ignored the front door of the town house and approached the garage. A metal panel flipped up to reveal a thin slot and four unmarked plastic buttons. Harod removed an undersized credit card from his wallet and fitted it into the slot. There was a click. He stood close to the wall and pressed the third button four times and then three others. The garage door clanked up. Harod retrieved his card and entered.

  When the door lowered behind him it was very dark in the empty space. Harod smelled no hint of oil or gasoline,
only cold concrete and the resin scent of two-by-fours. He took three steps to the center of the garage and stood still, making no effort to find a door or a light switch. There was a soft electric whir and Harod knew that the wall-mounted video camera had scanned him and was tracking to make sure that no one else had entered. He assumed that the camera was fitted with infrared or light-enhancing lenses. He really didn’t give a damn.

  A door clicked open. Harod moved toward the light and stepped up into an empty room which, judging from the electrical and plumbing outlets, originally had been planned as a laundry room. Another video camera perched over a second door swiveled to lock on him as he entered. Harod unzipped his leather bomber jacket.

  “Please remove your dark glasses, Mr. Harod.” The voice came from a standard home intercom panel on the wall.

  “Up your ass,” Harod said pleasantly and removed his aviator sunglasses. He was putting them back on when the door opened and two tall men in dark suits entered. One was bald and massive, the stereo typed image of a bouncer or bodyguard. The other was taller, slim, dark, and infinitely more threatening in some indefinable way.

  “Would you raise your arms please, sir?” asked the heavy one. “Would you go fuck yourself for a quarter?” asked Harod. He hated being touched by men. He hated the thought of touching them. The two waited patiently. Harod lifted his arms. The heavy man patted him down professionally, impersonally, and nodded to the dark man.

  “Right this way, Mr. Harod.” The thin man led him through the door, through an unused kitchen, down a bright hallway past several empty, unfurnished rooms, and stopped at the bottom of a staircase. “It’s the first room on the left, Mr. Harod,” he said and pointed upstairs. “They have been waiting for you.”

  Harod said nothing and climbed the stairs. The floors were light oak, polished to a high gloss. His boots on the stairs sent echoes through the house. The building smelled of new paint and emptiness.