by Laird Barron
“Some would say a whore is a whore.”
“They’d be correct, wouldn’t they?”
I laid a manila folder on the table and spread the four known photographs of Oestryke in a crescent. I placed her photo at the center; the romantic one Harry had taken.
“Ever see this guy? His name is Morris Oestryke. These were taken in the ’70s. He’d be a senior citizen today.”
“Your suspect is a senior citizen?”
“Some old men have lead in their pencil, don’t they?” Zing!
Delia rested her chin in her hand and regarded the spread. Her lips wrinkled in distaste.
“I don’t know this person. I wouldn’t let him get within a hundred yards. His eyes are fishy.”
“Fishy? Fishy how?”
Her hesitation lasted a millisecond longer than it should’ve.
“Cold, dead. Fishy.” She dismissed the Oestryke pics and plucked the photo of herself, turning it side to side. “My affair with Harry lasted for eighteen, blissful months. An Olympic record for me. This one is from last autumn at the cabin. A lovely honeymoon minus the bureaucratic entanglements. We were on the rocks when he died. I regret the quarreling, most of it my fault.”
She got under my skin; I adopted a bland expression to compensate.
“Ever meet Ray Anderson? He and Harry were tight. Anderson got bumped on a previous episode. Smart money says the same person did them both.”
“Ray?” she said. “Yes. I fucked him.”
“Say what?”
“Are you a prude? We had a lost weekend. Nothing memorable or extraordinary.”
“Lady, you slept with two men who were later murdered. We have varying definitions of extraordinary.”
“Worrying is your department. My assessment is that Ray was another borderline criminal. Birds of a feather, and so forth. I don’t find it a tremendous surprise he and Harry might’ve shared a similar fate.”
Her reasoning wasn’t implausible. She’d consorted with a group of criminals who lived under the shadow of trouble.
“Ray Anderson stepped way across the border. What can you tell me about him?”
“We slept together. I didn’t take notes, sorry. I admit, the fling had an unforeseeable effect. The experience was an awakening. It caused me to entertain vivid fantasies of older men. Sexier older men, that is. Under the surface, Ray was tapioca. Satisfied my curiosity and never looked back. I don’t want to discuss it further.”
“Fine. Next item. Considering your tremendous resources, you must have hired someone to investigate Harry’s murder. Any word?”
“I haven’t retained a detective,” she said. “It’s unnecessary. Curious you should ask, however. Father assigned personnel to the case. We have access to excellent security services.”
I gestured toward the guards.
“Daddy’s worried for his princess?”
“Black Dog is cheaper than a ransom, dear.”
“Father knows best, sometimes. You decided to help me. Before we get to how, I have to ask why. Is Lionel that persuasive?”
She laughed, lovely and sensual and unaffected. My collar tightened.
“Your girlfriend certainly has a silver tongue.”
I’d related the bare bones of the investigation to Meg—a sketch of Oestryke and his alter ego, the Croatoan, carefully omitting the gruesome details. Meg wasn’t squeamish. She did worry.
“Wonderful,” I said.
“Totally serious. Meg is terrific. A wise man holds on to a woman like her.”
“I endeavor to do the smart thing occasionally. Tell me about this cabin you mentioned. Is Jonathan Labrador a hunter? A Catskills bolt-hole for a New York industrialist seems fitting.”
“Father owns a rare-gun collection. Swords, battle-axes, and bows. The butler is the only person who ever touches the displays. Pathetic as it feels to acknowledge this, the only thing Father shoots are clay pigeons. He’s no hunter. Wouldn’t stay in a cabin in the filthy woods for love or money. None of the contemporary Labrador men are comfortable in the outdoors. The tradition died with Grandfather. My father was the baby. He focused on expanding the family business while his brothers reveled in the princely lifestyle.”
I nodded compassionately without feeling any.
“Line up portraits of successive generations of nobility and the foreheads bulge and the chins recede and nobody wants to play Cowboys and Indians or slaughter hapless woodland critters for kicks. Tragic. Whose cabin is it?”
“Harry’s.”
“Oh?” None of my research had turned up deeds to property in Harold Lee’s name.
Delia quickly solved this particular mystery.
“Allow me to rephrase. It belongs to a friend of Harry’s. He didn’t say who. North of here, on a lake near West Kill. Are you familiar with the area?”
“I’m familiar with the idea of maps and finding things on them.”
“Presumably, you’re visiting his old stomping grounds, chatting up his loved ones and miscellaneous relations. Wouldn’t you appreciate a look at his private getaway? Do your bloodhound routine?”
“On the button, Ms. Labrador,” I said. There might be evidence at the location. Photographs, papers, and who knew what else. “Did you mention the cabin to your father?” I hated the idea that somebody might search the place before I had the chance.
“I do believe it slipped my mind.”
“Point me the way and I’ll be out of your hair forever.”
“Agreeable notion, yet highly doubtful. You’re a professional nuisance.”
“Thanks, lady. I don’t expect you to lead me by the hand into the sticks. Could get your sandals muddy. An address will suffice.”
“You’ve pumped me for information and now you’re done. News flash—I’m not done with you. I take after Grandfather—I’m the adventurous one in the family. Plan on Friday. We’ll make a holiday of it, muddy sandals and whatnot. You, Lionel, and me.”
“We?” The best I could manage.
“More enthusiasm, Mr. Coleridge. Wheee!”
She picked up the tab, so there was that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The excursion to Harold Lee’s country bolt-hole entailed agency housekeeping on my part. Thursday, I configured the schedule to accommodate my impending absence. I rang Chuck Bachelor and gave him the rundown of the previous evening’s fireworks and how Aubrey P had disowned us.
Chuck said he’d try to smooth her ruffled feathers. We concurred that after the dustup at her house, and the subsequent increased police patrols, the Trasks were likely to maintain a low profile, at least temporarily.
“The lady’s shaken up,” I said. “With good reason. So, don’t antagonize her. Lay back and continue surveillance of the salon. Cruise past her house randomly—that should be enough coverage for the moment. I’ll catch you Monday morning.”
That left a hole in my afternoon.
I picked up Devlin around lunchtime at school and took him on a field trip to the Wild Acres Animal Sanctuary in High Falls. I’m not fond of zoos—animals should inhabit the wild, fighting—root, hog, or die—not exist in a cage for the pleasure of slack-jawed looky-loos.
Thankfully, Wild Acres wasn’t a zoo, but rather a preserve. Its owners leveraged grant money and private donations to carve a series of rambling enclosures among heavy timber. The fence line wound into the hills, which afforded the sanctuary’s population of large predators miles of territory to roam.
The sanctuary housed black bears, golden eagles, foxes, raccoons, coyotes, and a pack of gray wolves. Staff trolled pathways on electric golf carts. Animals and guests were monitored by discreetly placed cameras.
A guide, dressed in drab olive-and-brown khakis with WAAS stitched on a badge over her heart, led our group of twenty on a walking tour. She recited the natural history
of the region, and the history of the sanctuary and its denizens, in detail. I watched Devlin’s face light up when he glimpsed the foxes and raccoons. Farther in, we crossed a small bridge. Three wolves separated from the underbrush and trotted parallel with the fence, pacing us. The guide called a halt and invited guests to take photos.
“Whoa!” Devlin said in a tone of hushed awe. He wore a denim jacket and sneakers. He snapped pictures with one of the disposable cameras I’d brought. “Do you like wolves, Isaiah? Have you seen lots of them? I love them!” These questions were on an infinite loop since I’d asked him about visiting the sanctuary earlier in the week.
“I’ve met a few in my wanderings,” I said.
“Scary, like these?” he said.
“Oh, yes. Grays are common in Alaska. But I once saw a pack of black wolves rip the guts out of a bull moose.”
“Black wolves!”
“Black wolves. The pack hunted that moose for days. They cornered him near a river, and then—”
“They ripped his guts out!” Devlin bounced in place, smacking his lips.
“Ripped ’em right out.”
Parents tend to be overprotective of their offspring, worried the sensitive dears will blow over at the first breeze. Children are monsters. You could persuade most of them to chew moose guts too. That said, I didn’t mention the biologist who was eaten by wolves near Coldfoot.
Made me reflect upon the father figures who’d influenced me—my Māori grandfather, Hone; my father, Mervin; Mr. Apollo, don of Anchorage; and Gene K. A troupe of crusty, malevolent old sonsofbitches.
Gene K mused on children with less contempt and keener insight than I might have assumed for a confirmed bachelor. We’d discussed nature versus nurture as it applied to a career of violence. Gene K had strongly believed in both qualities.
You don’t teach a child to become a killer by rote lectures related to physics—trajectory, velocity, impact, penetration—nor by morality, nor ethics, nor correlation. To create a predatory machine, you foster an appreciation of the natural world and our minuteness upon its canvas. You create an association between scents of gun oil and blood with pleasure. The sound of a breaking bone is pleasurable. The grip of a knife hilt is pleasurable. The taste of cold steel is pleasurable. You begin by altering his or her view—first of their self, and later the world. We are as nothing and that permits us to do anything.
A horrifying and objectifying philosophy, no argument. I’d heard as bad or worse. Dad claimed my peculiar intuition originated with my mother, Tepora, and her New Zealand kin. He asserted that my appetite for violence was an inherited trait, genetic memory passed down through generations of savages. Yeah, he referred to Mom and her people as savages. Coming from him, that passed for a compliment. No acknowledgment of his own Saxon tribal ancestry, of course.
“Can I have a wolf?” Devlin said. The tour had ended with pamphlets, buttons, and programmatic requests for donations. We were walking to the truck.
“For a pet?”
“Yeah!”
“What about Minerva? She loves to play.”
“But Minerva’s not a wolf. She’s a dog. She’s a canine. Wolves are lupine.”
“Who taught you the difference between canine and lupine?”
“Mom did. I wanna wolf puppy.”
“You can’t have a wolf puppy.”
“Why?”
“What would your mother say? I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”
“She’d say no!”
“Sorry, big guy.”
He tucked his chin into his chest. I visualized a tiny thundercloud forming overhead. He made a sly, dark expression kids do to remind you that a chunk of their brain isn’t fully developed. The chunk that contains germinating seeds of morality and compassion.
“You’re bigger than Mommy. You could make her.”
Talk about the very definition of an uncomfortable pause. Several rhetorical tactics presented themselves. None seemed adequate to the task. Devlin had knocked most of the wind out of me. I helped him into the booster seat and stalled some more adjusting the straps. I allowed the swelling silence to indicate my disapproval; let that disapproval gain solidity and weight. Yes, I decided to intimidate a little kid.
Finally, I locked eyes with him.
“Nobody, but nobody, makes your mother do anything. Got it?”
His lip trembled as he nodded.
“Good.” I wanted to tell him that a real man didn’t bully women, but I couldn’t muster the hypocrisy. “When you get older, you’ll have to make choices. Do you understand? You’ll have to decide if you’re going to push people around, if you’re going to hurt them to get what you want. You decide to push, you decide to hurt? The world reacts. It will push back and it will hurt you.” I waited to see if he grasped any of it, and damned if I could tell.
Devlin remained stoic on the way home. Arms crossed and rigid. Once I parked and got him free of the booster, he ran up the walk to his front door. He hugged Meg around the waist and excitedly related the earth-shattering events of our trip to the Wild Acres Animal Sanctuary. Storm clouds had retreated for the moment.
I leaned against my truck, sweating, nerves in tatters. Was this what real-deal fathers experienced on a routine basis—the sense of being giant walking assholes? Probably the decent ones. A small and inhumane sliver of my mind acknowledged an instant of pure empathy with Mac, who’d fled the whole scene for the safety of a perilous, backbreaking job in an underdeveloped Central American nation administered by a tin-pot dictatorship. Less stressful.
That made me feel worse. Maybe what my soul required was to go break something or wade into a fight. The beneficial side effects of the most recent brawl were already dissipating.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Manual labor is allegedly good for the soul. Meg handed me a rake and pointed at the yard. Conveniently for my no-good soul, there were plenty of leaves. As a reward, she ordered Chinese from a joint in Rosendale. After chivvying Devlin to bed, Meg and I stood on her porch and watched the neighborhood lights.
“I have a craving for a cigarette,” she said. She’d smoked in college, and for a long while after. She quit the day she went to the clinic and learned that the rabbit died. The occasional toke was her concession to wilder, carefree days. It wasn’t the same. “I think my nerves are fried. Dev’s school performed an active-shooter drill today. Teachers direct the children where to hide if a ‘bad person’ enters the school. They try not to scare them, but how can the kids not be afraid? The world we live in. You know?”
I said that I did, and thought, Hadn’t it always been a tough row to hoe? Ask the Christians in the Colosseum; ask the Australian indigenous tribes, the Aztecs, the Native Americans, African Americans, or a few million Jews. Ask the ones who weren’t around to ask and they’d say there’s never been a necessity for perdition when we have this existence.
Melancholy gripped her. Curse of the sensitive mind. Not a curse I suffered, although I empathized. Each of us has his or her own brand of Kryptonite.
“I don’t want to feel guilty for bringing Dev into it, but I do, on some level. It’s a nagging sensation. A minor toothache that doesn’t let up. You ever feel the same? How do you cope?”
“Violence,” I said.
My daddy hurt me. Your daddy hurt you. Now we hurt people because it feels good. Because it quenches our anger. Gene’s words, echoing across the void, or my mind, at least.
“A writer came into the library last week for a reading. Small event; she used to be a best seller in true crime. Been a while; maybe fifteen regular patrons and a handful of the author’s friends.”
I asked who and whistled when she told me the writer’s name.
Meg leaned on the rail, partially turned in my direction.
“She said something that caught my attention—s
erial killings peaked in the 1980s and ’90s. The killers were so popular they had trading cards. I vaguely remember how scandalized the media was when the cards appeared. Over the last couple of decades, that popularity has waned. Those types of killings are less common. Her theory is . . . Well, care to guess?”
“Oklahoma City,” I said. “Columbine. The Twin Towers. Virginia Tech. Crime, a broad spectrum of crime, is a response to the state of the world. What’s happening and what’s coming down the pike. Slashers ceded to shock and awe, and to mass murder.”
“Yes, that’s essentially what the author said. Evil mutates. Vestigial tendrils bury themselves deep while the main body adapts to a new environment.”
“The traditional killers are still doing their thing. With less press coverage.”
“Tough to compete with bombs and assault rifles. Society has become numb to terror. She described dreadful possibilities and I couldn’t shake the chill. My child already faces an entirely new continuum of danger. An unprecedented threat . . . The writer described the latest breed of psychopaths as being akin to an antibiotic-resistant strain of virus. A bunch of people will die before we discover a cure.”
I hugged her. The scalpel of grim epiphany sliced into my consciousness. I held my breath and waited for her to regard me in the fuzzy dimness and say, You’re so much like them, Isaiah. The serial killers. You carry the virus and you need to leave me and my son before it’s too late. She spoke in my dad’s voice at the end.
Meg didn’t say it, though. She pushed her forehead into my chest. Her breath was warm.
“That’s why I contacted Delia Labrador and explained how the man you’re hunting is probably a butcher of women. A Ted Bundy, a Richard Speck, a monster among monsters.”
“Whatever you said made an impression.”
“This is the Reba Walker tragedy all over again. Reba was a black girl with a past and nobody but her family cared about her. These women . . . Nobody gives a damn about hitchhikers or prostitutes on the highway. Go get the creep.”
