Zigzag

by Bill Pronzini

  “Stalked? Are you sure?”

  “God, yes, I’m sure.”

  “Have you been to the police?”

  “No. There wouldn’t be any point in it.”

  “Why wouldn’t there?”

  Another headshake.

  “Look, Mr. Erskine,” I said, “what is it you expect from me? I have to tell you that my agency doesn’t do bodyguard work, but I can recommend one that does—”

  “No, no, I don’t want a bodyguard. There are weapons in the house, licensed handguns, and I know how to use them. I can take care of myself. I want you to find him, the one who’s doing this to me.”

  “Why a private investigator? Why not the police?”

  “Because they wouldn’t believe what’s been happening, what’s behind it, even if I showed them the black host. They’d think Marian and I were imagining things, hallucinating.”

  “Black host?”

  He didn’t seem to hear the question. “You may think the same thing—I won’t be surprised if you do. But I swear to you, we’re not. I’ve seen him three times now, Marian twice.”

  “Seen who?”

  The humorless synthetic chuckle again; the muscles along Erskine’s jawline rippled faintly. “Vok. Antanas Vok.”

  “And who is he?”

  “Not is, was. Antanas Vok is dead. He died in a San Jose hospital a year ago last Friday.”

  3

  Several seconds went by while I stared at him. Outside, some kind of bird cut loose with a series of melodious trilling sounds, bright and clear to match the afternoon. Sunlight made golden oblongs of the near side French windows; the places where its rays touched the yellow walls glowed warmly. And here was Peter Erskine, dragging dark shadows into all that cheerful radiance.

  I broke the silence finally. “Are you trying to tell me you’re being stalked by a dead man?”

  “That’s how it seems. Marian … well, she can’t get over the notion that such a thing is possible.”

  “But you don’t believe it?”

  “No.” But then he pulled back a little by saying, “I sure as hell don’t want to believe it.”

  “Look, Mr. Erskine—”

  He asked abruptly, “Do you know what a revenant is?”

  “Revenant? No.”

  “Supposedly it’s a spirit come back from the dead in human form.”

  “… What, like a zombie?”

  “No. A zombie is a mindless corpse risen from the grave. A revenant…” He nibbled briefly at his lower lip, then expelled a sighing breath. “A revenant, according to folklore, is the spirit of an evil person with a malevolent purpose—to terrorize and destroy the living.”

  I said slowly, “That’s a pretty incredible notion.”

  “I know it. It’s Marian’s, not mine. She has always had a fascination with the occult. When she was a girl she thought she might have psychic powers. She studied parapsychology, joined one of those psychic research outfits—still contributes money to it. Later on she developed an interest in witchcraft and black magic. Not that she actually believes in such things as revenants, let’s just say she’s susceptible to supernatural possibilities. Obviously I’m not. Whoever is stalking me is a living person, somebody in whatever nut group Vok belonged to. That’s why I asked you here, why I want to hire you. To find out who and why at this late date.”

  I’d been on the verge of getting up and getting out of there. Over the years I’ve dealt with more than my share of eccentrics, weirdos, smart-ass cuties, and plain crazies, but Erskine did not appear to fit into any of those categories; he seemed straightforward, worried, concerned for his wife if not himself. As long as he didn’t expect me to go chasing after phantoms, I was willing to listen to the rest of his story.

  I said, “Let me get all of this straight. You had no connection with this Antanas Vok until the freeway accident?”

  “I never knew he existed until that day.”

  “Who was he?”

  Erskine’s mouth bent into a grimace. “A butcher. In more ways than one, probably.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Headshake.

  “All right,” I said. “You’ve seen somebody three times now who resembles Vok?”

  “Enough to be recognizable even at night. Size, height, Vandyke beard, burning stare, clothing … all the same.”

  “These sightings took place where?”

  “Here, two times when Marian and I were together. The first on the side terrace just outside those windows there, around ten Friday evening. The other time we were having coffee by the pool when he appeared.”

  “Was anyone else present either time?”

  “No. Just the two of us.”

  “You don’t have live-in help?”

  “No. A gardener, a part-time cleaning woman, and a full-time cook, but none of them is here in the evenings.”

  “You say this intruder appeared. How do you mean?”

  “As if he’d materialized out of thin air,” Erskine said. “I’m not kidding. One second he was there, the next … gone. Vanished.”

  “What exactly did he do each time?”

  “Pointed and stared hate at me.”

  “That’s all? No threatening moves?”

  “No, but the implied threat was plain enough. I don’t frighten easily, neither does Marian, but the way he looked, his face and hands … Frankly, it made my blood run cold.”

  “What about his face and hands?”

  The muscles along Erskine’s jawline rippled again. “They were more bone than flesh. Like a skeleton’s. And there was a kind of eerie glow about him. Ectoplasmic, Marian called it.”

  “Did he speak at all?”

  “No.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “The same as the day of the accident. Shabby black suit and black hat. But the clothing was all torn up, filthy with what seemed to be dirt.”

  “Each time you saw him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he leave any traces behind? Footprints or the like?”

  “No. I looked everywhere on the property, but there was nothing to find. Except…”

  “Except?”

  “A lingering smell. Faint the first time, but last night it was stronger.”

  “What sort of smell?”

  “Nauseating. Like something dead and decayed.”

  Well, hell. “That kind of stench can be faked,” I said. “So can the skeletal resemblance to Vok and the unearthly glow and the rest of it. Stage effects.”

  “I know. But it was damned realistic nonetheless.”

  There was nothing supernatural about the vanishing act, either, I thought. With climbable fencing and all the shrubbery and trees on the property, it wouldn’t have been too difficult for a man, the living, breathing variety, to trespass more or less unnoticed. Still, there should have been some signs of his presence. Erskine must have missed seeing them in the darkness.

  “Where was the third sighting?” I asked.

  “Out on the road near the front gate, two nights ago, as I was leaving for a meeting in Palo Alto. He was just standing there, pointing and hating the way he did in the hospital. By the time I stopped the car and got out, he was gone. Vanished, like before.”

  “The hospital, you said. Was that where Vok made his threat against your life?”

  “Yes. The day after the accident, just before he died.”

  “You went to see him there? Why?”

  “One of the doctors called and said he was asking for me. I didn’t want to go, but Marian talked me into it. Act of compassion. Honoring a dying man’s last request.” Erskine’s mouth quirked. “Softhearted, that’s my Marian. A trait I’d always admired in her before.”

  “Did she go with you?”

  “Yes. She saw Vok grab my hand and put that thing into it—”

  “Thing?”

  “—and heard him swear his sick vengeance. So did a nurse and another man who was in the room.”

  “A
member of Vok’s family?”

  “I don’t know who he was. Possibly somebody from the coven or whatever it was they were involved with.”

  “Coven?”

  “You know, witchcraft.”

  “Now what are you telling me? That Vok was some kind of devil worshipper?”

  “That’s exactly what he was. He as much as said so, a lot of crap about Satan being his lord and master. That’s why Marian believes the revenant thing is conceivable.”

  I had another urge to haul my carcass out of there. But it passed and I stayed put. There’s a kind of perverse fascination in stories like the one Erskine was spinning for me; the more fantastic they are, the greater the lure to hear them all the way through. I’m too practical minded to give credence to evil spirits wreaking vengeance from beyond the grave, but there’s no denying the existence of devil worship. Or that there are credulous people who buy into the whole occult shtick. Marian Erskine seemed to be one of those, even if her husband shared my skepticism.

  “Look,” he said, “I know how crazy all of this sounds, but it’s true, everything I’ve told you. A newspaper reporter found out about the threat and claimed to have dug up information proving that both Vok and his wife belonged to a devil cult. He tried to interview Marian and me. I wouldn’t let him in the house.”

  “Did he publish a story anyway?”

  “Not that I know of. If I’d seen one, you can bet I’d have gone straight to our lawyers.”

  “Remember his name? Or what paper he was with?”

  “Not his name. The San Jose paper, I think it was.”

  I said, “Tell me about the traffic accident. How did it happen?”

  “Vok’s reckless driving. On the freeway near downtown San Jose. I was down there on a business matter, about to exit, when he veered over in front of me so suddenly he clipped my front fender. The impact spun us both around. I was lucky, my ’Vette stayed upright and all I got were some bruises and a cracked wristbone, but Vok’s van flipped and rolled and slammed into the overpass abutment. His wife was killed instantly. They got him out alive but in critical condition. He was barely hanging on when Marian and I saw him in the hospital the next day. Lived just long enough to swear his revenge.”

  “What was your reaction to that?”

  “It didn’t bother me very much—just a dying lunatic’s delusion. Marian was shocked and scared at the time, and even more upset and afraid for me when the reporter confirmed what Vok was into. But over time, when nothing happened, she got over it. Until last Friday.”

  “One year from the date of the accident.”

  “From the date of Vok’s death, actually.”

  “How do you account for the passage of so much time before these recent sightings?”

  “I can’t account for it,” Erskine said. “Marian says the revenant might have had difficulty crossing back from the Other Side, but that’s bunk. The only rational explanation I can think of is that there’s some kind of anniversary connection.”

  “Somebody involved with this devil cult carrying out Vok’s threat.”

  “Yes. The man in the hospital room must have told them about it.”

  “Could he be the one impersonating Vok?”

  “No. Vok was short, slight, in his fifties. The other man was tall, heavyset, years younger.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “He never said a word.”

  “Would you know if he’s the one who claimed Vok’s body? And the wife’s?”

  “No idea.”

  “You said something earlier about a ‘thing’ Vok thrust into your hand. What did you mean?”

  The question produced another grimace. “A damned black host.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve used that term. Explain it.”

  “Better if I let it explain itself.” Erskine slid a hand inside his jacket, brought out a plain white business envelope, then stood to pass it to me. “Careful when you touch the thing. It leaves a residue on your fingers.”

  The envelope was unsealed and nearly weightless. Inside was a solid black disc about the size of a poker chip. I upended it into my palm. It appeared to be made of some brittle, grainy substance, and there were three tiny triangular horns that gave it the look of a gear with most of its teeth missing. There were also shallow indentations and a shallow piece missing along the opposite edge. Bite marks.

  Erskine said, “I assume from your name that you’re Catholic, so I guess you know what it is.”

  Yeah, I knew. It was a perversion of the host, the body of Christ, used in Catholic communion—a black host for a black mass. Even though I no longer embraced the faith, this thing had an unclean feel on my skin. I dumped it back into the envelope, tossed the envelope on the floor. A few tiny grains of black stained my palm; I scrubbed it off on the knee of my pants, kept scrubbing even after the residue no longer adhered to the skin.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was on the floor in the hall Friday night,” Erskine said. “Must’ve been slipped under the door.”

  “Before or after the Vok figure appeared?”

  “Probably before. Marian found it the next morning.”

  “It couldn’t be the same host Vok shoved into your hand in the hospital?”

  “Hardly. I threw that one in the garbage as soon as we left the room, for Marian’s sake as much as for mine. It … well, you can imagine how frightened she was. To her it meant Vok really was in league with the devil, that he was capable of using the powers of darkness to destroy me, perhaps even to…” He let the rest of the sentence hang.

  “To what?”

  “Steal my soul.”

  More supernatural nonsense. “Come on now, Mr. Erskine.”

  “That’s Marian’s perception, not mine.”

  “How does she imagine something like that could happen?”

  “I think you’d better ask her.”

  4

  We went out through the side French doors onto the terrace, angled across it and along a wide brick path to the summerhouse. It was as large as a bandstand, surmounted by a dome with little windows in it and partially shaded by a half circle of evergreens; four of its hexagonal openings were covered now by rattan shades. Purple and white flowering shrubs flanked the entrance to a waist-high level; their mingled scents were sweet on the balmy spring air. The structure’s position was such that the woman sitting inside wasn’t visible until Erskine and I had gone two-thirds of the way across the lawn, and it was only when we stepped up inside that I had a clear look at her.

  She was not what I’d expected, either. Something of a surprise, in fact. At least a dozen years older than her husband, maybe more; it was difficult to tell because the dusky light in there veiled her face and upper body. Even so, it was obvious that she was in poor health. Small, frail—she could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Pale, blotchy skin. Too-red lipstick that gave her mouth the look of a bloody slash. Hair a dark auburn, expertly dyed and cut. Earlobes heavy with diamond earrings. The smoothness of her cheeks and forehead indicated a facelift or two, but when she leaned forward into a shaft of sunlight I saw dark smudges under her eyes and lines like tiny fissures radiating out from around her mouth.

  A thick-cushioned chaise lounge, one of several pieces of wrought-iron furniture that matched the ones on the terrace, was what she was reclining on. On a low table at her side were a cut-glass crystal decanter and tumbler, both half-full of what might have been brandy. Even though no breeze stirred the warm air in there, her torso was wrapped in a heavy knit sweater and a patterned afghan covered her from the waist down.

  Erskine went to her, laid a solicitous hand on her shoulder; she reached up to cover it with one of her own as he introduced us. The look of him standing there put the words trophy husband into my head. Well, why not? That kind of marriage happens often enough among the rich, trophy husbands as well as trophy wives.

  Marian Erskine let me have her other hand; it felt thin and
dry in mine, like old seamed leather. But when she said, “Thank you for coming,” her voice was a strong contralto that belied her fragile appearance. However much of the liquor she’d had, it hadn’t affected her speech or dulled her large, dark eyes. Her gaze was steady, direct, without any discernible sign of pain or distress.

  “Peter explained everything to you? In detail?”

  Erskine said, “Just as we discussed, Marian,” and I said, “Yes.”

  “And you’re still here.” She made a sound that might have been intended as a laugh but came out as a dry cough. “I was afraid it would all sound so bizarre to a man in your profession that you wouldn’t want anything to do with us.”

  “I deal in facts, Mrs. Erskine. But I try to keep an open mind.”

  “That’s all we ask. You will help us, then?”

  “I have some more questions before I make a commitment.”

  “Of course you do. About my concerns that there may be a supernatural explanation for what has been happening—that Antanas Vok’s revenant has returned to carry out his vengeance against my husband.”

  “Yes.”

  “Peter dismisses it as utter nonsense.”

  “That’s not quite true,” Erskine said. He seemed less in command in her presence, almost defensive. “I have an open mind, too; you know that, Marian. It’s just that—”

  “Just that you don’t share my regard for the paranormal. Well, you’re no different from most people.” She looked at me again. “I’m not what you’d call a true believer, either, you know—that is, one who embraces all aspects of the paranormal and supernatural without question. I have many questions, many doubts. My interest in the occult is more academic than anything else, though I suppose Peter told you that when I was younger I believed for a time that I had a psychic gift.”

  I nodded, and she went on, “There are enough documented cases of preternatural phenomena throughout history to have blunted if not completely destroyed my skepticism. I very much want Peter to be right that what we’ve seen is a living person guised as Antanas Vok, not his evil spirit returned from the Other Side. But until that is proven to my satisfaction, I can’t and won’t discount the revenant possibility.”

  I said I understood. “About Vok. You had no idea of his beliefs until the incident in the hospital?”