Where Evil Lurks

by Robert D. Rodman

  “Harry was a good baby, a good little boy. He was an only child, a lonely child. He had just one friend growing up, my sister’s son, Tommy. They always played together by themselves. One day when Tommy didn’t come he did a very naughty thing.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He didn’t think I saw him but I did. I told him that God would take away his thingy.”

  “Do you know where Harry is now?” I whispered.

  “Maybe he’s in his room or playing with Tommy. I don’t know.” She brightened. “Would you like to hear ‘America, the Beautiful’?”

  “Of course I would, Annie.”

  She sang it, but toward the end her voice broke and “from sea to shining sea” came out as a squawk. She had slipped into the dull-eyed neutrality of extreme senescence and nothing I could do or say touched her. Her moment of lucidity had passed, and who knew how long it would be until the next one.

  I had a more leisurely look around the room, starting with the vanity. On its top stood a number of photographs in a haphazard variety of frames, all of a single subject—Harry at different stages of his life. I looked carefully at the most recent one. Harry appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He fit Ashley’s description of Strong perfectly, to the extent that she’d seen him. He had dark blond hair which he wore combed straight back. His thick blond brows and cover-boy eyelashes compensated for rheumy eyes of washed-out blue. A strong, square jaw contrasted with his effeminate forehead and accentuated the thinness of his lips and nose. I slipped the photo out of its frame and into my handbag. I hid the frame in a drawer. Annie didn’t stir.

  A glassed-in wedding invitation was hung above one of the low dressers. It read:

  Mr. and Mrs. Thompson Samuel Beck

  invite you to join them to celebrate the marriage

  of their daughter

  Annie Flora Leigh Beck

  to

  Mr. Lawrence Harold Angelica

  I hastily jotted down the essentials. It wouldn’t be right to steal it. I was just putting my notepad away when I noticed Mrs. Palmer at the door giving me as evil a stare as she could muster. Her eyes were bulging and she was motioning frantically for me to leave.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Palmer, for being patient. I believe Mrs. Angelica has gone back to sleep. I trust she enjoyed our little chat.”

  I followed her downstairs. The way to the front door was through a small room that appeared to serve as Mrs. Palmer’s office. As we passed the desk, I noticed a manila envelope, in the upper left-hand corner of which was the red finger of undelivered mail. Suddenly, I slumped to the ground with a terrible moan. I bent over double, clutching my abdomen, mewling like a half-slaughtered lamb.

  Mrs. Palmer, whose favor I’d certainly not earned, instinctively came to my aid. “Oh dear. Are you all right?”

  “Cramps,” I gasped. “I get these terrible cramps. It’s my endometriosis. I’ll be okay in a moment. Please, may I have a glass of ice water?” I threw in an extra moan.

  She hurried off for the water, fearful, I conjectured, that anyone with an illness as horrid-sounding as endometriosis might end up in her care for the rest of the month.

  I sprang to the envelope. How I wanted to steal it. I imagined it was plump with succulent delights such as phone bills, bank statements, and any number of means of directing me to Master Harry. I couldn’t filch it with the impunity with which I’d filched the snapshot. Its disappearance would point to me as the thief.

  I checked to see if it was open. I wasn’t beyond purloining an item or two of its contents, but it was sealed and taped over. The best I could do was to observe the address on the front. The envelope had been mailed to a hotel in Orlando, Florida. I memorized the name of the hotel and its address. I shut my eyes and visualized the data, locking it into my memory.

  I heard ice clinking in a glass as Mrs. Palmer returned. I got back on the floor and propped myself up against the front of a fat leather armchair. I screwed up my face in mock pain. I drank the water slowly and tried not to look at the desk. Finally, I permitted Mrs. Palmer to help me to my feet.

  “You’re very kind to minister to an unwelcome guest. I wish you’d let me help you find Harry. I promise if I find him, he’ll never know you helped me. I’d make up some story.”

  She shook her head sadly.

  At the door I made my plea again but Mrs. Palmer was adamant. I left my phone number in case she changed her mind.

  I had scarcely been aware of the oppressive atmosphere of the house when I entered it, so intent had I been on my purpose. But when I returned to the crisp autumn air and the bright daylight, the contrast between inside and outside struck me. Except for the sunny breakfast nook, the house was dully lit and in perpetual twilight. The withering mind of the matriarch, the waning spirit of the faithful housekeeper, and the apparent indifference of the son created an atmosphere of Gothic malaise.

  As I walked pensively to my car, I saw the name “Riley” on a mailbox. A woman of about 70, tanned and bony and, as they say, well preserved, was on her hands and knees pulling weeds.

  “Hullo,” I said. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  She looked up and smiled, nodding her head in agreement. “I don’t believe I know you, young lady.”

  “I’m not from around here. Actually, I went to college with Harry Angelica. I happened to be in Plainfield and I remembered that he grew up here. I still had his address after ten years, would you believe it? It’s the house on the corner. On the off-chance he was around, I went and knocked on his door.”

  Her eyes looked at me doubtfully but her mouth continued the smile. “Harry hasn’t stayed there for a long while. He’s always away somewhere making movies. Only his mother and a housekeeper live in that big house, and Annie, I mean Mrs. Angelica, isn’t well. She has Alzheimer’s disease. Did you know that?

  “I’m afraid the housekeeper was somewhat reticent. She said that Harry didn’t live there and she didn’t know where he was.”

  “Hmm, that’s strange. I thought he was managing his mother’s affairs. Oh well, it’s none of my business. I used to visit Annie every couple of days. Some days she wouldn’t even know who I was, but sometimes she seemed happy to see me. Then one day Sarah, that’s the housekeeper, said I shouldn’t come anymore. That it made her too upset. Truth is, I was the one getting upset.”

  “It must be hard. Had you been friends with the Angelicas for long?”

  “About 20 years. That’s when they bought the big house. It was through Harry that we ultimately became friendly, though it was a rocky start. When they moved here Harry was around 10. He and his fat cousin Tommy Beck loved to do mischief. They’d throw stones at people’s pets and kick trashcans over. One time they pushed all my clay pots off the shelf in my back yard. Broke every one but at least I was able to save the plants. That was too much. I hadn’t complained before, but this time I just walked right up to the front door and told my story. The Angelicas were horrified. They sent the cousin home and Mr. Angelica said that if I waited right by the door I’d hear him give Harry a good strapping. Well, I didn’t want that and I don’t think Annie did either. I suggested that they make the child earn money to pay for the pots. They asked me how much they were. It wasn’t much in those days, maybe 50 cents a pot for six pots. They made me take the three dollars. As I walked away I could hear Harry wailing from one of the upstairs rooms. That’s how we were first acquainted, strangely enough. Harry never could bring himself to speak with me afterwards. I guess he was embarrassed or mad. I’m glad he grew up and is making something of himself.” She looked at her watch. “My goodness, I’m turning into a gabby old gossip.”

  “Not at all. I’ve only known Harry as an adult, myself. It’s interesting to hear about his childhood. If I ever see him I’ll remind him of your story.”

  “Don’t you dare tell him I told you. I still don’t think he likes me and, who knows, sooner or later he may be my neighbor again.”

  “Mum’s the word, ma’am. You
have a nice day.”

  CHAPTER 11

  When I got home I called Ashley and briefed her on recent happenings. She had an idea.

  “I want that photo of Harry. I’m going to see if I recognize it under hypnosis.”

  “I’ll scan it into my computer and e-mail you a copy. You’ll have it in twenty minutes. Can you download and print it?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m going to call Dr. Brodsky in Chicago. If he’s in town he’ll see me tonight,” said Ashley.

  “I doubt you’ll get on a flight to Chicago tonight. It’s the weekend, you know.”

  She made one of those hrumphing sounds that the very rich reserve for us whose poverty of cash begets a poverty of imagination.

  “If Dr. Brodsky is available, I’ll take the company jet to Midway Airport. Why don’t you accompany me? There should be great visibility and smooth flying.”

  “Well, I was planning to catch the early flight to Orlando. I need to pick up Harry’s trail, if there is a trail.”

  “A few hours one way or the other aren’t going to matter. Plan your Florida trip for tomorrow. I want to hear every detail of your investigation and this is a fine opportunity. I’m not eager to drive to Raleigh again.”

  “Okay, you’re the boss. What do I do?”

  “I still want you to transmit the photograph. We should have electronic backups. By the time you’ve done that, I should know about Dr. Brodsky. I’ll call you and we’ll proceed from there.”

  I scanned the photograph into a .jpg file, connected to the Internet and e-mailed the image to Ashley. I logged onto my travel site. There were several direct flights to Orlando, starting at six in the morning. As usual at the last minute, everything was booked except the high-priced seats in first class. I bought a ticket for the flight departing at 4:05 in the afternoon with an open return, using the Bloodworth credit card. There were links to all of the car rental agencies. I reserved a mid-sized sedan.

  I searched on “Sans Souci,” the name of the hotel in Orlando that was on the envelope. It would be the obvious place to stay. The hotel had an elaborate Web site where they proclaimed their many facilities, their proximity to the major amusement parks, and their package deals. I could reserve a room online. It was a busy season for Orlando now that the excessively hot Florida weather was past, and northerners were already trying to escape the cold. All that was available was a suite. I booked it for five days. My mobile phone chimed just as the confirmation from the Sans Souci flashed on the screen.

  “This is Ashley. Are you able to meet me at the airport one hour from now?”

  I said I could and jotted down the directions she gave me. After only one wrong turn, I found the area that Ashley had directed me to. It was at the far end of the airport away from the passenger terminals. Two armed guards controlled a sliding chain link gate at the entrance. The name “Bloodworth” sufficed as a password, and the guards admitted me with a salute. Before me was an airport within an airport. Dozens of small and medium-sized airplanes sat in neat rows on a tarmac. Wide-mouthed hangars housed others. I parked, locked my car, and walked toward a flat-roofed building on the skirt of the taxiway, which served as a terminal for privately owned aircraft.

  I stopped halfway to watch a helicopter swoop gracefully down and alight on a nearby pad. A familiar figure emerged, her flowing blond hair gorgon-like under the wash of the swishing blades. She got clear, shook her head to make her hair fall tidily in place, and waved to the pilot. He waved back and adjusted the pitch of the rotor blades so that they bit the air and drew the craft skyward. It rotated 180 degrees and sped away to the southeast.

  Ashley entered the little building from one side as I entered from the other. She was dressed in a black pants suit of a matte fabric that might be worn by a Ninja assassin, so stealth-like a quality did it impart to its wearer. On Ashley, it accented the luster of her hair and the brightness of her straight white teeth. Though she could probably afford the best, I never saw Ashley wear jewelry other than a unisex Timex and ear studs. The effect was to make her look younger than her years. Nothing adds age to a woman’s appearance more persuasively than a jewel-encrusted gewgaw.

  “Ah, Dagny. Perfect timing. This is Brad,” she said, gesturing toward a clean-shaven man about our age, wearing a blue denim shirt and brown corduroy trousers. “He’s our pilot. Shall we go?”

  The three of us walked out the door that Ashley had just entered and turned toward a row of hangars. Brad waved to a man on a tractor and we all converged on hangar H102. As we drew near, automatic doors retracted from the center outward, exposing the interior. A sleek, silver airplane, delicate and avian, shone in the gap. The tractor driver attached a towing bar to the nose wheel strut, and gently tugged the shimmering craft onto the tarmac and into the red light of the setting sun.

  Ashley walked up and stroked its nose as if it was an animal she wished to befriend. She ran her hand along a wing and, unseen by Brad, inserted a bobby pin under a small, loose metal flap that protruded from the wing’s leading edge.

  The man in the tractor disconnected and drove off with a wave. Brad went to work immediately. He began with an external inspection of the aircraft: nose, wings, fuselage and tail, including the various antennas, lights and other unknown-to-me protrusions. He studied the landing gear as if it bore weighty inscriptions. He stooped under each wing to drain condensed water from the fuel tanks. Finished at last, he invited us to board.

  There is no graceful way to climb into a small airplane, even a jet-propelled one that costs two million dollars and cruises at 400 knots. The vital thing is to avoid stepping on places stenciled NO STEP in large red letters; less important is whether you look like a newborn fawn getting on its feet for the first time. Ashley managed it quite well, perhaps owing to the practice of slithering in and out of the Lotus. I followed her inside far less gracefully, nearly splitting a seam, and falling into Ashley’s lap. Brad was last in, pulling the door shut behind him and taking charge of the flight deck.

  For its size, the jet accommodated five passengers in surprising comfort. The bucket seats were well upholstered and covered in soft leather. They provided ampler legroom than the typical airliner. Each seat could be fitted with a table to support a computer. On the middle armrests were power supplies and jacks for Internet connections.

  Brad began to work his way through a lengthy checklist, reading gauges and toggling switches. About halfway through it he donned earphones. He set his radio frequencies and flipped a switch that ignited the engine. It was remarkably quiet and free of vibration, unlike the small prop planes I’d flown in when I was in the army, which deafened you and rattled the fillings in your teeth.

  He still had a bevy of gauges to check now that the engine was running, and another five minutes passed. He offered earphones with mouth mikes to Ashley and me. They would permit us to listen to the control tower, and talk among ourselves without having to raise our voices.

  We put on our earphones and Brad showed us how to switch between internal and external communications. Making it seem like an afterthought, he reached straight back over his shoulder and handed Ashley’s bobby pin to her at the same time as he said through the earphones, “Nice try, Miss Bloodworth. I suppose turnabout’s fair play.”

  Ashley rounded her lips into a pretend moue and gave Brad a friendly whack on the shoulder. Later she explained to me that Brad gave her flying lessons, an important part of which is the pre-flight external inspection. He’d set subtle traps for her, such as loosening the oil cap. If she didn’t catch it, she got an extra hour of ground school homework. Ashley had jammed one of the stall detectors, which is the function of the metal flap. It warns the pilot when the angle of the wing is too steep to maintain lift. Had Brad not found the bobby pin, Ashley would have scored a point in the time-honored student game of one-upping one’s teacher.

  Ground control cleared us to the taxiway. As we rolled out, they gave us the altimeter setting and wind conditions, and assigned us to a r
unway. We were seventh in line for takeoff in a queue of commercial airliners. Our jet was a Lilliputian in the land of giants. We watched each monster accelerate down the runway, rotate into a wheelie, then break contact with the ground and ascend toward the red flush in the western sky.

  When our turn came, the tower ordered Brad to “taxi into position and hold.” When all danger to our small craft from the wake turbulence of our predecessors was past, the tower cleared us for takeoff. Our takeoff run was short compared to that of the airliners. In a few seconds we were airborne, and for some few seconds more we flew directly over the two-mile long runway.

  Air traffic control vectored us out of the area and gave us an altitude and magnetic heading for the first leg of our flight to Chicago. As we climbed toward our assigned altitude, a helicopter belonging to a local TV station flew beneath us, our relative motions making the chopper appear to be flying sideways.

  It was, as Ashley had predicted, gorgeous weather for flying, with visibility to the horizon in every direction. Other aircraft were in view for most of the flight, crisscrossing the skies at various altitudes. Brad pointed out landmarks of interest such as the Ohio River, a dark meandering serpent whose tail brushed past Cincinnati, the lights of which twinkled in the distance off the starboard wing. All too soon, for I was thoroughly enchanted by the experience, we began our descent into Chicago’s airspace, which ended with a feathery touchdown at Midway Airport.

  The flight had taken just over two hours, and since we gained an hour by flying west, it was still early evening. Brad taxied to the private owner sector where he could park the little jet and tie it down. He powered off and let us out while he completed yet another checklist. A limousine was waiting for us next to the small terminal that served the personal and corporate aircraft that fly in and out of Midway every day.

  The limo was furnished with fresh sandwiches, a stocked bar including champagne on ice, a television set, a stereo and a small library. Ashley was to meet with Dr. Brodsky at his home in Hyde Park, about twenty-five minutes from the airport. When we got there she asked me to wait for her, promising not to be longer than an hour. “I’ve done this many times. Unless we have to unearth something new, this should go quickly. Drive around if you’d like. This is a fairly nice part of Chicago.”