by Josh Lanyon
Jason’s shoulder twinged at the reminder. “No kidding,” he said.
* * * * *
“So,” Boxner said. “I guess you and Kennedy are partners in more ways than one.”
Jason had been staring out the passenger side window at the green tangle of woodland flashing past. He turned to study Boxner’s profile.
Boxner was gazing at the road ahead, smiling faintly. His body was relaxed, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel. The epitome of confident masculinity. It was partly façade, but a lot of it was genuine. Boxner was very pleased with the man he’d become. He probably didn’t have a self-doubting cell in his body.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
Great. Just Great. Was there any possibility that SAC Manning would ever have reason to speak to Officer Boyd Boxner?
Boxner said, “You and Kennedy are partners on and off the screen.”
“Nope. This is a temporary assignment,” Jason said.
Boxner laughed. “Is that so? He was sure clucking over you like a hen with one chick yesterday.”
Insulting on so many levels. Also totally stupid. And it would be equally stupid to respond. And yet there had been a moment yesterday when Jason had looked away from the paramedic’s checking-for-concussion routine and caught sight of Kennedy talking to Chief Gervase. Kennedy had glanced over at Jason, and his eyes had blazed electric-blue in his wet and dripping face. There had definitely been emotion there.
Kennedy would take losing—or nearly losing—a partner, even a temporary partner, as a major failure.
Well, who wouldn’t?
Jason drawled, “Yeah, that sure sounds like Kennedy.”
“Oh, he’d have crawled down into that hole after you,” Boxner said. “No question. He doesn’t realize you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“The lucky ones?” Jason asked warily.
“One of those people who always land on their feet. Like a cat. Doesn’t matter how far you drop ’em. They always land upright.”
“What do you know about what I am?” Jason said. “You knew one thing about me and used it to justify—” He stopped. This was a conversation he did not want to have. Not least because it wouldn’t solve anything. He had figured that much out a long time ago.
Boxner tilted his head, considering. Astonishingly, he acknowledged, “Maybe.”
He met Jason’s eyes. “I probably did bully you. So what? That’s what kids do. It made you tougher. It made you tough enough for the FBI.”
Jason said dryly, “Remind me to thank you.”
“I don’t want you to thank me. I don’t like you. I wouldn’t have liked you even if you hadn’t been queer. People always say it’s not personal. But it is, believe me.”
“Likewise.”
“But,” Boxner said, “since you are still queer, I realize now you didn’t kill Honey.”
Jason said scornfully, “You know damn well I didn’t kill her.”
Boxner grinned. “Because you think I did? Prove it.”
“I plan to.”
Boxner laughed. “My money’s on good old George Simpson. Chief won’t even consider it because he and Simpson go way back, but I think we’re going to find the connection we need when we talk to this Kyser character.” He glanced at Jason. “Which is going to be very disappointing for you, I know. Since you’re hoping Kyser will lead straight to me.”
Jason’s curiosity got the better of him. “How did Simpson come under suspicion in the first place? Wasn’t he a cop?”
“Ex-cop. Ex-state trooper. He was hunting buddies with Pink. His wife was a distant cousin to Pink.”
“Simpson’s wife was related to Pink?”
“A third cousin or something.”
“And how was it that Simpson was cleared of suspicion?”
“He had an alibi for all the murders.”
“All of them? That’s suspicious right there.”
Boxner nodded grimly. “Yep.”
“What was Simpson’s alibi?” Jason groaned as the realization struck him. “Are you kidding me? His wife alibied him?”
Boxner’s smile was dour. “The light goes on,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Dr. Jeremy Kyser lived in a renovated nineteenth century stone farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The two-story structure sat in a green field surrounded by four acres of neatly trimmed grass. And only grass. Not a tree or a shrub or so much as a wild flower was in sight. A pristine black Porsche was parked in the drive behind the house.
“There’s a guy with bucks,” Boxner commented. “You have to be rich to be able to afford this much nothing.”
They got out of the cruiser and walked up to the front door. Boxner buzzed the doorbell and then thumped on the door.
Jason took a step back to examine the front of the house. The curtains were open, but there was not another sign of life. Not a sound came from inside the house. No dog, no TV, no radio.
“Maybe they’re out,” Boxner said.
“There’s a car parked out back.”
Boxner rapped on the door again. Jason was turning to go scope out the back of the house when the front door suddenly, soundlessly swung open.
“May I help you, Officer?” the man in the doorway inquired.
“Dr. Kyser?”
“Yes. That’s right.” Kyser looked from Boxner to Jason. He was tall—very tall—and rawboned. Despite the warmth of the day he wore jeans and a sweater, but maybe the sweater was due to an air conditioner working overtime. Frigid air wafted out of the house as though a secret door to Antarctica had just popped open.
“I’m Officer Boxner with Kingsfield PD. This is Special Agent West with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“FBI?” Kyser stared at Jason.
Jason held up his ID, staring back. Kyser was not a handsome guy. If anything, he seemed to be rocking the mad-scientist look. His salt-and-pepper hair frizzed out around a long, gaunt face dominated by heavy-lidded eyes with dark circles.
“May we come in, Dr. Kyser?” Jason asked.
After a moment, Kyser stepped back. Boxner and Jason entered the house and, still not speaking, Kyser led them down a dark hallway to a large living room.
“Do you live here on your own, sir?” Jason asked.
“Yes. I live alone. I work from home.”
At first glance the room was ordinary enough. A long rectangle lined with walnut bookcases and crowded with antique furniture. The bookcases were crammed with old books. Red and orange objets d’art packed the tops of the shelves like an overstocked grocery store.
“Why would the FBI have questions for me?” Kyser asked. He frowned, cracked his knuckles.
Jason kept an eye on those large, bony hands. “We w—”
“Happy Halloween!” Boxner interrupted. He was staring up at the shelves, and following his astonished gaze, Jason realized the spherical autumn-colored objects filling every conceivable inch of flat space were carved jack-o’-lanterns. Not real ones. Wooden ones in all shapes and sizes.
Kyser said stiffly, “I’m not interested in Halloween. I’m interested in jack-o’-lanterns.”
That was putting it mildly. This was closer to compulsion than interest. Besides which…
These jack-o’-lanterns were not the typical smiling or scary Halloween fare. Their expressions were tortured, menacing, sinister, agonized—and all too lifelike. Jason liked to think he was capable of evaluating art without interpreting it through the subjective lens of his own background and biases, but the word that formed in his mind was…troubling.
He said, “You mean you’re interested in jack-o’-lanterns as an art form? Or their significance in folktales and mythology?”
Kyser’s black eyes refocused on Jason’s face. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Special Agent West. This is Officer Boxner with the Kingsfield Police Department. Dr. Kyser, we wanted to ask you about some netsuke-style carvings you did several years ago for the Or
t & Rossington Primitive Art Gallery in New York.”
Kyser’s gaze seemed to sharpen. “You’re familiar with the art of netsuke?”
“I wouldn’t say familiar. I know maybe the rudiments.”
Kyser’s eyes finally moved from Jason’s. He glanced at the towering army of wooden jack-o’-lanterns. “I’ve moved on from miniature sculptures, as you can see.”
“Can you tell us about those early sculptures?” Jason asked. “The mermaids?”
“What is there to tell? I no longer work with the Ort & Rossington.”
Jason said, “You sold several of those miniature sculptures to the owner of a Worcester County gift shop as well. Can you tell us about your relationship with George Simpson?”
“Who?” Kyser looked confused.
“The owner of the gift shop.”
“No. I don’t know any Simpson. I sold those miniatures to several gift stores. Only one shop was in Worcester County, and that was owned by a woman. I forget her name. It wasn’t Simpson. I suppose I could look it up if it really matters.”
“That would be helpful.”
Kyser’s frown deepened. “That would be inconvenient.”
“But helpful,” Jason repeated.
“Very well.”
Boxner said, “You’re in contact with Martin Pink, aren’t you? You’re one of the only two people approved to phone him up in prison.”
Kyser cracked his knuckles again. “I was writing a book on Pink,” he said. “I’ve written several books on the topic of aberrant psychology and crime. I’ve interviewed any number of convicted killers in their place of incarceration—as I’m sure you’re aware, Officers.”
“You were writing a book?” Jason asked. “Does that mean the book is finished?”
“No. I decided Pink was not a suitable subject for my work. Can we get to the point of your visit? I’m very busy.” He started to pop his knuckles, caught Jason’s glance, and stopped himself.
Jason said, “Regarding those miniature carvings—”
Kyser burst out, “Agent West, I’m not a fool! It’s obvious that someone—presumably you—has finally made the connection between me and the carvings that Pink planted on the bodies of his victims. Ask me what it is you wish to know. I have nothing to hide.”
“You have nothing to hide?” Boxner said. “How about the fact that you never came forward to admit you were the one who carved those mermaids?”
“As far as I’m aware,” Kyser said, “no effort to find the creator of the mermaids was ever mounted. No such search was advertised in the press. And why would it be of interest or importance? I had nothing to do with those murders, was not aware that my work was used in such an obscene way by Pink until I interviewed him years later.”
“You could have come forward then,” Jason said. He was considering the use of the word creator. It struck him as off. Kennedy would probably have some theories on that.
“No. That would have solved nothing. I would have lost Pink’s trust, which I needed for my book. And it would have directed unwelcome publicity and attention my way. Only a fool or a madman would willingly put himself in that spotlight.”
Boxner said, “That wasn’t your call. You should have—”
“Incorrect and inaccurate,” Kyser said flatly. “Pink is already serving several life sentences with no possibility of parole. There was nothing you could have gained, but there was—and is—a great deal I could lose.”
Everything Kyser said made a certain amount of sense, and yet Jason had the feeling that they were missing something.
“That’s a pretty weird attitude to take, sir,” Boxner said. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Kyser glared at him. “As a matter of fact, I do mind you saying so. Who are you to judge me?”
Boxner bristled. “I’ll tell you who I—”
“Why mermaids?” Jason raised his voice, talking right over Boxner who just wasn’t going to let it go even if he antagonized Kyser into lawyering up.
Kyser’s strange dark gaze fastened once more on Jason’s. “What do you know about mermaids, Agent West?”
“Not a lot,” Jason admitted. “Mythological creatures, half-woman and half-fish, that appear in most of the folktales and legends of the world. They’re water spirits, right?”
“Mythological.” Kyser laughed. “No. The mermaid is as real as you or I. She is an Assyrian demon. There are numerous historical accounts of these creatures. Christopher Columbus reported seeing mermaids during his exploration of the Caribbean. Sightings continue to this day in Scotland, Ireland, Canada, Israel, and Zimbabwe. To encounter one is to encounter disaster.”
“An Assyrian demon.” Boxner was looking at Jason.
Kyser glared at him. “Yes, Officer Box. And I know what you’re thinking. To believe in an angel is perfectly normal. To believe in the Christian devil is reasonable. Yet to believe in an Assyrian demon, the oldest by far of all of these, is to be crazy.”
Okaaaaaay.
“Dr. Kyser, did you know Martin Pink previous to interviewing him for your book?” Jason inquired.
For the first time Kyser hesitated. His licked his lips. “I wouldn’t say that I knew him. I ran into him on occasion. I’m something of an amateur naturalist, and I used to spend a good deal of time in the woods around Kingsfield. As did Pink, though our objectives were very different.”
“I see. Are you familiar with Rexford?”
Kyser stared. “Rexford. What is that?”
“It’s a ghost town. On the edge of the Quabbin Reservoir. One of the villages that were flooded during the thirties.”
If Kyser was an amateur naturalist spending a good deal of time flitting around the woods of Kingsfield, he had to be aware of Rexford. It was the first time during their interview Jason was sure he was being lied to. Lied to in spirit if not in letter.
Kyser frowned at Jason. He cracked his knuckles twice in quick succession.
“Dr. Kyser?” Jason prodded.
Kyser seemed to snap out of whatever preoccupied him. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “I believe my lunch is burning.” He turned and left the room.
Boxner, staring up at the rows of grimacing, contorted jack-o’-lanterns, softly whistled the theme to the Twilight Zone.
“Shut up,” Jason muttered.
“Are you afraid the Assyrian demons will hear me?”
Kyser’s footsteps faded away. Jason took a closer look at the some of the books on the shelves. Art books…medical books…Russian Folk Belief; The Encyclopedia of Spirits: the Ultimate Guide to the Magic of Fairies, Genies, Demons, Ghosts, Gods, and Goddesses; The Mermaid and the Minotaur…Principles of Deformity Correction… Disability, Deformity, and Disease in the Grimms’ Fairy Tales…
“Look at this.” Boxner lifted one of the elongated jack-o’-lanterns. “Look at the hole in the bottom. You could wear this. It’s like a-a—”
“Headdress,” Jason said.
From the rear of the house he heard a car’s engine roar into life.
“Oh, hell no.”
Boxner looked at him in surprise and then belatedly registered the engine sound too. “Shit!” He set the jack-o’-lantern on the floor, following Jason as he dived out of the room.
They ran through the house, feet pounding the wooden floorboards until they reached the kitchen.
White cupboards, quartz counters, and stainless-steel appliances. Nothing strange. Nothing sinister. Aside from the fact that no one was in there.
Nothing sat on the stove. There was no aroma of cooking food, let alone burning food.
The unlatched back screen banged gently in the summer breeze. The black Porsche parked behind the house was gone. Dust seemed to sparkle golden in the sunlight as it drifted down on the wide, empty dirt road.
“I don’t know what spooked him,” Jason said. He was standing in front of Kyser’s house, speaking to Kennedy on his cell phone. Overhead, silver-edged clouds rolled and tumbled playfully through the wide blue sk
y. “I will say, I think Kyser’s a very weird dude. Even so, nothing happened in the course of that interview that should have made him bolt.”
“You and Boxner were together the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing was said to Kyser out of your hearing?”
“No.”
“Hm.”
Jason had already recounted the entire interview with Kyser in detail, and it continued not to make any sense to him. “His answers were plausible. I can’t say that I had a sense that he was lying about anything except maybe knowing of Rexford’s existence. And why he would lie about that, or why the question would panic him into flight, I don’t know. Rexford’s existence isn’t a secret. Nor is it illegal to explore the village, despite all those No Trespassing signs. I feel like something’s not right here, but I can’t…”
Kennedy finished, “Put your finger on anything that gives us legal grounds to pursue Kyser any further.”
“Correct. It’s not against the law to carve art objects that were later misappropriated and used in homicides. It’s not against the law to refuse to speak to the police. It’s not against the law to drive off like a bat out of hell.”
“All right. Thanks for the update.”
“Should we…I don’t know. You’ll want to see these jack-o’-lanterns though. I’m not sure if they’re supposed to be ornamental or ceremonial, but they’re pretty unsettling. As was the lecture on Assyrian demons. Anyway, I took a bunch of photos with my phone. Boxner and I had a look around, but we couldn’t find anything that would justify an official search of the property.”
“No,” Kennedy said quickly. “Don’t proceed without a warrant. For all we know Kyser is on his way to his lawyer right now. I think we’ve learned what we needed to.”
“We have?” News to Jason, but there was no point trying to get into this on the phone. “How’s it going there?”
“The doctors still won’t let us in to interview the girl. At least she’s stable. I’m sure we’ll get a statement before the day is out. You’re headed back to Kingsfield?”
“Yes.”
