The Killer in My Eyes. By G. Faletti

by Giorgio Faletti

  ‘Lucy and Snoopy?’ the two men said almost simultaneously.

  Maureen did not catch the anxiety in their voices, only the surprise. ‘I’m not out of my head,’ she hastened to say. ‘I mean, I was with two people wearing Peanuts masks, specifically the characters of Lucy and Snoopy. I was wearing a mask, too.’

  Jordan sat down in front of her and took her hands. ‘Maureen, sorry to interrupt . . .’

  Maureen was pleased to hear him use her first name. It was familiar, it was protective, it was . . . human.

  ‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ he went on. ‘Are you familiar with Peanuts?’

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  ‘Well, whoever killed Gerald and Chandelle left the bodies in positions similar to two of those characters. My nephew had a blanket stuck to his ear and a finger in his mouth like Linus. Chandelle Stuart was leaning on a piano like Lucy when she listens to Schroeder playing. And the killer gave us a clue that suggests his next victim will be Snoopy.’

  Jordan’s voice was calm and radiated trust, and Maureen admired him for the way he managed to conceal what he must really be feeling.

  ‘You mentioned a murder,’ he prompted quietly.

  ‘Yes. In the room where we were, there was someone standing in front of a table. On it was a body – a child, I think. I couldn’t see very well because the man had his back to me and was standing between me and the table. Then he lifted his arms and in his right hand there was a knife with blood on it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then all of a sudden I was somewhere else. And the two people in the masks were there again and the person in the Snoopy mask took it off and was crying.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you be able to recognize it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Jordan leaped to his feet, as if galvanized. He turned to his brother, who had been listening to them in silence.

  ‘Christopher, call President Hoogan. Tell him we need to get into the Vassar database urgently. Ask him for the password.’

  Christopher immediately grabbed the telephone.

  Jordan turned back to Maureen. ‘The only thing we feel fairly confident about is that this Snoopy was also a Vassar student. If that’s the case, we can try to locate him on the college database and place him under police protection, if we’re still in time.’

  ‘Travis,’ came Christopher Marsalis’s excited voice, ‘I’m telling you this is a matter of life and death. I don’t give a flying fuck about privacy. You want warrants, I can have a ton of warrants for you in fifteen minutes. But right now I need what I asked. And I need it immediately!’

  He waited a few moments and then hung up. The heat of the conversation had caused two small red patches to appear on his cheeks.

  ‘I gave Hoogan my private email address. In a minute he’s going to send us the link to the database, with the password.’

  ‘Good. Maureen, how are your IT skills?’

  ‘I did an intensive course on computer crime. I’m not quite at the level of a hacker, but I’m not bad.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  They moved to another study at the opposite end of the residence, a larger room full of electronic equipment. There were computers with plasma screens, printers, scanners, fax machines and photocopiers.

  Ruben Dawson, as impeccable and laconic as ever, was sitting at one of the computers. His expression did not change when they came in. Even Christopher’s urgency did not make a dent on his impassive surface.

  ‘Ruben, open my email. There should be a message from Vassar College in Poughkeepsie.’

  Dawson did as he was told, and immediately a whole series of unread messages appeared on the screen. He stood up and gave his chair to Maureen without a word.

  Maureen took off her glasses and sat down in front of the keyboard. She clicked on the message from Vassar and followed the link. Then she typed in the user name and password the President had provided.

  This gave her access to a sequence of dates corresponding to academic years. The list seemed interminable.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Christopher, what years was Gerald at Vassar?’ Jordan asked his brother.

  ‘Ninety-two and three, I think.’

  That I think said a great deal about the relationship between father and son.

  ‘Try the period between ninety-two and four. Is there a way of distinguishing the men from the women?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Maureen said. ‘It’s the database of a college, not a police file. If we knew the name, we could find the record, not the other way around.’

  Jordan placed his hands on her shoulders, in a gesture of solidarity. ‘Then I think we’re going to have a look to a whole lot of faces. Let’s hope the one we’re looking for is among them.’

  Despite the itching in her eyes, that coating of fine sand as she gazed at the screen, Mauren forced herself not to think too much, and to concentrate on that interminable succession of faces, that endless litany of Alans and Margarets and Jamies and Roberts and Allisons and Scarletts and Lorens and . . .

  ‘There he is! It’s him!’

  A young man with reddish-brown hair and delicate features looked out at them with a shy smile. Maureen shuddered at the thought that right now, the adult version of that image was somewhere out there, unaware that they were fighting against time to save his life.

  ‘Alex J. Campbell,’ Jordan said, behind her. ‘Born in Philadelphia on—’

  ‘Of course!’ Christopher cut in. ‘He’s the son of Arthur “Eagle” Campbell, the champion golfer. His father is English but has lived in the United States for years. I think he’s a US citizen now. He lives in Florida and plays on the senior circuit.’

  ‘Alex Campbell is also a writer,’ Maureen said. ‘A couple of years ago he was on the bestseller list with a novel that caused a bit of a stir. I actually read it. Solace for a Disappointed Man. I think it was published by Holland and Castle.’

  It was Jordan who said aloud what they were all thinking. ‘The phrase I found on the piano in Chandelle Stuart’s apartment refers to Snoopy’s ambition to be a writer.’

  There was a moment when they were all still – like the pause between the flash of lightning and the roll of thunder. Then Jordan took his cellphone from his pocket and dialled a number.

  ‘Burroni, this is Jordan. Listen carefully. We have another name. He’s an ex-student of Vassar College named Alex Campbell. He’s a writer, and his books are published by Holland and Castle. His father is Arthur Campbell, a golfer who lives in Florida. He may be Snoopy. Have you got all that? . . . Good. Try to track him down. Do it discreetly, we don’t want to cause any alarm. We have to find him before our man does.’

  Jordan put the cellphone back in his pocket. Nobody spoke. Now all they could do was wait.

  Maureen rose from her chair and turned to Jordan. Instinctively, she had considered him from the start as her only point of reference, like an animal recognizing the scent of its fellow. Perhaps Jordan felt the same thing. His eyes met hers and he seemed to read her thoughts.

  ‘The link between the victims could well be what you “saw”,’ he told her. ‘They were all witnesses to a murder. And if we don’t find Alex Campbell in time, we may never know what murder that was.’

  Maureen did not reply, but simply put her dark glasses back on. It wasn’t just that her eyes were smarting, it was also that she felt uncomfortable at being the centre of attention like this. She finally had the answer to a question she had always wanted to ask Connor: now she knew how cold and alone it must sometimes feel, being up there on the stage responding to the applause of the crowd.

  CHAPTER 31

  ‘West Village, corner of Bedford and Commerce.’

  After giving the cab driver his home address, Alex Campbell sat back in his seat, a seat that had known better days and newer springs. The driver pulled away from the terminal at JFK airport where Alex’s
plane had just landed and his cab became one more in the long line of vehicles headed for the city.

  It was not dark yet, but the lights in the buildings were on. After all the time Alex had spent in his house on Saint Croix, in the Virgin Islands, being back in the vibrancy of New York scared and startled him, as always, although there were compensations. Alex Campbell was a man and also a writer. But he was not a brave man, and that made him insecure as a writer. And like all insecure people, he needed constant reassurance. This city seemed to be the only source of that reassurance. When the praise and flattery dried up, and the anxiety returned, he knew it was time to get back to his island.

  The cellphone in his pocket started ringing. He put a stop to the ringing without even looking at the display. He had programmed the phone to signal to him the times for the different pills he had to take in the course of a day. He unzipped the travelling bag he had with him and took out a small plastic box from which he removed an Amiodarone tablet. For some time now, his heart had shown a tendency to develop an irregular rhythm, and Amiodarone was the only drug that could keep it under control.

  He put the tablet in his mouth and, as was his habit, managed to swallow it without need of water.

  He had had a weak heart ever since he had been a skinny boy who tired easily. There had been a time when the doctors had feared he was suffering from dilated cardiomyopathy, a degenerative condition that leads the heart to become enlarged until it is almost unable to pump blood, necessitating a transplant.

  When his father – the great ‘Eagle’ Campbell, the man who had performed some of the most spectacular shots in the history of golf – had realized that his son would never be a champion, in golf or any other sport, he had lost interest in him. In any case, he had been so busy cultivating his own legend, he had little time left to care about the people around him, even his own son.

  His mother Hillary had behaved in exactly the opposite way, and had caused even more damage, if possible. She had taken him under her suffocating wing and taught him fear and evasion.

  From that moment on, Alex had been scared of everything, and had spent his life running away.

  The cellphone rang again. On the little display screen he saw the name and photograph of Ray Migdala, his literary agent.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Alex. Where are you?’

  ‘I just got in. Right now I’m in a cab on my way home.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Did you read the material I sent you?’

  ‘Of course. In fact, I finished it this afternoon.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  There was a moment’s silence that set alarm bells ringing in Alex’s mind.

  ‘I think we need to talk.’

  ‘Shit, Ray, why all this mystery? Did you like it or not?’

  ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about, when we meet. How about tomorrow morning, or are you too tired after your journey?’

  ‘No, let’s talk right now. And talk clearly, for once, if you can.’

  ‘All right, if that’s what you want. I read your new novel, and I think it’s crap. Was that clear enough?’

  ‘What are you talking about? Did you read it properly? I think it’s great.’

  ‘Then it’s best you should know you’re the only one who thinks that. I had a long talk with Haggerty, your Editor at Holland and Castle, and he’s of the same opinion as me.’

  At this point, Ray may have remembered Alex’s state of health and realized he had been too harsh, because his tone changed.

  ‘Alex, I’m saying all this for your own good. If you publish this book, the critics will slaughter you.’

  ‘You know what the critics are like, Ray. They don’t matter when it comes to sales.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. And I have to tell you that Ben Ayeroff, the Editorial Director, has no intention of finding out.’

  The distant stirrings of panic. Now the approaching city no longer seemed a haven where he would get all the praise and flattery he needed, but a threatening place where failure was always in wait and always severely punished. The Queens-Midtown Tunnel, which they would soon be entering, loomed like a bottomless pit.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alex asked, trying to keep his voice firm.

  ‘I mean, quite simply, that they have no intention of publishing your book. They’re even prepared to write off the advance they gave you.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn. There are other publishers in the world. Knopf, Simon and Schuster—’

  ‘I know, but I won’t be taking it to them. I don’t want to kill you with my own hands.’

  Immediately, Alex Campbell’s heart started thumping in his chest. Reading between the lines, it was obvious that Ray was much more concerned about his own reputation right now than his client’s.

  ‘Maybe we should take a step back, Alex. I’m sorry to be blunt. Holland and Castle published your first novel because your father reluctantly agreed to let them have his auto-biography. Frankly, the novel was very weak and nobody bought it, but the publisher more than covered his expenses with the sales of your father’s book. You are aware of all that?’

  Alex was all too aware of it. He remembered the humiliation when his mother had informed him of the arrangement and had convinced him that it was necessary in order to get himself known.

  ‘Of course I am, but what’s that got to do with it? The first book was an apprentice work and that’s how it should be seen.’

  ‘That’s true. And that’s why you managed to get the second one read. When you showed up with Solace for a Disappointed Man, you hit the jackpot, critically and commercially. Quite rightly: it was a masterpiece. I don’t know how to say this. This third novel of yours doesn’t even seem to be written by the same person who wrote Solace.’

  It was lucky that Ray couldn’t see Alex’s expression. If they had been face to face, his agent might have seen just how much truth there was in what he had said.

  It doesn’t even seem to be written by the same person . . .

  If he’d been capable of it at that moment, Alex Campbell would have laughed.

  In the big house in Vermont where he had lived with his mother, there was an odd-job man they had inherited from the previous owner. His name was Wyman Sorensen and he lived in an outbuilding at the far end of the grounds. For as long as Alex could remember, he had always been the same: a tall, thin, white-haired man, who seemed to have been born inside clothes that were always one size too large for him.

  But he had a calm voice and the most serene smile and eyes you could imagine.

  To Alex, with an increasingly absent father and a mother who had isolated him from everyone, Wyman had become the one true anchor. Wyman was the only person who didn’t treat him like an invalid but like a normal child.

  The man had taught him everything he knew. They were like two fugitives from the world, a world Alex was forbidden to enter and in which Wyman wasn’t interested at all. Wyman was like a character out of a novel by Steinbeck, a man who had built for himself a comfortable home in his own personal Tortilla Flat.

  From him, Alex had learned a love of books and reading, discovering an alternative universe into which he could escape without moving an inch from the chair on the front porch of the little house at the far end of the grounds. Thanks to Wyman, he had understood the importance of words and imagination, even though he had never had much experience of either. Thanks to him, he had had the idea of one day applying to Vassar, with a view to a career in writing, and that had been the first real decision he had taken independently of his mother.

  The old man had died peacefully in his bed when Alex was fourteen. He was not permitted to attend his funeral because, according to Hillary Campbell, the emotion of it might be too strong for her son’s fragile constitution to bear. That morning, he had wandered through the grounds, feeling really alone for the first time. Coming to the house where his friend had lived, he had found the door open and gone inside, feeling
slightly ill at ease, as if he was violating the privacy and trust of a person who could no longer defend himself. Despite everything, he had started to look through Wyman’s things, wondering where all this stuff would end up, given that the old man didn’t have any relatives.

  Then he had opened a drawer and found a heavy folder with a black cover tied at the front with red string. On the black cover was a white sticky label bearing a handwritten title: Solace for a Disappointed Man.

  He had taken it out and opened it. Inside were hundreds of numbered sheets covered in small, nervous handwriting. Alex could scarcely believe that, in this day and age, someone could have had the patience and devotion to write that mass of pages by hand.

  Alex had taken the folder to his room and kept it hidden among his most private possessions. He eventually read the whole manuscript, a novel that Wyman had written over the years without ever telling anybody. Alex hadn’t understood it completely but had kept it as a memento of his greatest friendship, and later as a kind of treasure to be spent in the future.

  And spent it he had.

  After his first novel had met with public and critical indifference, he had decided to publish Solace under his own name, making just a few small modifications to adapt the story to modern tastes and his own way of expressing himself.

  There had been no signal while they were driving through the Midtown Tunnel, and so that awful conversation with his agent had been suspended. But as soon as they came out into the open, he pressed call, and Ray replied at the first ring.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alex said. ‘I was in the tunnel, there was no network.’

  ‘I was just saying there’s no need to worry. Ayeroff was harsh, but I think if I go to work on them, they may be willing to give you the time you need to get the book the way it should be, the way only you know how to write it.’

  No, I don’t know how to write it. The person who might have known has been dead for a long time.

  He would have liked to scream these words until he cracked his vocal cords, instead of which he kept silent, hiding his true thoughts, as he had almost always done in his life.