by Edward Lee
Distant voices, however, led her down the line of cases and around the crner, library, read another sign.
Bingo, Holly thought.
A couple, obviously tourists, were being shown some sort of leather-bound book by a stout, gray-haired librarian. The librarian had a beard with no moustache.
“And it’s right here,” he was saying, pointing to the open book, “at this exact point, where the courageous Captain Myers made the last log entry of his life. You can see where the line stops at midsentence—that’s when the U.S.S. Tal took eight sixteen-pounders simultaneously on her starboard.”
“Sixteen pounders?” inquired the woman, who had a camera slung around her neck. She spoke like someone with a sinus problem.
“The ordnance of the day,” the librarian went on. “‘Pounders’ were cannonballs designated by weight; these weighed sixteen pounds apiece. Primitive by today’s standards, but still impressively intricate. The balls were fused and filled with high explosives.”
Then the man (the woman’s husband, presumably, who also had a camera around his neck) interjected, “But if the Tal was sunk, how was this ship’s log retrieved in such good condition?”
“That’s just it. The Tal didn’t sink; it ran aground. And its crew stayed on board to fight to the last.”
Eventually the couple browsed off.
“And what can I do for you, miss?”
Holly immediately noticed a hint of Scotch on the librarian’s breath, and this only reminded her how badly she wanted a drink. He’s probably got a silver flask in his back pocket, she thought. I should ask him for a hit. “I’m researching something,” she said. “A boat.”
“Boats are canoes and rafts, miss,” the bearded man corrected. “You mean a ship.”
“Er, yes, a ship. I don’t know anything about it except its name: The H.M.S. Scrimm.”
At once, the librarian’s bushy white eyebrows rose. He seemed impressed. “You’ve done your homework, I see. Time has reduced the fate of the Scrimm to relative obscurity, but I can tell you, in its time it was the topic of many a sinister conversation.”
Then he walked quickly to a wall of shelves, urging her to follow with a wave of his hand. Holly followed the faint scent of Scotch.
He took down a long-spined book, then opened it up on a reading table, and with a finger missing its first digit he pointed. “That, miss, is the H.M.S. Scrimm.”
Holly peered at the color plate, a busy, turbulent painting of a multimasted sailing ship cutting through rough seas.
“The Scrimm ran, for nearly a decade, the major trans-Atlantic trade route between England and the Colonies. The city that we’re both standing in right now was where she docked thrice a year, bringing British imperialist gold to our merchants in exchange for goods.”
“The City Dock,” Holly muttered.
“No, no. The Scrimm met its fate a year before our City Dock was built. She harbored at the original city dock, which was built by contractors from Kent Island in the late 1600s. The site of the original dock remains today. You can see it, in fact, at the end of Federal Street.”
“The Taylor Watch House,” Holly said to herself more than to him.
Again the bushy brows rose. “I’m impressed. Not many people know that.”
“I’m…friends with the current owner of the house,” Holly faltered.
“Ah, then if you look out the south window, into the bay, you can see the exact point of the Scrimm’s terrible end.”
What an odd way the man had of talking, and what an infuriating way. He was deliberately speaking in ellipses, to keep her interest. “What terrible end?” Holly asked.
“It was the summer of 1793. The Scrimm, loaded with ballast and gold, was expected to arrive as usual, to buy tobacco and tabby bricks. But to the dismay of the sentinels of the watch house, the ship never made it to the dock.”
Again, he stopped, baiting Holly to ask for more. She was nearly seething when she asked, “What happened?”
“The Scrimm merely sat adrift, a mile off the dock. Curiously, the watch house burned to the ground the same day. No one quite knows why. Eventually the Scrimm was scrapped, scavenged of its ballast and wood for use as building materials. Its consignment of gold, too, curiously disappeared.”
Holly wanted to kick the old man. He was obviously withholding the rest of the story, toying with her.
“What,” she said through gritted teeth, “did you mean when you said the Scrimm was once the topic of ‘many a sinister conversation?’”
“She never reached port,” he rambled. “She was found adrift—”
“You’ve already told me that,” Holly said, but she could just as easily have screamed it.
“The Scrimm was found adrift,” the Scotch-reeking librarian repeated yet again. “Her entire crew dead.”
“Dead?” Holly asked, astounded.
“Dead.” The librarian nodded stiffly. “Butchered.”
««—»»
It was…weird.
Alice had been out driving, yet she really couldn’t remember where she’d been. Almost like a memory blackout or something.
It suddenly occurred to her, as she drove casually around Church Circle:
Where…where have I been today?
It was well into the afternoon now, the sun high and bright, trees bristling in plush greens, traffic, pedestrians, life.
The normal world.
Her confusion itched at her. A blackout? That was something quite serious. And she seemed to be having them often of late. But stranger still was the way she disregarded it all a moment later.
Weird.
She drove around for another hour or two, just enjoying the day and the simplicity of her thoughts. Maybe I’ll go see Holly, she thought next, oblivious now to the mounting incongruities. Alice swung the car around the Circle and turned. But when she drove past Holly’s office, the psychiatrist’s car wasn’t there. Nor could the Maserati be found parked out in front of Holly’s waterview town house. Maybe it’s broken down, in the shop, she thought, so Alice got out and knocked on Holly’s door.
No answer.
And then, turning to leave, she noticed letters and magazines stuffed in Holly’s mailbox. Holly obviously hadn’t been home for some time; otherwise, she most certainly would’ve taken in her mail.
Alice got back into her car and drove off. Oddities. Amalgams. Yes, she felt strange, and her thoughts felt suddenly like a shifting puzzle, a hundred pieces fitting together, then coming apart, then refitting again in different configurations. Each reassembly was so distracting that she couldn’t concentrate at all. Next thing she knew, she was pulling the car into the new carriage house/garage, getting out, walking up to the house.
A car was parked right out front, a dingy green sedan with two odd antennae on the back. When Alice walked up the path to her front door a man turned.
Who is that?
“Miss Sterling? Alice Sterling?” the man inquired. He was wearing crumpled slacks, a crumpled shirt, and a tie. Thin, kind of pale. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and long, stringy brown hair that fell to his shoulders.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, Miss Sterling, I think you can.” He opened a wallet, offering her a view of its contents.
A gold police badge.
A policeman? she thought. What on earth is a policeman doing at my house?
“My name is Captain Cordesman,” he introduced. “County Police—City District Homicide.”
Alice’s face seemed to slacken. Homicide. But the thought did not arrive as a question. Somehow—for some reason—she wasn’t at all alarmed.
But why would that be?
“May I speak with you for a few minutes?”
“Why, yes,” she said, withdrawing her house keys. “But please come in. It’s beastly hot out here.”
This man, this Captain Cordesman, followed Alice inside. When she pulled the door closed she saw that he’d walked right into the living room and was
looking around.
“What a beautiful house,” he said, then, rather indecorously, he whistled.
Ordinarily, Alice would’ve responded at once to the compliment, but, but—
Again, she felt suddenly confused, and then the confusion turned into some sort of suspicion.
He’s…not really…interested in the house, she felt certain. He’s…fishing for something.
And then another voice seemed to whisper in her ear.
(Yes, Alice, you’re right. So be careful.)
Dessamona…
She’s here during the day, Alice thought in a fog. But where?
“I’m glad you like it,” she finally responded. “I’ve had it restored as genuinely as possible. In case you don’t know, this is an original Colonial watch house.”
Cordesman turned curtly to face her. “Actually, I do know that, Miss Sterling. And that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”
(Careful, careful…)
“Okay,” Alice said cheerily. “But first, can I offer you something to drink?”
The police captain glanced at the small bar and seemed to smile to himself. “I’d love a drink, if you want to know the truth. Unfortunately, I quit drinking several years ago.”
“A soda water then?”
“Thanks, but no, Miss Sterling. I didn’t come here to snitch your soda water. I came to ask you about the newspaper article.”
“The—”
“The Capital, Miss Sterling. Didn’t someone from the Capital stop by recently, with regard to an article they’re running about local historical houses refurbished by city residents?”
(Careful…)
“Oh, yes,” she said without pause. “The photographer.”
“John Suit?”
“Yes, that’s right. That was his name.”
The captain meandered around in the living room as he commenced with his questions, eyeing the furniture, the drapes, the framed pictures. “What exactly did he do?”
Alice shrugged. “He took pictures of the house—quite a few of them.”
“And?”
“And that’s all,” Alice said. “He left.”
Captain Cordesman’s brow seemed to furrow minutely.
“He left. Would this have been at approximately seven p.m., seven-thirty or thereabouts?”
“I think so. That sounds right.”
“Yes, he turned in his film to his editor. His film for the pictures in the article.”
Why was the man being so cryptic? “I would presume so,” Alice said.
“What can you tell me about him, Miss Sterling? What can you tell me about John Suit?”
Alice couldn’t help but smile a bit at the captain’s odd protocol. “Well, not much. He seemed very interested in the house, that’s all. And he was a very nice man.”
“A very nice man.” The policeman nodded once. “Well, I regret to inform you that John Suit is now a very nice dead man.”
(Caaaaareful…)
Alice brought her fingers to her lip. “How…horrible!”
“Yes.” Cordesman walked back into the foyer and peered down the hall. “What’s, uh, what’s down here?”
“The laundry room, and the basement,” Alice said. “But, but, you were saying—”
“John Suit was murdered the same night. We found his body…well, I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say that when we found his body it wasn’t in the best of shape.”
Why was he being so mysterious? And why—
Why does he keep staring down the hall at the basement door? she wondered.
“Let’s just say,” he repeated, “that John Suit was murdered very uniquely.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He was murdered by means of a modus that connects him to several other area murders.”
Alice paused, thinking. “Well, I have read in the papers about some recent rape-related murders. A burglar, I think? A burglar breaking into houses where there are women alone?”
“This is a completely different case, Miss Sterling. The victims of these murders are all men, all found in the same…state.”
Alice bit her lower lip. She nearly shivered.
Captain Cordesman hadn’t moved from the short hallway, nor had he taken his eyes off the basement door.
“We don’t know much, Miss Sterling, but we do know that after John Suit turned in his film he didn’t go home. In fact, he never went home again. It may well be, Miss Sterling, considering the estimated time of his death, that you were one of the last people to see him alive.”
“That’s—that’s frightening,” Alice said.
“And what I’d like to ask you is this: After John Suit left this house to turn his film in to his editor, did he come back?”
“You mean back here? Back to my house?”
“That’s right. Did he come back to your house?”
(Alice! You must be very caref—)
“No,” Alice said.
Cordesman turned to face her again, looking Alice solidly in the eye. “You’re sure, Miss Sterling?”
“Absolutely.”
The captain nodded to himself, pushing strands of his long hair out of his eyes. He took one last odd glance down the hall, then offered Alice his card.
“I appreciate your time, Miss Sterling. If you remember anything else about John Suit, anything he might’ve said that seemed strange, some strange gesture perhaps, would you call me please?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. I, uh, I’ll be going now. Have a good day.”
Alice showed the man to the door. “Goodbye, Captain.” Then she watched the long-haired, disheveled man go back to his car and drive away.
Alice closed the door.
She thought of puzzles again, puzzle pieces thrown together and then mixed around. She had the oddest impression: as if she was squinting at something— through a veil, perhaps, or a heavy fog—she was looking at something, but she was not quite able to see it.
She went into the watch room. The drapes were drawn; the room sat in gentle darkness.
And in the corner—through the veil, through the fog— she could see the faintest image.
The angel. Dessamona.
Naked. Beautiful. Her raven hair shining. Standing there in the watch room’s darkest corner.
And then Alice began to see the rest. She began to see her thoughts.
At last she began to see the puzzle pieces fit more precisely together.
(You did so well) came the soft, feminine voice. (I was worried.)
I was, too, Alice admitted to herself.
(We have to be very careful.)
I know, Alice thought.
The angel seemed to smile. It was something Alice sensed rather than saw. She’d never really seen Dessamona’s face, had she? The smile was more like something you knew without ever really having to see it.
(Everything’s all right now. but there’s still something you need to do.)
Alice didn’t quite get it. “What?” she asked.
(Something you forgot?)
Alice squinted, chewed her lip again.
(The basement, Alice. You need to go down into the basement and clean up the rest of the blood…)
««—»»
Dead, Holly thought, remembering the stout librarian’s words.
Butchered.
She knew the next order of business was a visit to the main county library on West Street, but her curse curtailed her. First she went to the nearest bar, the Map Room. Was it coincidence that the bar’s decor was overtly nautical? Brass rails, dark veneered wood, compasses and sextants on the stained board plank walls, along with framed paintings of still more masted ships on the high seas. Her first Dewar’s went down quickly as she frowned at the old salt’s tale.
The tale hadn’t ended there. It was the rest of what the old librarian had said that affected her now.
The governor’s office had quickly ordered a boarding party, and the Scrimm’s c
rew (fourteen men in all, according to the ship’s operations log) were found dead, butchered.
But it was the manner in which they’d been butchered: meticulously, nearly ritualistically.
“Almost,” the librarian added, “as if they’d been sacrificed.”
But that wasn’t the only oddity.
Sixteen bodies were found aboard the Scrimm.
This extra pair of corpses was found in the captain’s cabin, one man, one woman. Stowaways, the boarding party concluded. The man was found strangled, apparently, right there on the captain’s desk. But the woman…
Holly ordered another drink.
A naked woman was found dead on the floor, her wrists cut to the bone. According to the boarding party’s report, her face, even in the grip of her own suicide, was set in a leering grin.
And written on the cabin wall, in what was presumably her own blood, was a single word, a name—
The same name that Alice had muttered in her sleep.
—Dessamona.
— | — | —
36
“Suck it,” he quietly instructed in the front seat of his car. “Suck it hard.”
The exploitation, the denigration, and the ultimate humiliation of women was an occasion Steve always rose to. He couldn’t resist—it was, well—it was just too much fun.
He had the plan all mapped out now, and thinking about it, thinking about all the things he would do—
It just got him so goddamned aroused that he couldn’t help himself.
He’d picked the hooker up on West, at the bus stop, and taken her down to the condo complexes. He didn’t waste time.
He pointed his .25 right in her face and said, “I want a blowjob, and if it’s good, I won’t kill you.”
White girl. They all looked the same on the street, kind of generic. Little redneck crackhead sleeze in shorts, halter, and flip-flops—a twenty-dollar lay, max. Cute little titties on her, he thought, plucking them with his right hand. With his left he held the gun to her head. Nice, long brunette hair, too, and a mouth honed to expertise.
