Shadow Games

by Ed Gorman

  Girl, he thought.

  Girl lives here.

  Why am I here, then?

  He peed so hard it was almost painful. He felt as if he stood there shooting a steady stream for at least ten minutes, though that was, of course, impossible.

  When he finished, he leaned over the sink and looked at his dark shape in the dark mirror.

  Please... Is it asking too much to know my own name? This isn't funny, you know. This isn't one goddamn bit funny.

  Then he wondered to whom he was addressing his question. God, he supposed. Yes, God. And why not? God was supposed to help people like him. It was in the contract, wasn't it?

  He left the bathroom and went to stand before the open window.

  He let the sheer white curtain envelope him like smoke.

  He looked to the street below. Quiet. Residential. Lone street light on the corner showing the edges of two or three well-kept brick apartment houses. Rain shone like black glass on the sidewalk and street. Wind covered his body with goose bumps again. Then, abruptly, the curtain covering him once more, he was lost inside silken whiteness, ghost inside a ghost. Safe.

  The dehydration was starting to get very bad. He needed a Pepsi or something. And soon.

  Where was the kitchen in this place, anyway?

  He walked through the bedroom door and out into a living room that was even darker except for the window on the west wall. Muzzy street light played on the glass like dying fireflies in sweet summer gloom.

  There was a small brick fireplace, two long, narrow, built-in bookcases on either side, a stylish white couch and a TV set with a twenty-one inch screen. No wind reached this room and so the air was stuffy and smelled of—

  At first he didn't recognize it, but then—

  Marijuana. The harsh, weedy stench of marijuana smoke. He looked at the shadowy room, studied it, but it was completely unfamiliar.

  Where was he?

  Who was he?

  Please, God, you gotta help me. It's in the contract. Honest.

  A terrible panic replaced his sarcasm. He had to fight hard against the impulse to start shrieking and then start smashing things.

  And then a notion so horrible he thought he would lose control entirely: I'm in a little box, like the little boxes rats are kept in for lab experiments, and somebody is watching all this, all my misery, all my fear, and taking notes on everything I do, and sometimes He just nods when I do the expected, and sometimes He smiles when I do the unexpected.

  He had to get rid of this thought—

  He forced himself, despite the huge pain pounding inside his skull, to shake his head, ridding himself of the thought...

  He studied the room some more, tried to get a sense of it. The books said culture; the white couch, more like a divan, really, said style; and the brick fireplace, apparently a working fireplace, said reasonably expensive. In many apartment buildings, fireplaces were strictly ornamental. Cost too much to keep them working. He decided to take a look at the titles in the bookcases. Maybe that way he could learn something about where he was right now...

  He walked across the edge of a rug that was either Persian or trying hard to be Persian, and stepped over to the bookcase to the right of the fireplace.

  He grabbed several books at once and then walked with them back toward the window, so he could read them in the street light.

  God, he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

  You're A Real Person, Too, by Dr. Stanley M. Derkum; Why You Should Love Yourself, by Phyllis Glanze, PhD; Pushed Around No Longer, by George Fenton O'Malley; Tell Them The Lord Says To Shove It, by Evangelist and former NFL tackle M. "Butch" Harding (with Ken Arnold).

  The person who read these books had to be a past master at low self-esteem.

  He shook his head again. The books had told him nothing, really.

  Kitchen.

  Diet Pepsi.

  Maybe he could get real lucky and find some aspirin, too.

  He tried licking his lips. Didn't work. Mouth too dry.

  He found the kitchen through the living room and down a short hallway that sent panic through him again. The hallway was utterly dark and too narrow. All he could think of was the grave, of being buried alive and suffocated within the confines of a casket. Clawing to get free, his ripped fingernails running with blood...

  He hurried down the hallway, to the vague gray light awaiting him there.

  The kitchen was L-shaped, vinyl on the floor, fashionable black and white tiles covering much of the walls. Above a white gas range, several pots and pans were suspended from the ceiling.

  He was just walking into the kitchen when the bottom of his left foot stepped into something sticky.

  He looked down and saw that something had been spilled on the floor, an oozing puddle lying in the center of the vinyl.

  But he kept walking. He had to drink something fast, even though he knew he would probably throw it up.

  He had reached the gas range when he noticed two things. One, that the kitchen didn't seem to have a refrigerator and two, that the kitchen smelled badly. Very badly.

  He stood still a moment, fighting another wave of disorientation, and then realized he was being silly.

  The kitchen was L-shaped. Around the corner he'd find a refrigerator. He was sure of it.

  He took a step forward and once again his foot stepped into a sticky puddle.

  He had to be careful not to slip.

  All he needed now was to land on his ass and break an arm or something.

  At the end of the kitchen was a door with a small, lacy curtain covering the glass. Holding on to the stove for purchase, he walked to the door and looked out at an alley two floors down.

  Small rows of dumpsters against the brick backside of the building on the other side. Light pole swaying in the breeze, scattering faint light everywhere like gold dust. Lonely tabby cat trundling into darkness.

  He turned back from the window and for the first time stared down the small end of the L.

  A large, white, square refrigerator sat there, one of those new jobs with a little plastic window and a juice dispenser built right into the door. He could hear the motor thrumming in the silence. The big machine sat in the cove of darkness like a Madonna in a grotto, expecting adoration.

  He took a step forward.

  This time he nearly slipped.

  So sticky...

  He had to grab on to the wall fast and even then he could feel his groin pull as he scrambled to stay upright.

  All he needed was a hernia.

  He felt as if he were walking through taffy, the stuff was that sticky and warm.

  He had a thought about what the stuff might be but rejected it immediately. Too foolish. Too paranoid.

  He went over to the refrigerator and pushed back the sliding plastic door on the juice dispenser. Somebody had been thoughtful enough to leave a clean paper cup in there.

  He dispensed juice, the grinding sound of the machinery irritating in the stillness.

  The beverage turned out to be grape juice, probably the same Welch's grape juice he'd always liked as a kid. The coldness was wonderful, and so was the sugary taste. All the time he drank, he leaned against the refrigerator door. He didn't want to slip.

  Unfortunately, after he finished the grape juice, he was still in need of a Diet Pepsi. Hard, dry need.

  He stood back from the refrigerator, wrapped his fingers around the handle, and opened the door.

  The odd thing was, he didn't scream or run around smashing things. He didn't lose it at all.

  He just stared into the stark white refrigerator, the interior light painting his face with a color that was almost silver. He just stared.

  He'd never seen anything like it, of course.

  Somebody had cut a young woman's head from her shoulders and then taken out the top three shelves of the refrigerator so the head would fit comfortably inside.

  She had very blue eyes and she stared right back at him. She'd probably lea
rned to do this, to stare right back at people, from one of those books he'd just seen, probably the Tell Them The Lord Says To Shove It book, which certainly seemed to advocate aggressiveness.

  Just stared at him.

  She'd been beautiful in a high-fashion way, all sharp cheekbones and erotic mouth and cunning little chin. She'd had long, blonde hair that was really nice somehow, even with blood splattered all over it...

  The refrigerator was a mess.

  Blood and slop from the ragged line of her neck dripped and dropped through the tines of the shelving to splatter and splash on the white bottom. A piece of bloody brain meat covered one letter on the Fruit drawer so that it read: F UIT.

  And then it hit him, all of it, not knowing his name, the strange apartment, the girl's head in the refrigerator.

  He turned from the refrigerator, already running even before he was all the way around, and then he went right down to the floor, skidding through the blood on his backside.

  But he did not slow down.

  If he couldn't run from this room, he would crawl, which was just what he did.

  He got on his hands and knees and walked, dog-style, out of the kitchen.

  Every few moments he'd make this sick, mewling, animal noise in his throat when he realized that he was crawling through human blood and entrails, but he kept going nonetheless, out of the kitchen and down the narrow, coffinlike hallway and into the living room where he pitched himself on to the dry floor and let himself rest momentarily. He was shivering from frozen sweat and his lungs were threatening to catch fire. His headache was so severe, he wondered if it might not become a permanent condition.

  He had to remember his name. Had to...

  Then, somehow, sometime, Lilly was there, in the dreamlike darkness. How he clutched his little cock, as if somebody were about to cut it off. Where had Lilly come from, anyway?

  She got him clothed and on his feet sand led him to the kitchen door. He was crying all the time but she told him to stop; please, Cobey, stop. But did you look inside the fucking refrigerator? Yes, I did, Cobey—but everything will be fine. I promise you, Cobey, everything will be fine.

  He followed her out to the fire escape.

  The night was very cold. It seemed vast and filled with menace.

  She went back and checked the door, making sure it was locked. She wore gloves.

  Then she preceded him down the fire escape.

  Even though she walked on tiptoes, she moved quickly, holding tight to the thin metal railing.

  They had to be very, very quiet.

  On the ground, she took his hand and they began walking quickly down the alley.

  God, she was so strong.

  He could barely keep up. He wanted to puke/piss/ scream/bleed/die. Had he killed that girl or what?

  They went down to the end of the alley and over half a block. The rental car she drove sat there, waiting.

  Once they were inside and pulling away from the curb, she said, "You're going to feel better now. I know you will. Well go to my hotel and I'll get you some food."

  But all he could think was how alien everything looked to him. He was on the wrong planet, desperately in search of his real home.

  When they had gone six quick, dark blocks, he started sobbing so hard she had to stop the car and take him in her arms and cuddle him like an infant.

  Chapter Two

  Three Days Later

  1

  There were a lot of misconceptions about surveillance. For one thing, you didn't usually just pull up in front of a guy's house and park there. The guy might not be aware of you, but his neighbors likely were, and the first thing they'd do after seeing you was call the cops and report some strange man sitting out at the curb. A cop car would soon pull up—and, even if the cops went along with your story, your cover was blown. By that time, the guy you were staking out would have had plenty of time to get out the back door.

  So, the first thing a smart, contemporary, respectable private investigator did was call the cops, tell them that he was about to conduct a surveillance (without giving any exact reasons why), and then off he went to do his work unhindered by neighbors or police cruisers.

  This was just one of the many things that real-life private eyes did that fictional private eyes didn't do. Puckett often spoke about the differences between real and fictional on a variety of radio talk shows in the LA area—never TV because he didn't want his face shown—and he'd developed a real following because of his gentle humor.

  His listeners especially liked it when Puckett talked about operatives for a big, international agency, such as he was, who relied on mainframe computers instead of guns and shoe leather to do much of their work.

  As Puckett frequently said, before he began to investigate anybody, he spent a few hours at a computer terminal learning such things as where the man was born, what sort of education he'd had, any notable sports or interests he indulged NESTFORM, and any information available on ex-wives or lovers. In addition, he also checked out the man's financial background thoroughly, any liens, lawsuits, bankruptcies, etc.

  Puckett's next step was to go to the man's house and check through his garbage. You could find marvelous things in garbage and it often told fascinating tales. Thus armed with all this information, Puckett set about the serious, formal phase of the investigation, which usually meant interviewing friends of the man.

  Listeners loved it.

  The vampire hour had come. He called it that because, with darkness, they would appear, the freaks and geeks and victims and observers of the night. They would be furtive, little old ladies robbed by gangs of twelve-year-olds for a few dollars; half-naked dancers of many sexes enjoying the noisy, incandescent kiss of the disco spotlight; a farmer from Iowa coming out of his third-rate hotel to find that his two-year-old Dodge had been stripped clean of everything valuable; the junkie so desperate for a fix he decides to share a needle despite seeing the way his friend died of AIDS last year; a priest in a runaway shelter counseling a fourteen-year-old Michigan girl to at least call her parents and tell them she is all right; an S&M participant feeling the first lash of the whip ripping his flesh as his scream of pleasure and fulfillment sings on the air; a little girl hearing the brawl between her mother and drunken father, whispering frantic prayers that her mother won't be beaten as badly as she was last time; a very angry black youth sticking up a liquor store owned by a very angry Korean man, both so filled with hatred and rage they can barely contain it.

  This was Chicago, but it could just as well have been Los Angeles or Detroit or Miami...

  This was night, and sometimes Puckett thought he should go back to the old family farm in Maine and live out his life there. No vampires there, except maybe for those in Stephen King's books.

  He was contemplating all these things—he was a great, if useless, contemplator, was Puckett—when a familiar name came on the radio talk show he'd been vaguely listening to.

  "Our guest tonight is Anne Addison, one of the best-known non-fiction writers in the United States. Anne is in Chicago doing an interview with Cobey Daniels, the former teen-star whose new play is dazzling everybody who sees it. Good evening, Anne, and welcome to our studios."

  "Good evening, Ron. I'm pleased to be here. Thanks for asking me."

  "Why don't we talk a little bit about how you prepare for an interview, and then we'll take some calls from our listeners?"

  Puckett tried hard not to be seduced by that soft, intelligent, but completely unaffected voice of hers. He tried to concentrate on his surveillance job and he glanced determinedly up the hill at the dark outline of the apartment house.

  He had left Los Angeles yesterday because the man he'd been tailing was originally from Chicago and consequently—and unbeknownst to his wife—kept a place here.

  The Ardmore was a big playpen for wealthy adults. In this case, the toys were three swimming pools, a physical training room that would rival the most sophisticated gym, tennis courts, squash courts
, a jogging path and a "social" room so splashy and upscale that very good rock bands often showed up for a set or two. The Ardmore was constructed of unfinished wood and sprawled over a hillside that pitched perilously toward a raw, jagged ravine below. There were enough floodlights on the ground to make you think there was maybe a movie premiere going on here tonight.

  Puckett was here because of a geezer named Fenwick, a round, bald, sunburned man who had impulsively deserted his wife of forty years for the receptionist he'd hired six months ago. Said receptionist had previously been an aerobics instructor, a flight attendant and a runway model for several second-tier department stores. She had also put most of her hard-earned money back into her one and only product, which was herself. Puckett had discovered that she'd had plastic surgery on her breasts, her nose, her chin and her bottom.

  Mrs. Fenwick, or Mildred, as she insisted Puckett call her, was actually a very nice, rich, older woman who just wanted some photos of her husband making a fool of himself—on the dance floor, poolside with his considerable belly hanging over his swimming trunks, or in the lobby of a French restaurant where the girl on his arm would look very much like his daughter, and a slightly whorey one at that. Mildred Fenwick was convinced that once her husband saw how ridiculous he looked in such photos, he would come to his senses and return home.

  Puckett didn't necessarily believe that the aging American male was all that sensible, but he wasn't being paid for his beliefs. He was being paid to tail Fenwick, and get photos of him in as many contexts as possible. And that's how Puckett, good gumshoe that he was, came to be in Chicago tonight.

  "I'm a real fan of your writing."

  "Thank you," Anne said to the caller.

  "Do you have any opinions about where Cobey Daniels disappeared for that nine month period?"

  Several years ago, Cobey had vanished. Utterly. A nationwide manhunt ensued. But no Cobey. Then one day he simply showed up again. He would never talk about where he'd been or what he'd done. Ever.

  "I'm afraid I don't know any more about it than you do," Anne said.