Darkscope

by J. Carson Black

  He must have seen her expression. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

  Chelsea realized she was being selfish, but she couldn’t help it. “I’ll be fine,” she managed. She’d be all right. After all, Frank was here. Frank and the gang.

  The jack-o’-lantern’s teeth glowed needle-sharp from its place atop the bookshelf. It seemed to be laughing.

  A muted howl came from the next room. Chelsea heard a rustling, a scratching at the wall.

  Ben started. “What’s that?”

  “Probably Mr. Chips exploring the house. I’d better go pay attention to him for a while,” Chelsea said.

  Ben lifted his arm from her shoulders. “As long as you come back and pay attention to me.”

  As Chelsea turned the corner into the hallway, she almost jumped out of her skin.

  Uncle Bob stood at the other end of the hall. He was smiling.

  “Uncle Bob!” How did he get in? She stopped dead, confused. He’d put on weight. His color seemed better. He had improved dramatically—almost overnight. His grin widened as he walked toward her, and he was the Uncle Bob she had grown up loving, the man she knew, and at any moment, he might open his mouth and say, as he had so often when Sydney had refused to let her do something as a child: “We’ll show those hardboots! Well give ‘em one hell of a fight, won’t we?”

  He had covered half the distance between them when he vanished.

  At 11:54 p.m., Officer Barry King drove up O'Hara Street on his way to a call. Nothing really unusual—just a bunch of kids throwing eggs at the house of somebody who hadn't gotten into the holiday mood. As he drove up the right fork in the road, Barry glanced at Chelsea McCord's house. He'd been alerted to keep an eye on it as he made his rounds.

  He had already driven around the bend in the road when the blue light seeped out under the edges of the curtains, radiating from the lens of the old box camera and flooding every corner of the house. It was five minutes to midnight.

  Mary McCord's photograph album flew off the shelf and landed on the floor. An invisible wind snapped the cover back with a force that cracked the spine. The pages whisked forward rapidly, coming to rest at a portrait of John McCord.

  And that wasn't all.

  At exactly five minutes to midnight, things were happening all over town.

  The stained-glass window Lucas McCord had donated to St. Michael's Episcopal Church blew inward, impaling the pews and altar with shards of colored glass;

  Reference books flew off the shelves in all the libraries in town;

  The next day, when the curator of the Mining Museum came in, he would discover several books on the floor, the passages on Lucas McCord shredded to ribbons, the mining magnate's picture hideously mutilated;

  The shift whistle, rusty from disuse, blew shrilly into the night;

  The railroad tracks crisscrossing the area took on an electric hum and ran with blue fire. Like the third rail of a subway, the tracks would electrocute any luckless animal or human that touched them;

  At a railroad crossing in Warren, the bell clanged and the barrier flew furiously up and down until it broke, launching like a missile to crash with the force of a speeding semi truck into a nearby warehouse;

  At the main library, a portrait of Lucas McCord suddenly gushed blood from the nose and mouth until the whole picture became an opaque red smear behind the glass;

  And in the antique shop on Brewery Gulch called the Nuclear Reactor Laboratory, a large vintage 1940s jukebox lit up, pulsing yellow like a malformed heart in the darkness. A seventy-eight dropped from the stack and the needle lowered, filling the room with the big band sound of Glenn Miller's "A String of Pearls."

  At three minutes to midnight the phenomena ended. The books lay where they'd been thrown to the floor. The railroad tracks became what they were: rusted, mineral-encrusted shadows of themselves.

  The blue glow in Chelsea's house faded and went out like a pilot light.

  But through the night, the old songs of the swing era played on in the jukebox at the Nuclear Reactor Laboratory.

  Fifty-Seven

  Ben should have brought something to read. He had already refreshed his mind on the papers he would be signing in Sacramento. As a matter of fact, he had refreshed his mind three times.

  His flight had been delayed due to mechanical problems. He checked his watch. He was tempted to fly back to Tucson.

  He picked up the paper again. He had already read the whole paper from cover to cover except for the want ads. His gaze swept the obituaries—and fastened on one name.

  Sean Barrie.

  The print swam before his eyes. “She is survived by her uncle, Sean Barrie.”

  Kathleen’s brother?

  Ben scanned up the page to find the name of the deceased. Dorothy Perrault, fifty-three, of Glendale. Survived by her son, Jack Perrault, and her uncle, Sean Barrie.

  Dorothy Perrault. Jack Perrault. Strangers. He’d never heard of them before.

  Ben thought back to what he and Chelsea had learned about Kathleen’s brother. Sean had gotten in trouble with the McCords sometime after Kathy’s child was born, and left town soon afterward. That was all Ben knew about him. Sean Barrie could be anywhere. Most likely he was dead. He had been several years older than Kathy, and Kathy would have been sixty-nine this year.

  He stared at the obituary. The funeral was set for four o’clock this afternoon. He could make it, if he wanted to.

  Ben put the paper down and turned his mind to other things. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Ten minutes before he was to board the plane for Sacramento, Ben cashed in his ticket. He rented a car at the Avis desk and drove to the Sheraton Plaza La Reina, where he checked in for the night. Then he drove out to Glendale.

  Very few people attended Dorothy Perrault’s funeral; Ben watched them from a respectable distance. A couple of the mourners might be candidates for the son, but there was only one old man. Ben tried to picture the man as he might have looked in the 1920s. It seemed so long ago that Chelsea had showed him the picture of Sean and Kathy in front of the gas station.

  The boy had been lean and handsome, with a shock of black hair. The old man was confined to a wheelchair. What little hair he had was white.

  The funeral broke up, and the crowd straggled to the few cars parked along the lawns.

  Ben held his breath. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The whole idea seemed ridiculous.

  A coveralled boy wearing a pained expression pushed the wheelchair toward a van bearing the logo KIVA CANYON RETIREMENT VILLAGE parked at the side of the road.

  Ben thought about how Chelsea had looked the last time he’d seen her. Pale, frightened. He didn’t know how talking to Sean Barrie could help—after all, what could an old man living in California do that he and the police couldn’t? But he was here now; he might as well try. “Excuse me!” he called, running toward the van.

  The boy pushing the old man looked up, his expression hostile.

  “Mr. Barrie?” Ben asked. “Mr. Sean Barrie?”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who wants to know?” he asked.

  “My name is Ben Fletcher,” Ben said, offering his hand. The old man’s hand remained on his lap. “You are Sean Barrie, aren’t you? From Bisbee?”

  “Who the hell is Ben Fletcher?” the old man asked querulously.

  “A friend of mine recently moved into your sister’s old house”

  “Kathy?”

  The young man in the coveralls expressed his impatience with a barely audible sigh.

  “Then you are Sean Barrie,” Ben said.

  “What about Kathy?” Sean Barrie asked. A crooked finger pulled at an enormous knobby ear. “Speak up!”

  “I have a friend, Chelsea McCord—”

  “Steve, get me outta this wind!” the old fellow ordered. “I don’t want to talk to you!” he said, pointing at Ben.

  Ben blocked Steve’s path. “It’s important. I have infor
mation about your sister I think you should know.”

  “I don’t want to talk to no McCord or no friend of the McCords. Steve!”

  “Your sister was murdered,” Ben said harshly. “Don’t you care?” .

  Sean Barrie turned on Steve. “Leave me alone!” he barked, then craned his neck up to peer at Ben. “You serious?”

  Steve shot a reproachful glance at Ben. Ben ignored him. “The authorities in Tucson believe a skeleton found in a Tombstone mine was Kathy,” Ben lied.

  The old man held up a hand. “Gotta go now. This kid’ll blow a gasket if he don’t get home in time for his date.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

  “I heard you.” The old man poked Ben in the chest. “Tell you what. You come around nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Steve’ll tell you how to get there. And I’ll try to forget you’re a McCord.”

  “I’m not a McCord.”

  Sean Barrie ignored him, shouting to Steve, “Careful, will you? I’m not a grain sack!”

  Ben arrived at the Kiva Canyon Retirement Village at nine o’clock the following morning.

  A broad, green lawn sloped down to the main building, called the Kiva, and its new Olympic-size pool. Outlying buildings formed an outer circle around the Kiva and were named respectively Navajo, Hopi, Zuni, Yavapai, and the geographically inaccurate Iroquois. Sean Barrie’s apartment was Hopi 12B.

  “Nice place, Ben said.

  “Not as good as I deserve,” the old man replied, opening the door wider for Ben to enter. “Now what is all this about my sister Kathy?”

  “My . . . friend found some photographs of your sister when she was young. From what we have been able to gather, no one has seen her since the early forties. As I told you, last week they found a body in a Tombstone mine—”

  “And they think it was Kathy.” Sean thought for a moment. “It could be,” he said at last. “She had some powerful enemies, she did. Get me some coffee, will you? Get yourself some, while you’re at it. I just got a new General Electric coffeemaker, works real good. I need to think a bit.”

  Ben returned with the coffee and sat opposite Barrie.

  “So you’re a friend of the McCords. Still some McCords in Bisbee, then?”

  “Chelsea’s originally from—”

  The old man’s cup hit the saucer with a clatter. “Chelsea McCord?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She the McCord got married a couple of years ago, here in LA?” Sean Barrie’s eyes glittered like a crow’s. The hooked nose and thin lips did nothing to detract from the resemblance.

  “She’s married, yes.”

  “Tell her to watch out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The old man sipped his coffee and sat back, his thoughts turning inward. “That’s what Dorothy was afraid of,” he said softly. “Thought she could protect him. But I knew all along what Jack was up to.” Then I visited her one day and found the album . . .” He looked at Ben. “She would have burned it, you know. Nothing stronger than a mother’s love, even if it’s misguided.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The old man coughed, a rattling, phlegmy cough. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “You said this was a nice place, and I guess it is, although with his money I should of got better. See, I’ve got a secret.” He leaned back and winked. “‘Course if I knew he was serious . . .” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Kathy, dead. Yeah, I guess I had that feeling all along. Don’t ‘spose we’ll ever know what happened.” He tapped Ben’s knee. “But you want to know how an’ ol’ ex-miner and dock worker like me got into a place like this?”

  “It had occurred to me,” Ben said, annoyed at the old man’s meandering.

  Sean Barrie winked. “Blackmail, that’s how. Only came to me a coupla years ago, how simple it’d be. And he’s been right generous, for a McCord.”

  Ben leaned forward, completely confused. “Who was generous?”

  “Why, Bob McCord, of course. Smart little bastard. Thought I’d dropped a big bombshell on him, but he knew all along. I guess I couldn’t have gotten anything from that other one anyhow. Like blood from a turnip.”

  “I’m lost,” Ben said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why, Kathy’s baby of course. Her daughter by John McCord.”

  Ben remained with Sean Barrie for another hour. When he left, he drove to the Burbank Airport as fast as traffic would allow, the photograph of Dorothy Perrault’s son on the seat beside him.

  Fifty-eight

  Chelsea had grown up on mining folklore. Stories about the Tommyknockers—whether elves or the spirits of dead miners—making knocking sounds in the mine to warn the men working there to get out before a cave-in. Instances of miners who announced that “after today” they would be moving on to a new life above ground but succumbing instead to accidental death on their last day of work. Superstitions about women underground, candles going out, whistling.

  And deep in the mists of her memory another story, barely remembered. At the same moment a miner died underground, he often appeared to his wife or friends, whole and alive, walking toward them as if he were coming home from a hard day’s work. He would vanish before he reached them.

  As had Uncle Bob.

  It could be just another sham from Kathy’s extensive bag of tricks—nothing more than an elaborate warning. Chelsea called Tucson, but got no answer. She tried to tell herself that nothing was wrong. For crying out loud, Bob was two days away from the election; of course he’d be out campaigning. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.

  Just fine. The words rang hollowly in her brain, trying to drown out her fears.

  Frank came into the house, his brow knitted with worry. “The fence is down and a whole bunch of cows are out on the highway. I have to take a couple of guys with me. The rest are down at the stables. I’d feel better if you stayed down there.”

  “All right, I’ll go for a ride. I’ll stay in the ring where everyone can see me.”

  “I guess it’s all right. I don’t know how those cows got out. You could come with us,” he added dubiously.

  “I’ll ride in the ring. I need to shake the cobwebs out anyway.” The exercise would be good for her mind as well as her body. On top of everything else that had been happening, there was Sydney’s letter to think about.

  After Frank left, Chelsea dressed in her riding clothes. Grinning, she reflected that he was taking his job as her protector very seriously.

  She’d been thinking about who might want to kill her. Uncle Bob had a strong motive, but she really couldn’t believe he would harm her. Jason wanted her money, and she knew he was capable of breaking and entering, at the very least. And then there was Sunshine, the unknown quantity.

  She’s nuts. Dean’s words. Chelsea shivered as she remembered the mad light in Sunshine’s eyes. Any person who could turn two dates into a fairy tale marriage . . .

  Chelsea headed out to the barn, trying to think about something positive. So she thought about Sydney’s news, which—though completely unexpected—was good.

  Ben stood in line for a boarding pass. He was almost to the ticket counter when he heard the woman telling the couple in front of him that they would have to be put on standby.

  It took only an hour and a half to reach Tucson by plane. But the next flight out of LA left in forty minutes—not a long time. But after what Sean Barrie had told him, Ben was becoming more and more anxious.

  He cursed himself and his bad luck.

  Halfway to the stable, Chelsea realized that she had left her crash helmet back at the house. A helmet was a necessity if she wanted to do any jumping. She turned back about the time that Ben’s plane banked before straightening out for its trip to Tucson.

  In Tucson, George Becker tried to reach his candidate by phone several times. He’d just read the new poll by the Arizona Republic. Bob McCord might as well start work on his acceptance speech.

  Approximately seve
nty miles away, the vultures and coyotes had finally moved aside, leaving Bob’s body for the smaller rodents, lizards, and insects.

  Ben caught a commuter flight for the Bisbee-Douglas Airport ten minutes after landing in Tucson. The plane gained altitude and swung toward the south.

  Chelsea almost made it out the door when the phone rang.

  “How are you doing?” Gary asked.

  Chelsea was surprised to hear his voice. “I’m feeling much better. How did you know I was here?”

  “I ran into Frank yesterday. He told me about the accident. It must have been terrible.”

  “I’m all right now.”

  “I just called to see if you’d like to go on a picnic. I’m heading out to Patagonia to deliver a cabinet, and I thought I might come by, and we could make a day of it.”

  Chelsea remembered Frank’s worried face. He had asked her not to go anywhere, but certainly that didn’t include a picnic with Gary? No one would try anything with Gary around. Maybe so, but I owe it to Frank to stay here. If only to ease his mind. “I’m still sore from the crash.”

  “That’s too bad. It’s such a pretty day, and I was really hoping I could spend a little time with you before I left.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Gary sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but I got a job in Los Angeles, a real good one. So it looks like I’m outta here. I’m leaving Thursday.”

  “Thursday! Today’s Sunday.”

  “I know it happened fast, but it’s just too good of an opportunity. I won’t get another chance to see you. I thought today would be perfect.”

  Chelsea thought of Frank again, torn between her friendship with Gary and her promise to stay put. Gary won. She couldn’t let him go without saying goodbye. “I’d like to see you, but I don’t know about the picnic. Can’t you come here?”

  “Sure. I’m on my way. But I warn you, I can be pretty persuasive. Wait till you see the food I brought.”