The Dark House

by John Sedgwick

  “You mean she got smacked around?” LeBeau replied.

  “You could say.”

  “This before or after she was dropped in the tank?”

  “It’s hard to know for sure, but I’d guess before. Has to do with the location and degree of the trauma. I could show you if you like.”

  “Save it,” LeBeau said.

  “Also got a bullet hole in the occipital region. About ten millimeters. That’s what killed her.”

  “Right in the back of the head?”

  “Execution style.”

  “How about the fact that the body’s in pieces?” Chief Wexler asked.

  “I’d say that came after.”

  “To fit her in the tank, you mean?”

  The specialist nodded.

  “Larry went in easy enough,” the chief said.

  “Larry didn’t have rigor mortis.”

  “Well, ain’t that pretty,” the chief said.

  Schecter watched with his arms folded.

  By then, the reporters must have figured out the basics of the story, for they started firing questions at Rollins about what had happened. “So what was it?” one man shouted. “Your dad just snap?” Another cried out: “Who’s in the tank—your girlfriend?” Still another: “You been arrested yet?” And finally: “I heard there was another man involved. We got a love triangle here?”

  Rollins said nothing, and Chief Wexler came over to quiet the throng. “Got anything for us, Chief?” a reporter shouted. “Names? Ages? Motive?”

  “Show a little respect, would you please?” Wexler shouted. “This man’s innocent. This is a family tragedy, and he’s a victim here. We’ll be providing some information a little later. This is just for photos, if you want to take them. It’s all pretty damn disgusting if you ask me.” Then he pulled Rollins away. He shouted over to the detective, who had returned with the forensic specialist to look over the skeletal remains.

  “You need anything more from our friend Ed here?” Wexler asked.

  LeBeau shook his head. “Nah, I think we’re done for now.” He came over to shake Rollins’ hand. “I’m real sorry about all this.”

  Then the chief checked to make sure that LeBeau had addresses and telephone numbers for Rollins and Schecter, which he did. “Okay, I think we’re all set,” Wexler said finally. “You get home to your family.” He enlisted several of his officers to escort Rollins to his car. Then he shouted after him: “And make sure these jackals don’t follow him, you got that?”

  Schecter had to leave his car with the police for a few days, since it had figured in the action against Sloane. They wanted to compare his tires to the tire tracks on the lawn and measure out all the angles involved to make sure the evidence squared with his account. “Sorry, but we’ve gotta do all the bullshit,” Detective Jencks told him sympathetically. The right side of Schecter’s car was in bad shape, anyway. He’d caught the corner of the house when he raced back around to the driveway, and Schecter wasn’t sure the Cressida would get all the way to Maine in that condition. He’d have to arrange for repairs through his insurance company. Rollins insisted on paying for any damages that weren’t covered by his insurance. “Really, Al, after everything you did for me,” he told him.

  He dropped Schecter at the bus station in Brattleboro. He started to shake hands with the detective on the sidewalk, but Schecter clapped him in a big bear hug.

  “You know what you need?” Schecter asked.

  “No, what?”

  “You need a really good cigar.”

  Schechter handed him a top-of-the-line Macanudo.

  Rollins smiled and climbed back in the car. He ignored all speed limits in driving back down 91 to the hospital. He parked in a loading zone, then dashed inside to the ICU without stopping to check in at the nurses’ station. His mother’s door was open. She lay motionless in bed as before, tubes drooping down to her. But a man was sitting in a chair by the foot of the bed. He was lean and tousle-haired, and he wore a gray suit, no tie, but a handkerchief in his outside pocket. It was his brother, Richard.

  “Hey, Ed,” Richard said quietly, as he rose to his feet.

  “So you heard—”

  “Your girlfriend called me.” His eyes were downcast, wary.

  “Where is she?”

  Richard hesitated. “She said she had to go.”

  “Go?” Rollins felt panic. “Where?”

  “I don’t know.” Richard shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

  “Did you say something to her?”

  “Nope.” He turned back to the table where he’d been sitting. “She left a note for you.” He handed his brother a small white envelope, and Rollins ripped it open. There was a note inside.

  Dear Rolo,

  I’m so proud of you. You have more courage than anybody I know. I’m glad you got your answers, finally, even if they weren’t the happiest ones. But I’m sorry. We can’t go on like this, you and me. I’d cause you too much trouble, and you’d drive me crazy. I could give you reasons, but I think you know them all already.

  It’s best this way. Really.

  Your friend,

  Marj

  p.s. I borrowed $80. I’ll pay you back, I promise.

  His bank card was in the envelope.

  Rollins had to read the note twice, but even the second time, it didn’t make sense. Can’t go on? What did that mean? Of course they could go on.

  Richard spoke: “She didn’t really seem your type—if you want my opinion.”

  Rollins cut him off. “What would you know about that?”

  “Sorry. Look, this whole thing—””

  “I’ve got to find her.”

  “Now?” He glanced up. “With Father dead—and what about Mother?”

  “You can manage.” Rollins stepped past him to his mother’s bedside. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, the breath whistling in and out. Rollins leaned down to her. “And you—God.” She continued to lie there, nearly motionless except for the slight rise and fall of her chest with each breath. “See no evil, hear no evil—isn’t that right, Mother?” He stared at her, the anger still strong. “When I think about what you shut your eyes to. What you let me think.”

  “If you’re going, go,” Richard called over to him. “You’re right—we don’t need you here. You’ve done enough.”

  “Done enough? Oh, like I’m the one who screwed my niece, then raped her when she wouldn’t have me anymore, and then—oh, to hell with it. What’s the point?” Rollins moved to the foot of the bed. “I’m going.” He plucked the jaunty handkerchief from Richard’s outside jacket pocket and stuffed it in his brother’s hand.

  “Use this,” Rollins said. “Crying helps.”

  He hurried back to his car and drove up to Boston at eighty-five miles an hour, the Nissan shuddering. He made straight for Marj’s Brighton apartment, parked by a hydrant, and charged into the lobby the moment the first person opened the front door. He felt the suspicion on him, but he didn’t care. He rang Marj’s buzzer several times, but got no response. Finally, he pressed the button marked SUPERINTENDENT. After several minutes, a sleepy-looking black man in work clothes appeared. “I’m looking for Marj Simmons,” Rollins told him. “You seen her?”

  “Not for four or five days.”

  “Would you mind if I went up to check her apartment? I’m her fiancé. I’m afraid something may have happened to her.”

  “You don’t have a key?”

  Rollins shook his head.

  “Doesn’t trust you, huh?” the super said. “Some fiancé.”

  “I’m really worried about her.”

  “I can see that,” the super said. He led Rollins up to the third floor and opened Marj’s door with the master key.

  Marj’s apartment was a mess, with fashion magazines scattered across the floor and various pieces of lingerie draped over the living room couch. Still, it touched him to see the Marj that existed when he wasn’t around. It meant a lot to see the big TV in the living
room, the unmade double bed with its handmade quilt, the photograph of what must have been her mother on the dresser. “Like I told you,” the super reiterated. “I really don’t think she’s been around.” Rollins went to the answering machine by the telephone and played back the new messages since Schecter’s. Two were from an older woman who must have been Marj’s mother, each one concluding “Call me, all right?” Another was from the personnel manager at Johnson asking where she was. And a last one was from Lena saying that she’d better call in soon or she was “gonzo.” He picked up the portable phone and pressed REDIAL to see if he could determine the last number she’d called. But no one answered there. It wasn’t until Rollins hung up the receiver that he realized the number Marj had dialed was probably his own.

  Rollins thanked the super, and gave him $20 for his trouble. Then he returned to the Ritz, leaving the car with the valet out front. “Marj?” he called out as soon as he came into his suite. No one answered, and the place was the way he’d left it, only somewhat neater. The maids must have been in. But the message light was on. Rollins pounced on the receiver. “You have two messages,” said an automated voice. Both were from the assistant manager of the Ritz asking when “Mr. Sinclair” was intending to check out. Rollins slammed down the receiver. He collected his spare clothes from the shelf of the closet, bunched them up, and threw them in the wastebasket. He left the suite and took the elevator down to the lobby. “I’ll be checking out now,” he told the clerk at the reception desk. He received the bill for the five nights’ stay, which he stuffed in his pocket without even looking at it. “Have you heard anything from Mrs. Sinclair?” Rollins asked as he signed the credit card receipt.

  The receptionist checked the messages in Rollins’ file. “No, sir.”

  “How about a young woman named Marj Simmons?”

  An interested look from the receptionist this time. “Sorry, sir.”

  He called Johnson from the pay phone in the lobby. He spoke to Lena. “You haven’t heard from Marj, have you?”

  “No. I thought she was with you.”

  “Well, she was…” He let his voice trail off.

  “You know you’re in huge trouble here. I really don’t think Henderson wants you back after you skipped out like that. And now, God, all this publicity. Everybody’s talking about the Rollins in Vermont who shot himself after a corpse turned up in his cesspool or something. Henry Rollins, right? Tell me—is he really your father?”

  Rollins said no. That was all wrong. He wasn’t related to any Henry Rollins.

  He drove back to the North End, left his car in a tow zone, and ran back to his apartment building. The light over the stairs was working again. There was some mail for him on the front-hall table. Rollins glanced through it. When he found no letter from Marj, he dropped the whole pile into the wastebasket under the table. He hadn’t gotten far up the stairs before the door to Mrs. D’Alimonte’s apartment opened, and his landlady came rushing out. “Oh, Mr. Rollins, how are you?” Mrs. D’Alimonte sang out.

  Irked at the recollection that she had snooped in his room, Rollins continued on up.

  “That’s not much of a welcome home.”

  Rollins stopped and turned to her, newly hopeful. “Do you have any news for me?”

  “I had a wonderful visit to Baltimore, if that’s what you’re asking. The most delightful baptism—and the reception afterward! Heavenly.”

  Rollins continued to trudge on up the stairs.

  “But now tell me, Mr. Rollins, what in the world happened to those people in 2A?” The Mancusos, she meant. “They’ve vanished. Everything’s gone.”

  He thought how she had gossiped with Tina about him. “I can’t help you there.” He had nearly reached the top of the stairs.

  “You seem tired, Mr. Rollins. Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. D’Alimonte. Absolutely fine.”

  He put the key in the lock and opened his door. There was a letter for him. He snatched it up, hoping it was from Marj. But the front of it bore the word MISTR, all caps, in pencil. He opened it up. There was a strip of pictures of Heather taken at a photo booth. ITS FR YER WALLIT, it said on the back. He looked at it again, then set it down on the bookcase next to his calendar.

  The apartment was empty. He scanned the room, hoping to find some hint of her. He couldn’t believe she was gone. He sat down in his fat chair by the phone and dialed information for Morton, Illinois. There were over twenty Simmonses listed, and Rollins didn’t know Marj’s mother’s first name, or the name of her stepfather. His love for her suddenly flamed up as if it might consume him. He barely knew the first thing about her.

  “I’m sorry,” the operator said, “without a first name or street address—”

  Rollins was pretty sure he didn’t move for the next several weeks. He certainly had no memory of doing so. He slept, he ate. He was aware of placing a number of telephone calls to Marj’s apartment, and more to Lena at Johnson. He looked at Heather’s picture a few times, and it cheered him a little. The owner of the little cottage that he rented for a week every year in Nova Scotia called up to ask where he was; he’d been due there three days before. “I won’t be coming this year,” he said, and returned the receiver to its cradle. On several occasions, people yelled up to him from the courtyard saying they were from a TV station. He didn’t respond, and they went away after a while. Mrs. D’Alimonte pounded on his door once to tell him his car was being towed, but the news meant nothing to him. He was finished with the Nissan anyway.

  He was aware that his brother, Richard, took care of the funeral arrangements for his father, which consisted of scattering his ashes off Bald Mountain, as requested by his will. This was a relief, since Rollins could not bear the prospect of burying him in the family graveyard at Forest Hills where little Stephanie lay, and, for all he knew, he himself would someday go. Detective LeBeau called with a few more questions about Neely, which Rollins answered.

  The days came and went. The shadows crossed the room.

  Somehow he mustered the energy to attend Neely’s memorial service at the Blanchard family plot in Lexington. He arrived by taxi. The plot was on the far slope of a large, private cemetery, and it was bordered by Norwegian spruces, and azaleas and dogwoods grew among the mottled gravestones. Rollins came late, for a clump of media personnel had established an outpost past the iron railing, their cameras trained on the proceedings. Rollins was still numb, but he knew enough to keep his distance from his aunt. Her shoulders sagging, Aunt Eleanor stood by the catafalque upon which Neely’s cremated remains rested in a small chest. She clung to her portly husband, George, who stood beside her, ashen-faced. Eleanor was veiled, but he could see that she had been broken by her grief. Her only child, after all, had been seduced and then raped and killed in a plot masterminded by her uncle, Eleanor’s own ex-brother-in-law. It was all too grotesque for words.

  A smattering of cousins, including some of the New York Arnolds he’d seen at Gloucester, formed a kind of buffer zone around the couple. Rollins’ own mother was there in a wheelchair. She was there, motionless, in the shade of a great spruce far off to one side. Richard stood stone-faced behind her, with his wife, Susan, and their two children beside him. Rollins gave his mother a perfunctory kiss. Her lips quivered in reply, but no sound came out.

  After some hesitation, Rollins grasped his brother’s hand in both of his. “Look, about the other day…” he began.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Richard pulled Rollins close and embraced him.

  To keep the tears from falling, Rollins slipped free and leaned down to Richard’s eight-year-old daughter, Natalie, who’d grown quite tall. Not knowing what else to say, he told her that he admired her dress. He added that he’d been meaning to send her a birthday present, but she needed to remind him of the correct date. “May eighth,” she’d said very properly. “And my brother’s is August thirty-first.”

  A young female minister was standing before the square hole that had bee
n opened in the earth to receive Neely’s remains, and she was addressing the group with her hands outstretched. “The greatest of your mysteries, Lord, is life itself,” she was saying. Rollins paid little attention. His eyes were on Natalie, trying to see if he could spot anything of Stephanie in her. So Rollins was only dimly aware of a little Toyota coming up the drive, of a door opening and closing again with a thump. He didn’t actually turn until he heard the sound of someone coming rapidly toward them along the gravel path. It was a young woman in a tight black skirt, a beautiful young woman. Probably the most beautiful young woman ever. One hand was perched atop her head, holding down an immense hat that threatened to blow off as she hurried along. Rollins might have shouted to her, but he could tell there was no need. Marj was coming. She was coming to him. Other heads turned as, with whispers of apology, Marj sidled through the crowd toward Rollins. And then she was right there next to him, the brim of her hat flopping against the side of his face as she whispered, “Hi. Remember me?”

  Rollins could sense that people were staring, but he didn’t care. Overjoyed, he circled his arms around Marj and pushed his face toward hers. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. And her big hat flew right off her head.

  Acknowledgments

  For much assistance on matters pertaining to missing persons, I would like to thank Charles Allen of Management Consultants, Inc., of Lexington, Massachusetts. For help with other technical details, I’m grateful to Gretchen Young and John Colcord. For literary advice and encouragement, I’m deeply indebted to Sally Brady and all my fellow members of two of her writing groups, but especially to Erica Funkhauser, Tom Lonergan, Caroline Preston, and Judy Richardson. My thanks, too, to Amanda Vaill for some friendly editing. On the business side, Kris Dahl at International Creative Management has proved a brilliant and patient agent. My editor, Dan Conaway, has been a dream, demonstrating, time and again, that the era of careful, intelligent, incisive editing has by no means ended in New York publishing. And, as always, I have been sustained in this work by the unfailing love of my wife, Megan Marshall.