A Show of Hands

by David Crossman

  “Oh, my goodness, yes!” said Marydale. “It happened the day before we left the island last summer. It was all the talk on the ferry over.”

  “Well, this was about two days later. He dragged her in there in the middle of the night—”

  Therma shuddered. “This is the part I can’t imagine.”

  “Oh, I know it,” said Eleanor with a broad wag of her chins. “Horrible!”

  “What did he do?”

  “Made it look like she’d been strangled by Andy Calderwood.”

  “It would have to be Andy,” said Therma. “Herbie was too delicate. He was there too, though.”

  “How did he do it?” Marydale begged.

  Irma Louise watched the mirror closely. She wished it was a one-way window with a camera hidden behind it like they had on TV. “He somehow got the bodies facing each other at about arm’s length, probably lying side by side—”

  “Andy’s and the girl’s,” said Eleanor, lest they end up with an abridged version.

  “That’s right,” said Irma Louise. “Then he put Andy’s hands on her throat, the way they would’ve been if he’d been the one strangling her, then he put his own hands on top of Andy’s, like this”—she demonstrated in mime—“ ’til the fingerprints was in the makeup. That’s why he used the old makeup, so the fingerprints wouldn’t be washed off when he tossed her in the quarry. That’s when he got his own fingerprints on the buttons of Andy’s blazer. That’s where he slipped up. There’s always something, they say. No such thing as the perfect crime.”

  Marydale had been looking at the women in the mirror. Her expression, Irma Louise thought, was worth the price of admission. “You don’t mean it!” Marydale exclaimed. “That’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever heard!”

  Irma Louise smiled a peculiar smile. “Isn’t it, though?”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” said Eleanor.

  “No!” Therma said, taking up the narrative thread with her whole heart. “He put her in the freezer first!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When they took her out of the quarry, she was fresh as my Benny on our first date,” said Therma. “That means she was put in just before the hard freeze last December, or thereabouts. But somebody figured that, since she’d been wearin’ a bikini bottom when she died—”

  “A bikini bottom! I thought you said she was naked.”

  “She was. But there was a tan line or somethin’ that showed she’d been wearin’ one of those real skimpy little bikini bottoms you couldn’t blow your nose on—”

  “And she had that sweatshirt on, too, don’t forget,” said Eleanor.

  “She had on a sweatshirt, too?” scoffed Marydale. “What you mean is she was naked under her clothes. I hate to break it to you, girls, but the same can be said of any of us.”

  “It wasn’t her sweatshirt,” Therma said, as if it mattered. “It was his.”

  “His whose?”

  “Neddy McKenniston’s.”

  “Oh.” Marydale nodded. Apparently it did matter. “So, anyway . . .”

  Irma Louise recognized her segue. “Anyway,” she said, “she had suntan oil on, and beach sand under her toes, so somebody figured she’d been killed back around Labor Day. That was the last time she was seen on the island. So, how did he keep her fresh in the meantime? Put her in the freezer up at the estate. ’Course, everyone just went ahead and buried the Calderwood boys, with none the wiser.”

  “Same freezer Professor Crisp got locked in,” Eleanor reminded everyone.

  “Professor Crisp got locked in a freezer!” Marydale cried. She’d have to see if Harold would be willing to stay through the winter next year. This beat Hilton Head cold. “By whom?”

  “Must’ve been young McKenniston,” said Therma, echoing the community consensus. “Word is Crisp was pokin’ around up there.”

  “What on earth was he poking around for?” said Marydale. She was aware that Crisp had been an island fixture for years. She knew what he looked like. They said hello on the street, like everybody did. Other than that he was a cipher.

  “He’s the one who figured everything out,” explained Irma Louise.

  “Professor Crisp!”

  “Yes, of course,” said Eleanor. “Don’t you know, dear? He used to work for the government. Intelligence work and so on.”

  “He did?”

  “He did. Sharp as a tack, he was.”

  “Was?”

  As if by prearranged signal, all of the women dipped their heads slightly. “Well, he’s—”

  “He’s not dead, too, is he?”

  “As good as, from what I hear,” said Irma Louise. “Coma.”

  “From being locked in the freezer?”

  “No. He got hold of some bad medicine. Took too much,” said Therma. “That’s what Evelyn Swears said. She should know.”

  “She’s Matty Gilchrist’s best friend,” Irma Louise confided to Marydale via the mirror. “He lives up there, the professor does. Boards.” She lobbed meaningful glances at Therma and Eleanor, who reciprocated. “That’s where it happened.”

  “So, the McKenniston boy locked him in?”

  “That’s what they say,” Irma Louise confirmed. “Apparently he was hereabouts that time of year. Alone. Lord knows why. They guess he found out that Crisp was onto something, come out to the island, and followed the old fella around a day or so until the time was right, then . . . ’Course, he must’ve been some careful. Nobody on the island even saw him that whole time.”

  “But why didn’t Neddy kill him?” said Marydale. She’d have, if she’d been McKenniston.

  “Tried to. The professor lost some fingers and toes to frostbite, so I guess Neddy was serious enough all right. But somebody up there heard the generator on . . . it wasn’t s’posed to be, you see . . . so, one thing and another, they got him out just in time,” said Irma Louise.

  “Not in time for Mostly Sanborn, though,” Eleanor reminded them.

  Once again the heads dipped slightly.

  “Mostly?”

  “McKenniston’s caretaker,” said Therma. “Died. You probably don’t know him. Looked like a pumpkin. He wasn’t hardly ever down this end of the island durin’ summer. Got pushed off a cliff up there that same day Crisp was locked in the freezer, though they didn’t find him for days.”

  It took a minute or two for Marydale to ingest these shocking revelations. Irma Louise could see her working the thing through until finally—it took a little longer than usual, but she was from the mainland, so concessions had to be made—Marydale asked the inevitable question. “But why?” She searched the eyes of her companions in the big mirror. “Why would he strangle the girl with a dead man’s hands? Everybody knew that the girl was still alive after the Calderwood boys died, didn’t they? He’d have to be crazy—”

  “That’s just what they figure!” said Eleanor, in much the same tone she’d shouted “Beano!” at the Masonic Hall the night before.

  “That McKenniston’s crazy?”

  “No. But he wanted people to think a crazy man was behind it all.”

  Irma Louise and Therma both nodded. “That’s right,” said Irma Louise. “And I guess he figured any evidence leading back to him would be pretty cool by the time the police got done chasing themselves around, assuming they ever got that far, which I doubt they would’ve without the professor.”

  What followed was, by beauty parlor standards, a long silence of two to three seconds. “But whatever gave him such a terrible idea as that?” said Marydale thoughtfully. “I tell you, you’d have a hard time convincing me that someone who could come up with something like that . . . Well, I don’t care if they think they’re sane as the day is long, they couldn’t be, could they?” She sighed. “Why, just imagine such a thing happening out here.”

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” said Irma. “Never.”

  “Trial’s next month, over at the courthouse in Rockland,” said Eleanor. “The papers say he
’s staying down on Cape Cod ’til then. He got bailed out faster than a leaky dory.”

  “Too bad the professor’s not in any condition to know justice is bein’ done,” Therma lamented. “Thanks to him. They’d have never got him otherwise.”

  “You have to be so careful with medicine like that,” said Marydale. “Are you going to eat that last chocolate doughnut hole, Therm? I’ll split it with you.”

  Strange. He’d had the feeling a thousand times before—the lightheadedness that precedes waking, that millisecond when the senses stumble over themselves in an attempt to impose order on the world rushing in. But waking didn’t come. Just the lightheadedness. The distant, indistinct voices. The chaos of a world in which he seemed to have no part. The place of neither here nor there.

  How long had he been like this? A moment? Forever? Had he ever been otherwise? Nothing hurt, though. He noticed that. Something used to hurt, but he couldn’t remember what. His eyes felt as if they were made of stone. He wanted to open them, but he was terrified that his body wouldn’t respond when his brain gave the order. Even worse, what if they were already open? The thought prompted a reflex and his lids flew apart, admitting a searing blast of light. It seemed to burn a huge hole through his brain and leave in its wake a screaming vortex that sucked the lids shut behind it.

  Well, the eyes worked.

  He wanted to say something, but his throat was sore and dry. Maybe more things would start to hurt as he woke. He’d rather stay asleep. He wiggled his eyebrows. He could feel them moving. He wiggled his ears. He smiled. He swallowed. Then, realizing he had a tube up his nose and down his throat, he started to gag. Instantly there were hands all over him. The tubes came out; they seemed to take a large part of his brain, esophagus, and sinuses with them. But he could cough. And sneeze! A huge, deep, timber-shaking sneeze that blew a matted knot of cobwebs out of his brain.

  “He’s come back! He’s come back!” It was Matty’s voice. He’d never noticed how much it had in common with a heavenly chorus of angels. “Thank you, dear Lord,” she said. “Winston. Can you hear me?” Crisp nodded. “He can hear me, Dr. Pagitt! You try.”

  “Winston?” said Pagitt. He was leaning close. Crisp could feel his breath and smell the Edgeworth pipe tobacco the doctor always kept in his pocket.

  Crisp felt his lids being pried open, and once again the light rushed in like sustained lightning.

  “Good dilation,” said Pagitt as he dropped the lid. It seemed to bang and echo through Crisp’s brain. “Welcome back among the living.”

  Crisp wanted to say, I’m just passing through, but, though his lower lip moved perceptibly and a noise came out, even he couldn’t make out the words. Spoiled the joke.

  “Don’t try to talk,” said Matty. “He shouldn’t try to talk, should he, Doctor Pagitt?”

  “Matty’s right,” the doctor agreed. “You’ve had those tubes in a long time. Your throat’s bound to be a little raw. Just relax.”

  A long time. How long? Crisp wondered. Slowly it all began to come back to him. He didn’t want it to. He knew that his recent memories were painful ones. But his brain reassembled them all in a matter of seconds, against his wishes. How could it betray him like that? Then he realized something else. His brain had been unconsciously sorting through the evidence during his absence, and now it laid the whole thing, chronologically and with perfect clarity, before his consciousness. His mind ordered him to sit bolt upright, but his body would have nothing to do with it. His arms didn’t move. Nor did his legs. He was paralyzed. He made narrow slits of his eyes and peered out at the world through layers of crust and haze. He was desperate to tell the world. He knew who did it! He knew why!

  “He wants to get up, Doctor,” said Matty. She knew her Winston.

  “Mmm,” said Pagitt. “Having a hard time, Winston?” He allowed a moment for response, though he knew none was forthcoming. “Muscles have atrophied pretty badly, I shouldn’t wonder. They were probably under the impression you were dead, and they had every intention of following suit.” He laughed, but the humor was lost on Matty. He stopped laughing. “Let’s see what the story is, shall we?”

  He took Crisp’s hand in his own and touched the fingertips, closely watching his patient’s expression as he did so. “Do you feel this, Winston?” he asked. Crisp shook his head almost imperceptibly. Pagitt pressed a little harder. “This?” Nothing. Finally he removed a pin from his vest pocket and, concealing the action from Matty, who would have objected, jabbed it deep into the palm of Crisp’s hand. Still no response. Conscious that he had to keep his alarm hidden from Matty, he repeated the process with the other hand, then the arms, lower back, legs, feet, toes. No reaction. Maybe he was dead after all, but his body hadn’t told his brain.

  “Matty, Winston’s bleeding a little. Oh, don’t worry, it’s nothing serious, but could you go get me some nice hot water in a saucepan or something, so I can clean him up?”

  Matty toddled off to accomplish her errand. Pagitt waited until she was gone before he spoke. “Winston, can you hear me?” he said. “Blink three times if you can.” Crisp did so. “Good. I didn’t want Matty to hear this. I hate to have to say it, but you’re paralyzed completely from the neck down.”

  It wasn’t a surprise, but the news still sent shock waves through Crisp’s nervous system. That seemed to be working nicely. Otherwise he was completely helpless. He couldn’t lift a finger. The realization made him sick to his stomach and prompted a desperate urge to scream, to tear his soul from his body and run, anywhere, as fast as he could.

  Imprisoned in himself, Crisp felt some bizarre affinity with those who had spent time in hell. The hell he had in mind was on 14th Street in Washington, between Pennsylvania Avenue and Soyo Street. In a little store called Izmy’s, a very short, engaging, gnome-faced man will fix your toaster, or your can opener, or vacuum cleaner, or any other little appliance that needs mending. He’s been there for years. Very clever with his hands.

  In the back of the store, in a small supply closet, there’s a door with three locks that opens onto the basement stairs. The smells are overpowering, mold and mildew among them, as you start down the steps to the cellar, where the floor is always wet and slippery. What windows there were have been bricked over, and the ceiling is so low that anyone over five foot eleven has to stoop. In the corner behind the ancient oil furnace is a pallet of old boxes and appliance parts. The pallet swings aside to expose a thick steel door that once belonged to a safe set into the floor. The door lifts open on makeshift hinges to reveal a coarse iron grating in the floor, below which is a simple hole in the ground.

  The hole is fifteen inches in diameter and varies in depth, the intended height being two inches shorter than the individual who will occupy it. Those who knew of the hole called it hell. Simple, really. No iron maiden. No rack. No rubber hoses. Just a hole in the ground. Dark. Wet. Cold. Not quite big enough for a man, or a woman. And no one had ever left it with their secrets intact.

  The important difference between this hell and Crisp’s was that visitors to this hell had their own key. If there was a secret that could free Crisp from the oubliette of himself, he’d part with it in an

  instant.

  “Near as I can figure, you’ve probably had a stroke,” said Pagitt. “I’m not sure, but I suspect that’s what it is.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed, leaning close to Crisp and speaking quietly so Matty wouldn’t overhear. “If that’s the case, it could be temporary, all or part. You never know. Could all come back to you at once . . . overnight!” He paused. “Then again, it wouldn’t be honest to give you false hope? I mean, you might never . . .”

  If only he’d died in the freezer. He’d come so close. Just a few minutes longer. It would have been all over.

  “I suppose I should get you over to the mainland again . . . do some tests . . .” Crisp shook his head as emphatically as possible. “No,” Pagitt amended. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea. I under-stand. Well, I do
n’t guess you’re going to like this much better, but you’ll need a nurse. Someone to do everything for you. Do you understand? I mean, that’s just the way it’s got to be. I could ask Sarah Quinn . . .”

  Crisp’s eyes widened in horror. Again he shook his head.

  “No, no,” Pagitt replied. “Of course, if you don’t want . . . I don’t think she’d make the same kind of mistake again, but I under-stand. How about Matty?” He waited for protest; there was none. “She’s not a proper nurse, I know, but she’d take good care of you, if you’d be comfortable with . . . the things she’d have to do.”

  Crisp knew the kind of things she’d have to do. Poor Matty. They’d both be embarrassed to death. But certainly there was nobody else. The point was, how could he make her understand?

  “I’ll talk to her,” Pagitt offered as he packed up his instruments and placed them carefully in his bag. “Okay?” Crisp hesitated, then nodded. “Good. I’ll be by every other day or so to look in on you. Meanwhile, don’t panic about it. That’s the first thing people do when they . . . when they’re like . . . They panic. It’s awful, I know, but things will probably start coming back, one by one. We’ll see. You in any pain?”

  Crisp shook his head. No pain. None at all.

  “Good,” said Pagitt. “Could be worse, then, couldn’t it? Have to look on the bright side.” He put on his hat. He was the only man in town who still wore a real hat, one that didn’t have an advertisement on the front. “I’ll tell Matty to keep a sharp eye out. If there’s any change, she can give me a call.” He stopped short of the door. “Sorry, Winston,” he said.

  All the time Crisp had been trying to think of some way to communicate with the doctor. A hundred possibilities went through his mind, but all he could do was blink, smile, and nod. This made it difficult to broach the subject. As Pagitt reached for the doorknob, Crisp tried shouting, but all that came out was a loud gurgle.

  “You keep working on that, Winston,” Pagitt said with a smile. “But don’t overdo it.” He straightened his hat and left the room. Crisp lay in stunned silence listening to the footsteps on the stairs. He didn’t really believe he was paralyzed, that the limbs he’d taken for granted for so many years had suddenly ceased to function. But it was true. Nothing worked.