The Dead Room

by Robert Ellis

  Eddie Trisco backed into the alley just off Sixteenth Street, killed the lights and looked at the entrance to the parking garage at One Liberty Place through the stream of cars and people moving up and down the sidewalks. It was just after midnight. He’d spent most of the day in the car, but it couldn’t be helped. This morning he’d woken up to a series of warning sirens in his head, whipped up another scenario in first-draft form, and spent the early afternoon keeping an eye on Benny’s Café Blue just in case.

  His dedication had paid off.

  At half past three he’d seen the kid run into the place, show that ugly woman behind the counter a picture of someone, then shoot out the door like a human cannonball in a circus act. It was the same kid that he’d seen in the café last night with the woman from the district attorney’s office—the attorney he’d followed to One Liberty Place. The DA had arrested that stupid mailman, yet the kid with gusto was still nosing around. Still asking questions and trying to fuck up his life.

  But Eddie had his name. His number.

  The manager at the café had told him all he needed to know the previous night. On his knees and shaking before he shit his pants. Harris Carmichael had been a real talker. Spilled it out in the snow as Eddie filled in the dots and thought about what to do. It hadn’t required a knife. Carmichael had died like a talker with his lips sealed. The Crazy Glue had been a nice touch. But when it was over, Eddie used a knife anyway. He couldn’t help himself. He was mad at it. He hated it. Over and over again he went at the thing until he spotted the first two wharf rats moving in from the river and his mind cleared.

  Teddy Mack. He knew his name and had his number.

  He’d followed him from the café back to his office this afternoon. Watched him change cars just off Penn campus like he knew what he was doing and knew just where to go. And it seemed as though he really did. Eddie followed the Lexus out to the fun house on the hill in the suburbs. The place where they locked the doors at night and let you scream. After about an hour, the Lexus shot down the hill and through the gate, speeding back to town

  Eddie kept up with the bright white car like it was a warning beacon that might lead to his salvation. He caught a glimpse of the kid with gusto entering an office back on campus and found a place to park. Time ticked by. Hours spent looking in the second-floor window from his car. Men in dark suits arrived. With short-cropped hair and narrow ties, he knew they were Feds the moment he set his eyes on them. He could see them in the windows, scurrying like ants. Eddie knew that he’d been made. They were on the phones, writing things down. It looked as if they might work through the night. Then, just twenty minutes ago as he was about to drive off, he spotted the kid with gusto getting into his Corolla and tailed him back to his office in Center City.

  Eddie followed the building’s long lines up into the black sky.

  There hadn’t been time to find a bathroom, and Eddie hoped he wouldn’t wet his pants. He was in his own car and didn’t want to soil the leather upholstery. He dug his teeth into his lower lip and tried to concentrate. He wasn’t a loser like Harris Carmichael had been, he decided. He could hold it until dawn if he had to, just as his mother had taught him when he wet her bed as a child.

  He gave it another hard squeeze the way she had done, and turned to the people passing his windshield. He’d been avoiding eye contact, but needed a distraction. They weren’t watching him. They were leering at him.

  Eddie tried not to scream, but couldn’t help a short outburst or two. When the eyes turned away and hurried off, he shivered in the cold night air and hit the door locks. Then he turned up the heat and checked his watch again. Two minutes had passed. It was okay, he told himself. He knew he could wait the guy out because he had to.

  Headlights struck the windshield, filling the car with light.

  He turned back to the building and saw the Corolla spring from the garage and pull onto the street. He caught a glimpse of the face. The one with gusto. He slid the shift into drive, let two cars pass and eased his shiny black BMW forward. He was finally moving again. One of the watchers instead of the watched.

  Eddie followed the taillights down JKF Boulevard. As the Corolla hit a red light at Thirtieth Street Station, he watched the car skid on a patch of ice. The Corolla slid forward and almost plowed into the flow of traffic circling the train station. Why was the kid with gusto driving such a piece-of-shit car? How smart could he really be?

  He heard cars blasting their horns as the Corolla finally stopped. Eddie slowed down, keeping his distance and timing it perfectly. When the light turned green, he sped up and followed the Corolla down the ramp onto the expressway.

  Teddy Mack lived in the suburbs. The ass wipe attorney who couldn’t afford a decent car was driving west toward the Main Line.

  Eddie eased his foot off the gas and settled into his seat, always keeping a car or two between them. He hadn’t been seen the entire day. He was following an idiot. He and Teddy Mack were finally driving home.

  The traffic thinned out as they reached King of Prussia, then broke down all together as they exited off Route 202. Eddie backed off, watching the Corolla start up the hill on Devon State Road. He knew the area well. As they crossed Lancaster Pike, he pulled the scarf over his mouth and moved closer just for kicks. A mile or so later, the Corolla slowed down and turned into a driveway. Eddie noted the house and continued down the road. At the stop sign, he made a right onto Sanctuary Road and pulled over.

  His dick hurt so bad he thought it might pop off like a cork. He jumped out of the car, yanking at his zipper and knowing he couldn’t make it beneath the trees. Instead of writing his name in the snow, he aimed at one spot as he thought a stray dog might do. Craning his neck back and forth, he kept an eye on the road, searching for headlights from approaching cars. There weren’t any and he smiled. Then he zipped up and sighed with relief. It was a quiet winter night, and they were home.

  Eddie leaned across the driver’s seat and opened the glove box. The knife he would be using tonight was one of his favorites. A professional eight-inch carving knife purchased at Williams-Sonoma. Made of high-carbon stainless steel, the imported blade was well balanced, its edge particularly keen. Eddie wrapped the knife in the kitchen towel he’d brought and carefully slipped it into his jacket pocket. Locking up the car and engaging the alarm, he turned the corner and made the short walk up Waterloo Road.

  He had a song in his heart and felt like whistling. But as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw someone at the top of the hill and ducked into the bushes. He waited, listened, pulled himself together. After a moment, he took a peek.

  It was the face with gusto, standing at the end of the driveway.

  The kid was smoking a cigarette and staring at the housing development on the other side of the road. He was thinking something over and it seemed like it might just take forever. Eddie wondered if the kid had figured out that he was followed. But he wasn’t looking down the street. He was staring at the houses. When he finished the cigarette, he flicked it at them like he wished they might burn down and walked away.

  The gesture threw Eddie off because he liked it. He wished they’d burn down, too. He got to his feet, brushing the snow off his pants and moving quickly up the street. He saw the kid walk down the driveway and vanish behind the house. He heard a door open and close, followed by silence.

  Eddie let the stillness settle in. He noticed the snow falling from the sky, light and gay, the kid through the window pouring a drink in the kitchen. When he scanned the property, he spotted a barn in the backyard. The lights were on and he could smell the scent of oak in the cold air. Someone was in the barn and had a fire going. It looked warm and inviting.

  He stepped back and took the place in again. Something about the property seemed idyllic. It made him nervous. It stole his strength and made him feel small. Even weird. Why was he spending his life all alone?

  After a moment, he noticed a fence along the property line, hidden behind a hedge that w
as kept trimmed. Eddie entered the yard, slowly working his way toward the barn. He spotted a grove of rhododendrons and stepped inside the canopy. Moving quietly, he kept away from the light and gazed through the window.

  A woman was painting.

  He could see her working the brush on the canvas. He locked up and choked.

  She looked like an angel. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She looked gentle. Caring. Nurturing. A certain glow lingered in her eyes, and he wondered if she was even real. He began to feel dizzy, staring at her and wanting her. As his eyes drifted away from her face, he noticed the paintings on the wall. Her work. He recognized two canvases. He’d seen them in a show last fall—through the window from the street because he’d been too afraid to walk in.

  A noise from the house snatched up his dream.

  The back door opened and closed.

  Shrinking away from the window, his eyes flicked across the yard. It was Teddy Mack, trudging through the snow toward the barn. But the kid wasn’t heading down the path for the door. He was taking the same route Eddie had. Through the shadows along the fence.

  Eddie slithered out of the bushes and around a tree. The kid was tracking him. Hunting him. He pulled the knife out, unwrapping the sharp blade and stuffing the towel in his pocket again. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could still see the angel. It looked like she had wings. He clinched his teeth and pain shot through his head. Averting his eyes, he raised the knife and inched his way back around the trunk of the tree.

  Eddie couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The kid had slipped into the grove of rhododendrons just as he had. He was sipping his drink and staring at the angel through the window. Eddie lifted the scarf over his mouth and quieted his breath. He was standing less than six feet away, pretending to be a tree. He could see the kid’s face. The gusto had been painted over with a heavy brush. Only sadness remained.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Teddy caught a glimpse of the metallic flash from the corner of his eye. The knife was moving toward him in a arcing motion from just behind his right shoulder. He let go of his drink and locked both hands around the man’s boney wrist. It was a gut shot, coming at him hard. Instead of pushing the blade away, he concentrated on steering the knife wayward.

  The tip tore through his jacket, then plunged into something soft and stayed there. Blood splattered all over the snow, and he tumbled onto the ground. In a split second he assessed the damage. He felt no pain and knew that he hadn’t been stabbed. When he looked at the man squirming beneath him, he saw the blade of the knife stuck deep into his right thigh. Maybe even all the way through. He caught the rotten teeth and heard the man cackling. Saw the madness smoldering in his eyes like coals glowing at the end of a house fire. It was him, and Teddy did a double take.

  It was the face Holmes had described in his dreams.

  Not a woman or a man, but a pale and lifeless ghost. Chasing him and laughing at him. Pushing his hands and face into Darlene Lewis’s body to leave fingerprints and lip prints and a trail of evidence the police could find.

  Teddy threw a shaky punch, aiming at those teeth. When he missed, he threw another and hit the mark.

  Trisco’s eyes lit up and he groaned. He wrenched the knife out of his leg and kicked his feet in the air. For some reason he was wearing socks over his shoes, and Teddy stared at them half a moment too long. He took a hard shot to the head, paused as he heard the barn door opening, and watched Trisco flee across the yard.

  He jumped to his feet, shouting at his mother as he raced toward the house. “Get back inside and lock the door.”

  Trisco vanished around the corner, heading for the driveway. Teddy ripped open the back door and bolted upstairs. His father’s shotgun was hanging on his bedroom wall. He grabbed the rifle, switched off the safety, leaped down the front stairs. As he rushed onto the front porch, he spotted Trisco legging his way down Waterloo Road.

  Teddy sprinted across the driveway into the neighbor’s yard, vaulting over the fence and tearing through the bushes. He could see Trisco on the other side of the trees, hobbling toward a black BMW. He could feel his heart beating as he gripped the gun and dug in his heels. He hit the trees and burst onto the street. The driver’s side door slammed shut and the engine turned over.

  Teddy raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

  The gun rocked back into his shoulder and the muzzle flashed, waking up the dead of night with the sound of burning gunpowder. Teddy’s eyes skipped through the flash to the rear window, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. Shards of glass sprayed through the car all over the front seat and dash, and he heard Trisco groan.

  The BMW whined back at him like a wounded animal, its wheels churning up snow as it strained to pull forward and escape. Teddy fired a second blast from twenty-five yards off. He heard the sound of buckshot piercing sheet metal, but the car hurtled down the road at high speed. Trisco switched on his headlights. A quarter mile down, the lights blinked on and off in the darkness. When they blinked a second time, Teddy wondered if it wasn’t a message from Trisco that he was okay.

  * * *

  There wasn’t enough time to come forward and explain to the local police that he’d just been attacked by a mad-dog serial killer. He’d seen the neighbor’s windows light up as he ran back toward the house. He guessed they were calling 911.

  Because the shots had come from Sanctuary Road, the cops would focus their attention on the pine forest and the last open field across the street. Deer roamed freely here. Over the past few years, the herd had become quite large. Poachers were known to hunt in state parks at night. It wasn’t too big of a stretch to think someone had taken an illegal shot at a buck and raced off. The whining sound of Trisco’s BMW stealing into the night might even help sell the story if the cops bothered to stop by and ask. Teddy didn’t think they would.

  He tapped on the barn door. When it opened, he saw the look on his mother’s face and knew nothing would fly but the truth. Her eyes were roving over his body and torn jacket, instinctively checking his arms and legs and counting the number of fingers on his hands.

  “I’m in trouble,” he said. “The man we’re looking for has found me.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. “But it isn’t safe here. You need to pack a bag and go over to Quint’s. I need to get downtown.”

  She looked at the shotgun, but didn’t say anything. She’d heard her son fire the weapon. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.

  “We need to hurry,” he said.

  She gave him a nervous look but understood. “I’ll call Quint right away.”

  He stepped back from the door to let her pass, then followed her down the path to the house. He could see her wheels turning. He could tell she was dredging up the past and trying to make sense out of what happened tonight without enough details to fill it all in. As they reached the kitchen door, he grabbed the handle and opened it for her.

  “When Dad went to prison,” he said, “how did you know he didn’t do it?”

  She turned back, confused. “Why would you ask that now?”

  “Could you see it in his face, Mom? His eyes?”

  “No,” she said in a quiet voice. “Your father couldn’t hide his emotions very well. He looked guilty because he felt guilty. That was the problem.”

  “You mean the police found out how much cash the company had and assumed he did it.”

  She nodded. “Your father thought he should’ve seen it coming and blamed himself for the murder.”

  “If he looked guilty, then how did you know he wasn’t?”

  She thought it over. “I just did,” she said after a moment. “When he died and his accountant came forward admitting what he’d done, I wasn’t surprised. Your father and I thought it was him all along.”

  “What about the prosecutor? Did you tell him?”

  “He was young and wouldn’t listen. He was trying to make a name for himself. Your father was a trophy.”<
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  Her gaze fell away and she stepped inside. When she went upstairs to pack, Teddy checked the lock on the front door, peering through the glass to the street. He didn’t see any sign of the cops, and didn’t think Trisco would be back until he could deal with his wound. Heading up to his room, he returned the shotgun to its rack and grabbed a flashlight. Then he hurried down the hall, looking in on his mother before he went downstairs. She was sitting on the bed, speaking with Quint on the phone. Thank God for Quint.

  “I’ll be in the backyard,” he whispered.

  She nodded. She was upset, worried about him, unable to hide it.

  Teddy checked the flashlight for power as he rushed down the steps to the kitchen and grabbed a handful of plastic bags from the drawer. Once outside, he crossed the yard to the fence and panned the light across the ground. Trisco had been wearing socks over his shoes. It seemed so strange at first. But as Teddy examined the footprints in the snow, he knew why. The indentations were soft and round without any definition. There was something diabolically ingenious about it. Teddy shook his head, following the tracks toward the barn until he reached the grove of rhododendrons by the window.

  He lowered the light to the ground. There wasn’t as much blood as he remembered. Trisco might be in pain right now, but wasn’t mortally wounded. The thought crossed Teddy’s mind that he was about to interfere with a crime scene. That he should return to the house and call 911 immediately, even Nash. But then the downward cycle would begin all over again, he thought. The local cops would listen to his story and have evidence to gather whether they believed him or not. Rumors would follow, history unearthed. The house would be a crime house again, irrevocably linked to murder. People would drive by and point, just as they had when his father was arrested. Some would get out of their cars and have their pictures taken in front of the house. If his mother was in the yard, they might even ask her to pose with them. It had happened before. Not to his mother, but to him just after his father’s death. A middle-aged couple had parked across the street and wanted to take a picture while he raked leaves in the front yard. They were strangers, but seemed friendly. Teddy wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know them or not. He was just a boy at the time, trying to sort his way through the confusion. They wanted a picture of him standing before the house and he agreed. When he told his mother about it, she called them ghouls and started to cry.