It was darker when they reached the bottom. The windows were very small at ground level and offered no light. Carefully, Colin crossed the room toward where the bound papers were stored.
"Hey?" Hallock called. "I can't see a goddamned thing."
"Just follow my voice. Keep coming—here I am—that's right. Straight ahead. You'll make it. Good. This is where the old issues are kept. Christ, how am I going to see which is the one we need?"
"Beats me."
"We've got to find that flash."
"You don't have any idea where it is?"
"There are some shelves over on the far wall. I think maybe I saw it there."
"Where's the far wall? Can't even see that," Hallock said wearily.
"This way." He grabbed Hallock's wet jacket, pulled him along, his right hand thrust forward, protecting himself. The hand collided with something cool, smooth. He wrapped his fingers around the object, lifted it from the shelf. Bringing it close to his face he saw that it was a glass, smelled something acrid. "Okay, we're at the shelves." He reached out to replace the glass and dropped it. "Shit!"
"What was that?"
"A glass."
"What's the smell?"
"Turpentine, I think."
"Don't drop any lit matches."
"I don't have any matches. I wish I did. Come here, next to me. Feel around for the flash."
Both men felt along the shelves as if they were reading Braille. A number of things crashed to the floor, some breaking, others bouncing, rolling away.
Finally Hallock said, "I got it." He snapped the button forward and a dim light appeared. "Not much life left in the batteries."
"Turn it off. Okay. Now let's go back to the books. Keep the flash off so we don't waste it."
"Right."
Again they shuffled across the cement floor like ancient men using walkers. Colin's foot caught on something and he tripped, pitched forward, falling against a crate, cracking his head. He shouted out in pain.
"Maguire. You okay, Maguire?"
"Just dandy."
"Where are you?"
"Don't move, Waldo. There's something on the floor." He sat up, scooted toward whatever had tripped him, touched it. "Over here. Give me the flash." He extended his hand, felt the cool metal slapped in his palm, clicked it on, pointed the beam toward the
offending object. "It's one of the bound books," he said excitedly. "It must have fallen when Mark and I were fighting. Let me see if it's the one we need. Come here, sit down."
Hallock joined him on the floor. Colin opened the book. "Yeah, this is the one. Hold this," he said, giving him the flashlight. He turned the pages until he came to the issue he'd seen that morning. "Here it is."
The beam of light dimly illuminated the page, the bodies lying under the tarps.
"Jesus," Hallock said, "I'd forgotten how awful it was."
Colin began to read the story out loud but Hallock interrupted him. "Go to the obit page. That's what we need."
"You're right. Okay, here it is. My God." He kept turning pages. There were three devoted to obituaries. "Waldo, we don't even know what we're looking for."
"I think we'll know it when we see it. You start on the left side, I'll read the right."
Silently they read through the obits, checking names, looking for clues. And then Colin said, "Perkins."
"Who?"
"Perkins. Annie mentioned them to me."
"What d'you mean?"
"She knew them." The flashlight died. "Shit!" He clicked it off, shook it, snapped it on again. Nothing. "Now what?"
"Tear those pages out and put them under your jacket. We'll read them in the car."
Carefully, Colin ripped out the pages, folded them into as small a square as possible, shoved it into his shirt pocket, and zipped up his jacket. "Okay."
They scrabbled to their feet and stumbled toward the steps. Upstairs they made their way to the front of the building without incident. Colin unlocked the door. They stepped outside, the rain lashing their faces and bodies.
"Run for it," Hallock yelled.
Splashing through pools of water, they ran across the street, past the big oak and to the car. Inside, Colin unzipped his jacket, patted his pocket with a wet hand. "Still there," he said, relieved. "Got any rags or anything? I don't want to touch the paper with these hands."
"Look in the glove compartment."
He pushed the lock and it snapped open. There were two napkins, looking as if they'd been used.
"Not mine," Hallock said.
Colin dried his hands, dropped the napkins on the floor, and gingerly removed the folded papers from his pocket.
"Where's the light in this buggy?" Hallock asked.
Colin ran his hand over the roof. "Try your side."
"Got it." He clicked on a muted light.
Colin unfolded the sheets and handed two to Hallock. He ran his finger down the page in front of him until he came to Perkins, Evelyn and Howard. Evelyn R. and Howard Mathew Perkins, residents of Seaville, died Saturday June 10th in the club Razzamatazz fire in Seaville. She was 35, he was 39.
Mrs. Perkins was born in Seaville, the daughter of the late Elizabeth and Franklin Heath.
Mr. Perkins was born in Bay View, the son of Alice and James Elliott Perkins. He was an employee of Riverhead Highway Department.
The Perkins are survived by their son, James Drew.
"James Drew," Colin said vaguely.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Hallock looked at him, raised an eyebrow. "You find something?"
"No, it was just a name that sounded fam He trailed off, his eyes glazing over.
"What is it?"
"Oh, Christ! I don't believe it."
"Maguire, will you tell me what the hell you're talking about?"
"I'm talking about a kid named James Drew Perkins. Sound familiar?"
Hallock looked puzzled.
"Try this: Jim Drew."
"Jesus!"
"He was Annie's first boyfriend when they were eight."
Hallock snapped off the light and started the motor. "I hope to hell we're not too late."
LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO
Some bad boy or boys without a spark of common decency or speck of manly honor have been doing various things lately that will land them in the penitentiary if their identity should become known. The latest depredation occurred this week when the miscreants with heavy rocks smashed a portion of the walk and steps near the bottom of the landing of the new stairway and walks at the foot of the Sound Road. The Seaville Gazette will press the charge against the miscreants if their names can be learned.
THIRTY-NINE
When the blindfold was removed Annie looked around. She was in his barn, a small room off the main area. Boxes were stacked along one wall, and against another was an old carousel horse painted green and red. Opposite her was a roll top desk in the first stage of being stripped. A dining room chair with a caned seat leaned against the desk. Rock music continued to blare from the other room.
He stood above her. His hair was wet, and the shoulders and arms of his denim jacket as well. Under it he wore a red polo shirt, and when he moved the jacket flapped back exposing a worn alligator, a hole near his tail. The knife was in his right hand, a cigarette in the other.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" he asked, annoyed.
Annie stared at him, uncomprehending. "Of course I do. You're Jim Drew."
He smiled, his lips turning downward. "No, I mean who I really am."
Was he one of these people who believed he was Christ or Napoleon or maybe a being from another planet? Whoever he thought he was, she must be careful not to offend; try to convince him that she believed him. "Why don't you tell me who you really are?"
"Take a guess." He ran a hand over his scraggly black beard, bringing the ragged edges to a momentary point before the wiry hairs sprang back into disarray.
"It's hard to think tied up like this."
> He laughed harshly and turned away from her.
"Where are you going?" she asked, panicky.
Drew picked up the cane chair, placed it in front of her backwards and sat down. Leaning his arms on the top of the frame, one hand gripping the knife, he said, "If you think I'm gonna untie you, you've got another think coming."
"My wrists hurt."
He frowned, thick black brows coming together, forming one line. "Fire hurts worse."
"What do you mean?" He still hadn't told her what his reference to the Razzamatazz fire meant.
"Next week's the anniversary. Twenty-five years."
"You mean twenty-five years since the Razzamatazz fire?"
"Boy, you're real smart," he said sarcastically. Then, switching gears, said, "How come you became a preacher?"
"It was just something I wanted to do." She couldn't help thinking how strange life was. If she hadn't become a minister she probably would never have returned to Seaville, and now her life wouldn't be hanging in the balance.
"I thought you'd be a teacher."
"What do you mean, you thought?"
He laughed again. "Guess."
"Guess?"
"Yeah. Guess why I thought you'd be a teacher."
"I can't."
"You'd better try," he said sharply.
"I told you I can't think with my hands tied this way."
Drew jumped up suddenly, the chair falling forward hit Annie's knees. She cried out as he lunged toward her and slapped her across the face backhanded. "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. And don't go saying anything about being tied up again." He stood over her, his body shaking.
Her face stung where he'd hit her, knees too where the chair had struck them. She mustn't make him angry. The only hope she had was to keep him talking, win him over. But he was insane. No rules applied. Her experience with totally mad people was nonexistent.
"Jim, I'm sorry I made you so angry and—"
"I'll bet you are," he interrupted.
She went on. "I'd like to know who you really are. Tell me."
He looked pleased, as if he'd finally won some approval. "I'll give you a hint," he said briskly. "I wanted to be a pilot."
"A pilot," she repeated. "What do you mean, you wanted to be? When you were little?"
"Right."
The Beatles were singing "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds." It didn't help her concentration. She felt confused. How would what he wanted to be as a child be a hint for her? "You have me stumped," she said, smiling.
"That's because I'm smarter than you."
"I'm sure it is." She hoped she sounded sincere.
His dark eyes sparked. "You'd better believe it."
"I do."
He rocked on his heels. "Anyway, I wanted to be a pilot, and you wanted to be a teacher, and we were going to get married."
She was stunned. It couldn't be. But it was. "Jamie Perkins," she said.
"Jamie Drew Perkins."
"I can't believe it. I was just talking about you " She trailed off. This wasn't some ordinary meeting of two old friends—a hug and kiss and talk of old times. "Oh, Jamie, why?"
"Who to?" he asked, ignoring her question. "Who've you been talking to about me?"
"No one. I mean, no one special," she fudged.
"Who?" he demanded. He stepped toward her, menacing.
She couldn't tell him, couldn't even say it was someone other than Colin; she didn't know what he might do to the person she named. "I don't even remember."
He raised his hand to slap her.
"Please don't," she begged.
Stopping his downward swing in midair, he looked at her as if he'd seen her for the first time, a stranger suddenly in his line of vision. He dropped his arm to his side. "Oh, Annie," he said softly.
She sensed the right time had come. "Jamie, please, untie me. I won't try to get away, I promise. It just hurts so much."
He hesitated for only a moment. "You couldn't get away even if you tried."
"That's right. But I don't want to get away. We're old friends."
"Yeah, that's right. You told me you loved me, remember?"
"And I did," she admitted.
"Okay, Annie. I'm going to trust you." He walked around her chair and began to undo the rope.
She'd won a second round. Still, the battle wasn't over; she hadn't won the war. Her hands dropped when the rope was removed. As she brought her arms around to the front, pain shot through them. She rubbed her wrists, gently lowering her hands to her lap.
He came back to stand in front of her, his legs touching her knees. "You don't know what I've been through." Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.
"Tell me, Jamie," she urged. "Tell me all about it."
He moved away from her, picked up the fallen chair, and sat down, the back no longer a barrier between them. "It's been lousy, Annie. Since they died, Mommy and Daddy."
"It must have been terrible for you." The longer he talked, the longer she stayed alive. She had to pick her moment carefully. There would only be one.
He gave her a frosty look. "You wouldn't know."
"Tell me," she urged again.
From his jacket pocket he took a crumpled pack of Camels, shook one up, grabbed it with his lips, and returned the package to his pocket. Eyes still on her, he lit up, blew out the match, then dropped it on the floor. "You really want to know?"
"Yes. Very much." And she did.
"Okay, then I'll tell you," he replied, as if she'd offered a reward for information. "After it happened, after they were burned to crisps," he pointed out acidly, "my Grandma and Grandpa Perkins took me in for awhile. But that didn't work out."
"Why not?" She would ask him lots of questions, get him to expand on whatever he told her.
"They were old. My daddy was what they call a change-of-life baby. She was forty-five when she had him. Anyway, they were old—crotchety. Mean, you could say. They didn't want me to move, it seemed. Every time I tried to play in the house they told me I was making too much noise, stuff like that. So I left there."
"What do you mean, 'left'?"
"They put me out," he amplified. "Sent me to a home. With nuns. My daddy was a Catholic." He sucked on his cigarette, blew long streams of smoke in the air. "They beat me up, the nuns."
"How?"
"With rulers. Metal ones. Then I went to live with some people, the Rogers. That was in New Jersey. She was real fat. He was tall and skinny. I called them Jack Sprat and wife. Remember that rhyme? Jack Sprat would eat no fat, his wife would eat no lean?"
"I remember," she said.
"They heard me one day. He beat the shit out of me."
"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. For a moment she forgot that sitting before her was a man who'd killed at least four adults and a child. She mustn't let his story seduce her. What she had to do was look for an opening, a vulnerable moment. "Go on, Jamie."
His eyes searched hers as if within them he might find the answer to all his pain. "I like the way you say my name. Nobody's called me Jamie for a very long time."
"Because you called yourself Jim," she explained.
"I had to. You can understand that, can't you?"
"No. Tell me."
"Later." He dropped his cigarette on the floor, squashed it out with his foot. "I got sent away from Jack Sprat and wife and went to some people called Schroeder. It was the same. Every place I went, they were all the same."
"How many homes were you in?"
"Ten, twelve, I don't know. But I got out of it when I was eighteen. I enlisted," he said proudly. "I was a Marine."
"Did you go to Vietnam?"
"No. I just said that." He looked away from her, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "They didn't like me in the Marines either, but I'm not talking about it so don't try to make me." His eyes were flat now, like slate. "I bummed around, picking up jobs here and there, and what kept me going was the same thing got me through all those places I'd lived as a kid. If I hadn't had my
plan I don't think I would've made it."
'What plan?"
"My Razzamatazz plan," he grinned.
"Tell me," she said softly.
"I always knew I'd come back here. I knew I was going to make them suffer."
"Who?"
"The people who lived."
"You mean the people who survived the fire?" She remembered how shaken her father had been, how he'd talked about the panic, people being trampled.
"There were eighty-two of them."
"And you were going to kill all eighty-two?'
"You don't get it," he said angrily.
"I'm trying."
"I wanted them to suffer like I did. I wanted them to know what it was like to have people you love die. Like Mary Beth Higbee's grandparents. They were in the fire, but they got out. Knocking other people out of the way so they could save their own skins. Anyway, if I killed them they wouldn't suffer, they'd just be dead. But if I killed their grandchild, they'd suffer plenty."
She swallowed hard, feeling the full weight of this man's sickness. Suddenly she believed she would never get away. He was going to kill her no matter what she said or did. Kill her because her father had survived the fire. The will to fight leaked from her body like air from a punctured tire.
"I like things neat. Tied up, if you know what I mean. So I thought the twenty-fifth anniversary of the fire, of my parents' dying, would be the best way to mark it. But I couldn't come back here as Jamie Perkins. Somebody might put two and two together," explained Drew. "And then there was the most important part." His eyes fired up again. "The smartest part."
"What was that?" she forced herself to ask.
"See, if I just came here as Jim Drew, the antique and junk man, and a whole series of murders started three years after I arrived, well, I'd be one of the first suspects. People here don't like outsiders, in case you've forgotten. They're suspicious of them in the best of times. But some ex-Marine, looking sort of beat-up, living in a barn off the highway, selling mostly junk? I'd be a sitting duck. But if I made them think I was a guilt-ridden nut right from the beginning, by the time the murders began I'd be the last person they'd suspect."
"So you started confessing to everything that happened."
"You got it. Well, hell, I even confessed to the murders. Nobody can say I didn't try to get arrested!" He started to laugh, rocked backwards in his chair, its front two feet raised off the ground.
Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) Page 30
