Immediately I saw what Devlin and Mason meant. Originally the mansion must have sat several hundred yards from the cliff, but time and tide had done their work. The back porch stairs were now literally inches from the edge.
One of these days—and not too far in the future—the entire structure was going to tip over the side.
I stared down at the hypnotic green swirl. White foam washed across the bronze rocks below. The wind seemed to sing eerily off the cliff beneath me. That might explain any mysterious noises coming from the house, but I couldn't see anything that would create the mirage of ghostly lights in the upper story windows.
I dipped under the rickety railing, climbed cautiously onto the wraparound porch.
Exposed to the unrelenting elements, the porch was in bad shape, the remaining wooden planks silvery and fragile. I picked my way across, and then pushed open the sagging French doors, which gave with a screech of rusted hinges.
The glass doors opened onto an empty sunny room. Despite the obvious disrepair and smell of damp and mold, the bones of the house—the black wood floor, the arching windows, and graceful architecture—were still beautiful. A giant chandelier, missing crystal teeth and beads, hung from the ceiling, winking and glinting in the light streaming through the windows.
Once this must have been a lovely room in a gracious home. Now...
I stayed quiet, trying to pick up a feel for the house. Listened to the wind moaning down the chimney, keening at the window casements.
The reflection of the water flickered against the bare ceiling and walls.
It was sort of soothing, but I didn't feel soothed. I felt nervous and keyed up. I told myself it was from having to sneak into the house—the mistrustful awareness that Sam Devlin was probably the type to come and check up on me.
Moving to the window, I considered the choppy water, the wind rippling through the grass. Not hard to imagine that unceasing whisper preying on the nerves of a guy who wasn't maybe totally right in the head to start with.
The light was very good in here. I pulled my camera out and took a couple of photos of the cobwebbed chandelier.
I proceeded to the next room, which turned out to be a wide and elegant hallway. Chunks of plaster molding littered the floor. A graceful curving staircase led the second story. I studied it, wondering what kind of shape it was in. It didn't look obviously unsafe, but that didn't mean a lot given the condition of the rest of the structure.
I started cautiously up. Seven careful steps and there was a loud crack. I hesitated. Took another tentative step—my tennis shoe shoved right through a rotten board.
"Damn."
Grabbing the carved railing for balance, I pulled my foot out and started back down. Another snapping sound and the edge of the next step broke off right under the heel of my foot. Only my grip on the rail kept me from pitching forward.
Shit. It really was unsafe, Super Cop hadn't been exaggerating.
I leaned over the railing and looked down at the dusty blackwood floor. An easy drop. I tested the railing, it groaned, but held. I swung a leg over and jumped, landing in a crouch. The crash of my touchdown sounded like I was going to slam through to the cellar, but to my relief the flooring held.
I'd have liked to get some shots of the second story, but it wasn't crucial.
It did make the lights in the upper story windows a little more problematic. I wasn't a particularly big guy and it would have to be someone a lot lighter than me to make it up this staircase. So ... natural phenomenon?
Or was there another way upstairs?
Since Berkeley was supposed to have topped himself in his downstairs library, I didn't see why spooklights would be manifesting themselves upstairs, but it's not like the supernatural had to abide by the rules of human logic. Especially since half the humans I knew didn't abide by them.
I spent the next couple of hours wandering through the downstairs rooms, using my flashlight to guide the way through the dark interior, brushing aside cobwebs as long as tattered draperies. I took some pictures and made some general notes.
On the inland side of the house I came to a long room overlooking the woods. Daylight spilled through the cracked windows revealing built-in bookshelves and the cracked and fissured façade of what must have once been an elegant fireplace. Silvery sheets of velvety wallpaper peeled off the scarred walls.
Presumably the library. The room where David Berkeley decided to end it all.
And what a way he'd chosen: using the specially-made guillotine from his stage show. Gruesome but effective.
To me, it felt like an empty room in a dead shell of a house. But then I've never been particularly sensitive—at least, not in the psychic sense. According to C.K I was ridiculously oversensitive in every other way.
On impulse, I sat down in the center of the room, closed my eyes and just ... listened.
Wind worked its way through the holes and loose boards: an eerie chorus in a multitude of different tones and pitches.
Was it just the wind?
I closed my eyes, listening ... feeling....
"What the fuck are you doing inside here?"
If Sam Devlin wanted to pay me back for catching him off guard that morning, he got his money's worth. It's hard to retain your dignity when you're scraping yourself off the ceiling, but I tried. At least I didn't actually scream—although I'm guessing my shocked expression was just as bad.
Not that he spent time gloating. He leaned in through the open window frame, his face hostile but unsurprised—apparently not much of anything surprised him—and said evenly, “I told you the house was off-limits."
"I told you I've got Oliver's permission."
"I don't give a goddamn. I told you to stay out of the house."
Apparently he read my silence correctly, because he said levelly, “Last warning. Get out before I come in and get you."
I wasn't sure if he would try it or not. If he did decide to throw me out, it wouldn't be much of a contest, he was a lot bigger than me, and I didn't doubt he was a lot tougher. In any case, there was no point continuing now with him draped over the window sill. Talk about blocking reception.
Feeling a little silly to have been caught trying to ... well, what had I been trying to do? Commune with the dead? I crossed over to the window and he backed out, looking as grim as though he'd caught me trying to wriggle out of my straight jacket. I started through the open window and his big hand closed on my shoulder dragging me out.
"Come on, pretty boy."
"D'you mind?” My shirt—and skin—caught on a nail. “Christ, watch it!"
"All right, all right.” He unhooked me. “Hope you've had your tetanus shots."
"Yeah, since you missed your rabies vaccine."
He gave a little snort that might have been a laugh.
I got through the window without any further help. Mouth compressed, Devlin watched me as I checked the tear in my shirt.
"Come on!” he said impatiently after a second or two.
"Go. I don't need a police escort."
"You've got one, anyway."
I raised my head and glared. “What, you're escorting me off the premises?"
He made a sharp gesture with his chin, and turned, obviously expecting me to trail after. So, in answer to my question, yes, I was apparently being escorted from the premises.
Devlin strode off across the patchy lawn and I followed at a normal pace. No way was I trotting after him. I watched him stomping along ahead of me through the shambles of the old sunken garden, his dark head gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.
I fantasized about picking up a piece of broken statuary and lobbing it at his thick skull. But enough damage had been done to the property without me adding to it.
At the end of the garden he paused, waiting for me.
"I think we'll wait to hear from Oliver before you do anymore exploring,” he said when I finally joined him.
"Oh for—! I've only got the weekend!"
&nbs
p; He shrugged. Clearly not his problem. “I'm sure he'll call this afternoon,” he said indifferently.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak, and he turned and stalked off again. I guess I should have been grateful he didn't insist that I march in front of him with my hands on the back of my head.
When we reached Oliver's, I went straight upstairs to shower off the cobwebs and filth of Berkeley House.
Devlin called up to me as I was changing into a clean pair of jeans and flannel shirt.
"Hey, professor. Phone call for you. It's Oliver."
I came downstairs and took the phone from him in the hallway. “See,” he said laconically. “Told you, he'd call."
"Thanks.” I took the phone without meeting his gaze. Waited for him to depart—which after a minute he did.
"Hi, Oliver. It's Rhys. Sorry to bother you."
"Well, my dear. How are you getting along?” I pictured him instantly: tall and elegant with iron-grey hair and amazing green-gold eyes. I figured the connection to the Neanderthal now slamming kitchen cupboard doors had to be by marriage. Probably a forced marriage.
"Well..."
He laughed that plumy laugh. “You mustn't mind Sammy. He has a very suspicious mind. It comes of being a cop. But it's all right. I've vouched for you."
I doubted that meant as much as he imagined it did.
I glanced at the door of the kitchen, through which Prince Charming had vanished. “The thing is, Oliver, he's making it all but impossible for me to step foot inside Berkeley House."
"Mmm. I heard,” Oliver said vaguely. “But you can surely work around that, yes? You're a resourceful boy."
I blinked this over. “Uh, yes. I guess."
Oliver sighed. “I was so hoping that you and Sammy would hit it off."
"Hit if off?” I added ungrammatically, “Me and him?"
"Yes! Oh, I know how brusque and hard Sammy seems, but he's not like that really. Just a big softie, once you get to know him."
"Sure,” I said, not believing it for a moment.
"You'd be lovely together, you know. You're just what he needs. And he's what you need, my dear. Someone you can really count on. Someone steadfast and loyal."
"You make him sound like a St. Bernard.” I was joking but I was sort of appalled. Was that why the old reprobate had given me permission to investigate the house? So he could pimp me out to his socially retarded nephew?
"His bark is much worse than his bite. I've known Sammy his entire life...” He ran blithely on with a full listing of the Boy Scout virtues, but I'd stopped listening as Sammy appeared in the kitchen doorway.
He gave me a level look. Maybe I'd already used up my one phone call privilege. I said, cutting Oliver off, “Okay, thanks. Did you need to speak to him again?"
"No, no. Just give Sammy my love,” Oliver said archly.
I returned something noncommittal and hung up.
"He sounds like he's having a good time,” I said into Devlin's formidable silence.
"Oliver knows how to have a good time."
I wondered if he knew Oliver's hopes that we would hit it off. If so, I couldn't blame him for feeling a little hostile. There's nothing like matchmaking relatives. I'd had my own share of that.
"Satisfied that my intentions are honorable?"
His smile was sour. “You've certainly got Oliver convinced."
But obviously not Sam Devlin.
"So is it settled? Can I get back to work?"
"If by that you mean going back into the house, no."
"Christ! What is your problem?"
"Look, it's not safe. You had to have seen that much for yourself today."
I gazed out the window at the failing light. I wasn't looking forward to walking through those woods in the dark.
"I don't get it. I've signed a waiver. I'll be careful. Oliver is okay with it."
He sighed. “Oliver hasn't been inside that place for decades. He has no idea of the shape it's in."
"Fine,” I said shortly. “I'll stick to the grounds."
He eyed me skeptically. It began to get under my skin.
"I said I'd stick to the grounds. What do you want?"
"Your word is fine."
He said it mildly, and I ignored the little stab of guilt that went through me. We stood there for another minute and he said slowly, “So, professor. By any chance do you know how to cook?"
* * * *
I assumed it was some kind of crack, but as I stared at him I realized he was perfectly serious. Strange but serious.
"That depends. What is there to cook?"
"Follow me."
I followed him through the large and modernized kitchen then downstairs to the basement and a tomb-sized industrial freezer.
"Perfect for storing a body,” I murmured.
"Yes. Don't annoy me too much."
I looked at him and he laughed.
"Funny,” I said. I stared at the frosty packs of food. “This is all frozen solid. What do you expect me to do with it?"
"I thought we could defrost something in the microwave.” He actually looked ... conciliatory. Not an expression that fit naturally on his dour face.
"I guess we could. It's not ideal, but yeah, we could defrost something. What did you have in mind?"
He reached right into the ice cavern and pulled out a neatly-wrapped packet in white butcher's paper. “Pork chops?” he said hopefully.
I thought it over. It couldn't hurt to try and make friends with him. Well, friends was unlikely. What I pictured was more in the spirit of throwing a bone—or a pork chop—to a big ugly guard dog.
"If I cook, you clean up, right?"
"Deal,” he said so quickly I thought it must be some kind of trick.
But apparently he was just desperate for a hot meal. He sat at the kitchen table watching every move I made as though he feared I make take off with his precious pork chops.
I checked out the refrigerator, opened a few cupboards, pretended he wasn't there, but after a few minutes his silence sort of got to me. I leaned against the counter, waiting for the microwave to melt the block of pork chops, “So are you on vacation or something?"
Nothing.
He was an alien life form and I was wasting my time trying to communicate.
The microwave bell rang and I popped open the door.
"Or something.” Devlin spoke curtly from behind me. To my surprise, after another long pause he said, “How did you get involved in the ghost hunting racket?"
I searched the spice rack, selected cumin seeds, black peppercorns, coriander and sea salt. “It's more of a hobby than I business,” I said. “I mostly teach history."
"How'd you get interested in paranormal studies?"
I realized two things about him: he was a better listener than he appeared to be, and he was not easily sidetracked. I guess that was useful in his line of work.
Combining spices in one of those anchor-sized frying pans, I tried to decide if I was going to be candid or not. On the whole I thought candor with someone like him was a bad idea, so I was startled to hear my voice begin, “My brother was killed..."
I stopped, appalled. Where had that come from?
"Sorry,” he said brusquely.
Silence. I pushed the spices around the pan.
"What happened?” Unexpected as it was, Devlin's voice jarred me out of my reflections.
I said, “It was a long time ago. I don't know why I brought it up.” And I really didn't know.
He said, “How did it happen?” A cop's curiosity, I guessed.
Easier just to get it over with. I said, “Dylan, my twin—” And was even more startled when I swallowed mid-sentence. I spoke quickly to get past that little stumble. “Was killed when I was eleven. We were riding bikes and a car hit him. It was ... fast. One minute he was right there ... laughing ... and the next minute he was gone."
I stopped the film running in my head. Stopped myself from saying anything else. I had already s
aid too much. I threw Devlin a quick look. Waited for him to say something—bracing for sarcasm or traffic death statistics or, worst of all, sympathy—not that he looked like the sympathetic type. To my relief he didn't say anything. His face was expressionless, his eyes alert and curious.
I stirred the spices and the room grew fragrant with the toasted scents. I said, “It just seemed to me ... has always seemed to me ... that the line between life and death is so ... fine..."
"It is fine."
"But it seemed like because it was just a matter of seconds...” I stopped, realizing I was never going to be able to explain it to someone like him. He thought by “fine,” I meant fragile—that was natural since he was a cop—and while I agreed that life was fragile, that wasn't what I was talking about. I meant that the dividing line was so flimsy, so insubstantial that it seemed possible—even probable—that you could just reach right across.... If you knew how. If you had the courage.
I flashed him a quick, meaningless smile. “So that's my traumatic childhood. Sorry you asked?"
His brows drew together as I pulled the blender away from the wall, dumped the spices in and turned it on. The whir of the blender made speech impossible, and I was glad of that. I couldn't imagine why the hell I'd told him about Dylan. Low blood sugar, probably.
While the pan grew hotter, I scooped out the blended spices and began to dry rub the meat with them. The smell of the heating pan and the spices, the warmth of the kitchen and the scent of Sam Devlin's aftershave and freshly-laundered flannel shirt had a weird effect on me. I became conscious of my bare fingers deeply massaging the warm raw meat—and that Devlin was watching me with close attention.
I said at random, “So what kind of a cop are you? Oliver never said."
Another tense pause—I wasn't sure why the question should make him tense. He wasn't undercover, right? So what was the big deal?
"I'm a sergeant at the Park police station. Burglary division."
"That must be interesting."
He gave me an ironic look.
I tried anyway. “Do you ... like it? Being a cop?"
"Yes.” He couldn't have made it any terser. His eyes went back to my meat massage.
I gave up. Nodded at the wine rack on the far side of the room. “You want to open a bottle of wine?” By then I needed a drink.
Scared Stiff Page 9
