by Tim McGregor
Mockler doodled absentmindedly on the page. “How bad did these fights get? Was Riddel ever violent?”
“He had a temper on him. I never saw him get violent.” Her eyes shot to her niece briefly. “But I think he did hit her. Mary would never admit to it but I had my suspicions.”
“What do you remember about the night she disappeared?”
“The phone rang in the middle of the night. It was the police. They wanted me to come pick up my niece. She was found wandering the street alone at three in the morning. I took off at a dead run, in my nightgown. Larry had the wherewithal to get me in a jacket and drive to the police station.”
“Was Billie hurt when you got to her? Did she say anything?”
“She had a bad burn on her ankle but I don’t from what.” Maggie dabbed a tear away and then sat up straight. “Billie didn’t say anything. She didn’t speak a single word for the next three weeks.”
“Was Riddel back with Mary at this time?”
“No. He’d been there the week before. The same pattern. Flowers and teddy bears. Some new cult thing he was following, wanting to introduce Mary to it. He picked up and left. Two days later, the incident happened.”
“Was Billie’s mom upset or concerned before that? Was she afraid of Riddel?”
“She was a bit manic. More than usual. She told me that she felt something bad was going to happen. And Mary’s feelings were eerily accurate.”
“What did she think was going to happen?”
“She didn’t say.” Maggie lifted her cup but the coffee had gone cold. “After that, it was kind of a blur. The police didn’t seem to be doing anything. Larry got frustrated with them and organized his own search party. He wanted to search along the river bank and down at Lookout Point.”
“Lookout Point?” Mockler asked. He scribbled the words into his notebook.
“A scenic spot in Poole. The only one. A bluff that overlooked the river. Kids used to go parking there. Mary and Frank would take Billie there for picnics.”
“The search your husband organized, did it turn up anything?”
“No. The police stopped it. They told Larry he was interfering. He had a few choice words for them.”
Mockler looked at his notes. He was surprised to see that he had doodled a pentagram on the paper. He scribbled it out before anyone saw it. “So after that, neither Mary nor Riddel are seen again.”
“No.”
The room grew quiet again. Then Billie looked up at her aunt. “What about Hamilton? Did my dad ever mention it? Did he live there when he wasn’t parachuting into mom’s life?”
“He did. Among other places. I don’t know if he was living there when the incident happened.”
Mockler tapped the pen against the notebook. “You said Riddel was always into some new religion or movement. Do you remember what he was into before he vanished?”
“He was into something but I don’t remember what it was. The name of it. But as usual, he was convinced it would solve all of their problems. There was a woman, I remember that. The leader of whatever movement he was into at the time. He wanted Mary to come to Hamilton to meet her.”
“What was her name?” Billie asked.
“I don’t remember. I don’t even remember what the religion was. It could have been the Hari Krishnas for all I know.” Maggie dried her eyes and caught her breath.
Mockler closed the notebook. “I think that’s enough for now. I’m sorry this was upsetting, Maggie.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Do you want more coffee?”
“No thanks.” Billie looked at the clock. “It’s getting late. We should go.”
“Back home?” Maggie protested. “Why don’t you stay the night? Leave in the morning.”
“I can’t,” Mockler said. “I need to be at work early tomorrow.”
Maggie tried her best to change their minds. When that failed, she packed tubs of leftover stew for both of them and walked them outside.
“Thanks, Mags.” Billie hugged her aunt tight and kissed her cheek.
Mockler held out his hand to shake but Maggie pulled him in for a quick hug. “It was nice to meet you, Raymond.”
“Likewise. And thanks for everything.” He opened the car door and called back. “If you think of anything else, give me a call, okay?”
She promised she would and waved from the porch as they drove away.
Both of them were quiet as they drove back through town.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just a lot to think about.”
Her cell went off. She answered it. It was her aunt. “Hey,” Billie said. “Did we forget something?”
“No,” answered Maggie. “I just remembered the name of the woman that Riddel was on about. The one he wanted Mary to meet.”
Billie flashed a smile at the man behind the wheel. “Oh? What was her name?”
The phone dropped from Billie’s hand and bounced on the floor when she heard what it was.
Chapter 14
THE MISKATONIC BOOKSHOP SMELT of old paper and musty book jackets. Located on the basement level of a building on Sherman, the dampness of the cellar had to be mitigated by humidifiers and fans to protect the massive collection of vintage pulp magazines and paperbacks. The shop also sold comic books, manga and toys, which helped keep the business afloat since dealing with vintage pulp fiction was not exactly lucrative.
Lars Cranston did what was necessary to keep his business running but he truly despised the comic book buyers. Not the casual buyer but the know-it-all loudmouth who loved nothing more than to argue about who was the most powerful character in the Marvel universe or what the dream-team lineup of the Avengers would be. These guys, and they were exclusively men, drove Lars up the wall with their ridiculous detail and endless top ten lists. Top ten non-flying mutants in the X-men, go!
He had suffered through a number of them today and wanted them gone so he could close up shop. A collection of rare pulps had arrived in the mail and he eagerly wanted to examine and catalogue them. The superhero list-debaters finally made their purchases and left the shop. Lars locked the door after them and gave a sigh of relief. Finally, he could get to the parcel of new pulps.
“Hullo Lars.”
Lars felt his stomach drop. There was one person left in the shop. How could he have missed them? He spun around to see a tall man leaning on the front counter. The man’s tie was a little askew.
“How’s the wank mag business?” the man said.
“You,” Lars stuttered. “You’re John Gantry.”
“You remembered,” Gantry said. “That’s sweet.”
“I remember you stomping that kid’s head.” Lars had run across Gantry a few weeks ago. The man had been pestered by some teenager who treated the Englishman like he was a rock star. Lars had asked around after that, trying to find out who this Gantry character was. Most of what he’d heard was not good. “I’m closed for the day,” he said. “You’ll have to come back some other time.”
“That’s why I came now.” Gantry approached the shop owner and spun around the little open/closed sign on the door. “I need some help on a little project of mine.”
“I have work to do,” Lars said. “Come back tomorrow.”
“You still the expert on H. G. Albee?”
Lars nodded. Albee was a pulp writer and historian who called Hamilton home before mysteriously disappearing back in 1943. Lars had been collecting his work for the last six years, buying up everything he could get his hands on.
“Show me,” Gantry said.
“My collection?”
“Yeah. All of it.”
The shop owner led Gantry past the counter to the rooms in the back where he lived. The apartment was cramped with bookshelves and curios. Stacks of books teetered in piles on the floor. Lars stopped at a large desk where a number of pulp magazines lay preserved in plastic sleeves. “I have most of his published works here. The pulp magazines he wrote for and his non-fictio
n work.”
Gantry looked over the material. “Non-fiction?”
“Albee was an historian and expert on the occult. He wrote about his investigations into spirit mediums and seances, haunted houses and stuff. What is it you’re looking for?”
“I’m looking into the history of the Murder House. Where Albee lived when he disappeared. Let me see the non-fiction stuff.”
Lars took down a few slim volumes from the shelf. “Why are you researching the Murder House?”
“I think Albee got up to something dodgy when he was living there.” Gantry pushed the books away. “What about his correspondence or personal documents. Do you have any of that material?”
Lars slid two boxes onto the desk and removed the lids. Bundles of old letters and paperwork lay stuffed within. “I’ve collected quite a bit of it over the years. I’m writing a book about Albee.”
“Sounds gripping.” Gantry lifted out a handful of letters and began sifting through them. “What year did Albee move into the house on the hill?”
“Nineteen forty-one.”
“That narrows it down then.” He handed a bundle of the old missives to the shop owner. “We can split up the work. I need everything from the time he moved in to the day he disappeared.”
“Look man,” Lars protested. “I have work to do.”
“Yeah, this is it.” Gantry settled into a chair and began pouring through the letters. “Don’t you want to know what happened to the old bastard?”
Lars gave him a skeptical look. “You’re gonna find that out?”
“That’s the idea.”
The shop owner sat down at the desk and sifted through the pile Gantry had given him. “Besides the time frame, what are we looking for?”
“Anything about what he was doing in that house. Or any mention of it’s past. Any mention of a woman named Evelyn.”
“Who’s Evelyn?”
“The ghost that dragged his carcass to hell,” Gantry said, unfolding a letter. He looked at Lars. “This might take a while. How about you make us a cup of tea before we crack on, yeah?”
~
“Who was that?” Mockler asked.
Billie retrieved the fallen phone from the floor well. She killed the screen and stared out the window. Night had fallen and there was little to see.
Mockler steered the car onto the main road and looked at her. “Billie, what’s wrong?”
“Maggie remembered the name of the woman that Riddel wanted my mom to meet.”
“Who was it?”
“Her name was Evelyn.” She leaned back against the head rest.
Mockler drove on in silence for a moment, mulling over what she had said. “Evelyn’s a common name. It could have been anyone.”
“But it wasn’t just anyone,” she said. “My father died in Evelyn’s house. Who else could it be?” Billie looked out at the road ahead. Then she pointed at a cut off. “Take a left here.”
He looked at the road signs. “I thought we stay on the twenty-four until we hit highway six?”
“We do if we’re going home but we’re not. We’re going back to Poole.”
“For what?”
“There’s still something there.”
“Billie, we checked it out. There’s nothing more to learn.”
“Can you just humour me? Please.”
There was an urgency in her tone so he made the turn and gunned the engine.
With little traffic on the empty country roads, he pushed the speed limits and they made the trip in half the time. Rolling down the main drag of Billie’s hometown, the empty street and darkened stores gave the town an ominous and forlorn air.
“Jesus,” Mockler said. “This place really shuts down after dark, huh?”
“That’s small town life for you. Quiet.”
There was a single stop-light in town, at the central intersection. Mockler stopped and waited for the green light. It seemed silly to wait, considering there wasn’t a single other car to be seen. “We’re here. What now?”
“Take a left after the bridge,” Billie said. “Just follow it along.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lookout Point.”
Every town, no matter how small, has some secluded spot known as Lover’s Lane. A place where, since the invention of the automobile, couples have gone to try their luck in the backseat. Lookout Point was a gravel lot on a bluff that overlooked the river below. Billie and Mockler climbed out of the car and walked to the fenced edge where the bluff plummeted down into a thicket of forest and the creek beyond it.
“Is this where kids go to watch the submarine races?” he asked, kicking at a crushed beer can on the ground.
Billie folded her arms against the cold breeze. “Or get knocked up and ruin their lives.”
“Why did you want to come here?”
She shook her head. “There’s something here.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But it’s down there.” She pointed down the bluff into the trees below. “Maybe we can look around.”
There was little to see in all that darkness. A faint ripple of light where the creek reflected the stars above. “It’s too dark,” he said.
“We’ll use flashlights.”
“Even with flashlights, we’d be stumbling through thick brush. It’s not worth it.”
“I’m not leaving without seeing it. You can go if you want to. I’ll take a bus home or something.”
Mockler leaned on the fence post. “How do you know there’s something down there?”
“I don’t know,” Billie said. “I just do. It might even be her.”
He almost asked who she was referring to. “Okay,” he finally said. “We wait until morning, then come back when it’s daylight. Deal?”
“Thank you.”
Her teeth began to chatter. They climbed back into the warm car and Mockler checked the weather forecast on his phone. “Sunrise is at six-twenty tomorrow morning.”
“That’s a lot of time to kill.”
He started the car. “We’ll find a motel, get some sleep. But I want be back here at first light.”
She smiled as he pulled back onto the road. “I didn’t think to pack hiking boots.”
The Moonbeam Motel sat just down the road from Main Street where it overlooked the river. It was open but six of its seven rooms were sealed for the coming winter. The two of them stood in the motel office looking down at the old-fashioned register book.
“One room?” Mockler asked again.
The motel-owner, an older man with a ponytail, shrugged. “Once the summer season is over, we keep one room open during the winter. And even that sits vacant until April.”
Billie looked at the names written into the book. The last guest had been on Labour Day. She looked at Mockler. “We could drive back to Maggie’s? She wouldn’t mind.”
“Then it’s another hour there and back.” He took the pen and signed the register. “We’ll make do.”
The room wasn’t much to look at. The decor looked like it hadn’t changed since the time Trudeau was in office. They had nothing to unpack so they closed the door and walked up the street to a podunk tavern called the Winchester Arms. The regulars glanced up briefly as the strangers entered the bar and then turned back to their drinks.
The taps looked sketchy so they ordered beer in bottles and found a table. The first sips loosened the tension in Billie’s shoulders and she let out a long sigh. “This,” she said, “has been one very long day.”
“You holding up?”
“I just feel kind of numb right now.” She picked at the label on the bottle. “All cried out.”
He studied her for a moment. “Have you always been this strong?”
“What do you mean?”
“What you went through as a kid. Growing up with that. And then today, digging it all up again. That takes strength.”
“I’m not sure if that’s what I’d call it.”
“Right. I
forgot,” he said. “You hate compliments.”
“Don’t tease me. I’m too tired to fight back now.”
He propped his elbows on the table. “I’m not teasing. It must be hard dredging up all this stuff about your parents. That’s a hell of a thing, what you went through as a kid.”
“It was.” She leaned forward, as if they were sharing secrets. “I feel bad.”
“Why?”
“I think I’ve judged my mom too harshly in the past. Without knowing the facts.”
“We all do that,” he said quietly.
“Do we? Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess we all expect childhood to be perfect. But there is no such thing.” He watched her pick away at the label on the bottle. “It couldn’t have been easy for your mom, being a single mother in a small town.”
“You know what my biggest fear used to be? That I’d end up going crazy the way she did. I thought it was finally happening when I… started seeing stuff.”
“I don’t think she was either. Eccentric maybe, but not crazy.”
Billie looked at him. “Do you judge your folks too harshly?”
“I did. Unfairly.”
“Are they still alive?”
“My dad is,” he said.
“Really?” She didn’t know why she felt surprised at that. “Are you two close?”
“I don’t see him very often.”
“Oh? How come?”
“We’ve never gotten along.”
Billie tilted her head a little. “Because you’re judging him too harshly.”
He laughed. “Touché.”
“I’d like to meet him some day.”
Mockler didn’t know what to make of that. He couldn’t picture it ever happening. “Why?”
Billie shrugged, unsure of the answer herself. A waitress walked past without looking at them. The sharp crack of a break sounded from the pool table in the corner.
Billie chewed her lip, mulling over a question that had long been nagging at her. She looked at the man across the table. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he shrugged.
She took a breath. Here goes nothing. “What happened to Christina?”
