Mrs. Clesi struggled down the front stairs, cursing her husband, Stan, under her breath, the shiny black bag bouncing against her thighs with each step. Metal cans and glass bottles clanked in the predawn quiet.
The trash cans for their apartment house were set into the pavement, covered by metal lids opened by foot pedals. It was an old, uniquely urban form of trash collection, dating back before the Second World War. Irma wasn’t sure how the garbage men got the cans out; Stan claimed they used special hooks to lift the aluminum containers out of their dens. Irma didn’t really care, just as long as it kept the neighborhood dogs from scattering trash all over the sidewalk.
She slammed down her left foot onto the pedal and the trash can’s lid yawned open, like a baby bird begging for a worm. Irma caught the lip of the cover with her hand and opened it further, leaning over to drop the plastic bag full of coffee grounds, beer bottles, and chili cans into the hole in the sidewalk.
To her surprise, there was a face staring up at her.
A man in his early thirties, his long hair bunched around his face, was stuffed into the Clesi’ rubbish bin, his limbs contorted into obtuse angles, like those of an abstract sculpture.
Irma dropped her bag of garbage. Her shrieks were short but explosive as she ran back to the safety of her apartment. The neighborhood dogs, drawn by the aroma of chili, tore at the plastic bag, spilling garbage all over the sidewalk.
Chapter Four
Claude Hagerty sat in his booth at the Cup ‘n’ Saucer, staring at the newspaper unfolded before him, his eggs congealing on their plate as he searched for traces of her escape. He found it on page three: Armed Robbery Suspect Found Trash Can.
He shut the newspaper, resting his brow on the heel of his palm. His stomach roiled and the sight of his meal made him even queasier. He could still hear Dr. Wexler’s voice echoing in his head. Wexler was a tall, tanned, conventionally handsome man in his late fifties who looked like he was perpetually posing for the dust jackets on his self-help books—except when he was angry. And he’d been real angry after the escape. Enough to fire Claude on-the-spot for literally ‘falling asleep on the job’.
Still, as tired as he was, Hagerty couldn’t bring himself to go home. Something was eating at him. He felt that he’d been given a clue, but he was too slow to recognize it. The previous night’s dream had faded during the excitement and recriminations following the woman called Blue’s escape, and the details, such as the name of the girl he had seen, remained elusive. But as he sat and stared at the columns of newsprint, his vision started to blur and his mind began to drift.
“My name is Denise Thorne.”
The voice sounded as if she spoken in his ear. Claude started awake with a muffled grunt. A couple of the Cup’n’ Saucer’s patrons stared at him. He pulled himself out of the booth and left a twenty-dollar bill next to his untouched meal.
His mother, bless her, had tried her best to get him to use his brains and not just rely on his brawn. And, to a certain extent, she had succeeded. Claude was a voracious reader, and over the course of his life he had become very familiar with the public library.
As he waited for the local library to open their doors, he read the newspaper from front to back, attempting to find further evidence of her activities. He’d even gone so far as to scrutinize the lost-dog notices. Save for the dead man stuffed in the trash, he could not find anything he could link to her. That made him feel a little bit better.
The library’s subject catalog had a single entry for Thorne, Denise. It was a nonfiction book called The Vanishing Heiress. When he had no luck locating it in the stacks, he asked one of the librarians where it might be. The woman checked her computer terminal and scowled.
“I’m sorry, sir. That book was checked out over six months ago and it’s never been returned. People can be so thoughtless. The computer says it’s an out-of-print book, so there’s no chance of us being able to reorder it...”
“Are there any other books on Denise Thorne?”
“No. That’s the only one I’ve ever heard of.”
Hagerty’s hands curled into fists. It was all he could do to keep from smashing them against the check-out counter in frustration.
“However,” the librarian continued, “you could check our newspaper database. We’ve had our newspaper morgue digitized and put on a server. I’m afraid I couldn’t give you the exact date, though. She disappeared in the late sixties, early seventies, if I remember correctly.”
“You know something about her?” he asked in surprise.
The librarian, who was in her late fifties, nodded her head. “I can remember the news stories. I was about the same age she was at the time; I guess that’s why it stuck in my mind. It was one of those things that makes you stop and thank God it wasn’t you.”
“What happened to her?”
The librarian shrugged. “No one knows. She just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Wexler was shaking. He moved to the wet bar and fixed himself a Scotch on the rocks, eyeing his surroundings with distaste. He’d never liked the house. She’d bought the twenty-room mansion as a fuck-you to her late husband, only to turn it into a shrine dedicated to his memory. Images of the deceased televangelist covered every wall. A tasteful, if unexceptional, commissioned oil portrait hung alongside one composed of dry pasta, while a life-sized depiction of Zebulon Wheele, surrounded by angels, executed in Day-Glo colors on a black velvet hung over the mantelpiece.
Her personal study—the one used to receive visitors— was the worst example of kitsch iconography in the entire house, and that was saying something. The walls were covered by murals depicting the life and career of Zebulon Wheele. The “story” began with a cherubic, barefoot urchin in ragged overalls holding a bible to his narrow chest, his soulful, Keane-ish eyes cast heavenward. It ended with the silver-haired Zebulon, attired in his trademark powder-blue three-piece suit, mounting a celestial stairway, headed toward the Pearly Gates. Two robed, Aryan-looking men, who Wexler assumed bedecked with halos, who Wexler assumed to be St. Peter and Jesus, stood at the top of the steps, welcoming the televangelist with open arms. Zebulon was depicted looking over his shoulder at the likeness of his wife, left standing at the foot of the stairs, who still managed to keep her makeup dry, despite her copious tears.
Wexler remembered how feverishly she had spoken of Zebulon’s “crusade” that night. He recalled how bright her eyes had been, the pupils large and unfocused. She had chattered unceasingly of her late husband, the words blurring into one another until they formed a tapestry of sound, until she pushed him onto the love seat and fellated him. Wexler found himself staring at the same piece of furniture and shuddered, reminded of the role it had played in the unraveling of his life.
That was the first night he’d been in the house. It was also the same night he learned that Elysian Fields was owned by one her ministry’s numerous dummy companies, and that she knew about the money he was embezzling from the hospital. At first he thought the sex was all he had to pay for her silence. Later, though, she informed him that she would overlook his malfeasance if agreed to take on a special patient. No questions asked. He finished his drink and was starting on his second when she entered the room. He started guiltily, slopping liquor onto the polished surface of the bar.
“Raymond,” she said frostily.
Abandoning his drink, Wexler tried to smile. It didn’t work. Catherine Wheele was not a woman who took bad news graciously. She was dressed in a chiffon negligee the color of peaches, its hem lined with ostrich feathers. Her wig showed signs of having been put on in a hurry. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and the feral intelligence he saw in her eyes was disconcerting. With a start, he realized that he’d never seen her real face before, even during their various sexual encounters.
“You must have your reasons for waking me at this hour,” she said as she strode toward her desk, her body moving like a ghost beneath her gown. Wexler tried to recall what she looked like
naked and failed. “You could have at least phoned ...”
“She’s escaped,” he blurted, fearful she might look into his mind.
Catherine’s back stiffened but she did not turn to look at him. Wexler felt a sharp twinge in his forebrain, but could not tell if it was her doing or simply a stress-headache. She picked up one of the large framed photographs of Zebulon that sat the corner of her desk and studied it. The photo showed Zebulon standing next to the governor, smiling into the camera as they pumped each other’s arms. Catherine stood to one side of her husband, watching him with coon-dog devotion.
“I see,” she said quietly. “Does anyone else know besides you?”
“She’s already killed someone, Catherine. It’s in the papers!”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Wexler was sweating, although his skin felt cold as ice. “There’s the orderly who was on duty at the time. I’ve already fired him.”
She swung around to face him. He knew it was going to be bad, but he hadn’t expected it to be this bad. The rage gave her eyes a weird shine, like those of an animal. “Why do I always have to clean up after fools like you? I’ll have my Wheelers take care of it.” Wexler opened his mouth to protest, but she closed the distance between them, pressing her body against his. Her perfume was overpowering. He could feel a cold pressure in his head as she reached inside it. He wondered if this time she would tell him to stop breathing.
“You have failed me, Raymond. You know how I feel about such things.” She lifted a hand to his face. Her fingertips stroked his cheek before dipping beneath the surface of his skin. She traced the tilt of bone and sweep of muscle as if trailing her fingers through the waters of a still pond. The ripple of pain that went through him in ever-increasing circles was greater than anything Wexler had ever known. He tried to scream, but nothing would come out of his distorted, gaping mouth.
When it was over, his face was outwardly unmarred, even though hers fingers were stained bright red.
Hagerty passed a hand over his eyes, gently massaging them in their sockets. After hours of staring at a computer screen in the library, scanning the archived front pages of the nation’s major newspapers for a glimpse of a face he’d seen in a dream, he had finally found what he was looking for.
She smiled at him from a news item dated 1969. A decade before he was born.
Denise Thorne was the daughter and only child of Jacob Thorne, founder of Thorne Industries. Her net worth was estimated between ten and fifteen million, making her one of the world’s richest teenagers at the time of her disappearance. She had been educated in exclusive prep schools and spent her vacations in exotic locales. She had been accepted into Vassar. And then she vanished, never to be seen or heard of again, just like Jimmy Hoffa or D.B. Cooper.
She jetted to London in August of ‘69, in the company of some school friends. They were rich young Americans out to sample the forbidden pleasures of “Swinging London.” Three days after arriving at Heathrow, the group decided to go out on the down. They may have been underage at the time, but they were wealthy and that made all the difference. Denise was last seen talking to an older, distinguished-looking gentleman. When questioned later, her companions could not recall his name, but were under the impression he was of the ruling class. No one remembered seeing either of them leave.
Everyone naturally assumed it was a kidnapping, of course. As Claude read the news accounts of the case, Hagerty could feel the mounting frustration as the authorities ran out of leads. At first they focused their suspicion on radical political groups—the IRA in particular. But the absence of a ransom note or a statement claiming responsibility for the crime forced Scotland Yard to abandon that line of questioning as well.
By the end of the year, the case remained open. While some optimistic souls speculated she had run off to India with a band of hippies, the general consensus was that Denise Thorne was lying dead in a ditch or, more likely, moldering in a shallow grave out on some lonely moor. By New Year’s Day she was officially old news, and soon the papers had more than their fair share of new atrocities to report in the new decade.
Hagerty sat in the library and stared at the face of a girl missing and believed dead for over forty years. She had been a pretty girl, with a firm chin and high cheekbones who wore her fair hair in the fashion of the day: long, parted down the middle, and straight as a board. He tried to superimpose her features onto the woman called Blue. His mind rebelled. She couldn’t be the same woman. Denise Thorne—if she were alive today—would be close to sixty, and the woman he’d seen was more than twenty-five, at the oldest. So what was the connection?
Maybe if he rested his eyes he could think better...
The librarian shook his shoulder, waking Claude from a dreamless sleep. “Sir . . . sir? I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. We’re closing in ten minutes.”
Hagerty stumbled from the library and into the parking lot, fumbling for his keys. He was suffering from the disorientation that comes with sleeping upright; his mouth felt like a ball of damp cotton and his back ached from his hours in the chair. He had the car door unlocked and open before he realized he was no longer alone.
There were two of them, dressed in conservative dark suits with narrow lapels and even narrower ties. Their hair was short and brushed away from their foreheads, and they were wearing sunglasses after dark. They had come up from behind and were now flanking him. Hagerty felt his scalp tighten as he realized his was the only car left in the parking lot.
One of them spoke. It didn’t matter which. “Are you Claude Hagerty? Did you work at Elysian Fields?”
Cops. That was it. They must have found out about the escape and were looking for him in order to ask questions. Nothing to be worried about. Smiling in relief, Hagerty turned to face them. “Yes, that’s me. Can I be of some help, officers?”
The air in his lungs escaped in one agonized gasp as a fist sank up to its wrist in his stomach. The blow knocked Claude against the car door, slamming it shut. His hands opened in reflex, dropping his car keys onto the pavement. The man who sucker-punched him withdrew his fist. Light glinted dully off his brass knuckles. He drew back to deliver another blow, but Claude’s instincts were in gear. He lashed out with his right arm, catching his attacker across the chin with a closed fist. The man with the brass knuckles staggered backward, his sunglasses askew. Blood dribbled down his chin. The second man drew a blackjack from his coat pocket.
“Wexler didn’t say nothin’ about him being a fuckin’ linebacker,” growled the man with the blackjack.
The recognition was sharp, like a needle jabbed in a boil. Claude suddenly recognized the men attacking him as the same ones who had dragged Archie Kalish out of Room Seven. There was only a moment for Claude to realize that they meant to kill him before the back of his head exploded and he collapsed onto the ground. He could not tell which one kicked him in the kidneys.
The last thing he saw before he passed out was one of the identical killers standing over him. He was saying something, but Hagerty’s ears were roaring too loud to make it out. As the killer gestured to his doppelganger, Claude saw streetlight reflecting off a pair of cuff links shaped like spoked wagonwheels. Hagerty wanted to know where the man had gotten his cuff links, but they kicked him in the head before he could ask.
He came to in the train yards.
He was sprawled over the hood of a car. The engine’s warmth was pleasant against his back. He wanted to go to sleep, but there was a horrible roaring in his head that seemed to shake the ground. Then he heard the train whistle.
Someone grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Hagerty screamed aloud. It felt as if his head was together with carpet thread and the sutures were ready to pop. The identical killers, the ones who had accosted him in the library parking lot, were still there. They had removed their sunglasses, revealing eyes as cold and flat as sharks’. Claude preferred the sunglasses. One of them had a split lip, which he kept fingeri
ng as he looked at their captive.
The other one was talking to him, asking questions, but Claude’s hearing kept fading in and out. He realized he was suffering from a concussion. When he didn’t answer the questions, one of the identical killers held his arms while the other went to work on his exposed midriff. When the killer holding his arms let go, Hagerty collapsed on the ground.
The stranger with the split lip gathered twin handfuls of Hagerty’s hair, lifting his head off the ground. The pain was immense and tears streamed from his eyes, but all he could do was stare in stupid fascination at the killer’s spoked cuff links.
“Did Thorne pay you to look the other way?” he snarled. “Leave it, Frankie,” the other one said. “Look at this mook. He’s too stupid to get smart with anyone. Better just get it over with.”
“She’s not gonna like it,” Frankie replied, his voice suddenly as fearful as a child’s. “She’ll want to know if he was working for someone.”
“What difference does it make as long as he’s dead? Here, help me with this bastard. The next train will be along in a few minutes. Christ, this fucker’s heavy.”
Panic gnawed through the gray cotton of the concussion. Claude wanted to scream, but his tongue had been transformed into a swollen wad of flesh blocking his throat. They were trying to pull him to his feet, one tugging on each arm. Frankie was swearing.
Good. If you’re going to kill me, the least you can do is get a hernia, Claude thought to himself. As they bent over him, sweat dripping from their brows and ruining their impassive masks, Claude was amazed by the purity of the hatred he felt for these killers. It swelled against his breastbone like a helium balloon. Fine. He would die hating.
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