by Tom Savage
And he could not tell anyone; not Tracy, or Jared McKinley, or his agent, or his editor. No one.
The waiter arrived again, and Mark realized that Tracy had been telling him what she wanted for dessert. She ordered the pie for herself and coffee for both of them.…
But he had to be ready for this, ready for Scavenger.
Then the dessert and coffee arrived, and he suddenly realized what he was going to do. It frightened him, filled him with an alien coldness. But Scavenger—whoever he was, whatever he was—had not mentioned it in his instructions. And after the scene today on the sidewalk in front of 125 Kane Street, Mark wasn’t going to take any chances.
Yes.…
He looked over at Tracy again, forcing himself back into the here and now, to this table in this restaurant. She mustn’t suspect, he thought. She must not know what I am doing, or why. I must behave as normally as possible with her until I leave tomorrow morning. But tonight, while she’s asleep, I will prepare myself for the game. For Scavenger.
He wondered, even as he planned, just how prepared anyone could be for a shadow, a phantom. He wondered what this madman had in store for him. Judging from today, the newspaper and the music and the Easter egg, it promised not to be very pleasant.
Mark took a deep breath and smiled again at Tracy. He had a sudden overwhelming desire to make love to her. He signaled for the check and paid, and the two of them went out of the restaurant into the cool April evening.
It was dark in the street, with only the occasional street lamp to light the way. They had just reached the one on the corner, waiting in a pool of light for a moving van to pass by in front of them, when Mark happened to glance across the street at the opposite corner.
There was no streetlight there: the entire other side was dark. Yet, for a single second, Mark had the impression that he saw something, a tall figure darker than the surrounding darkness. A very tall figure standing unnaturally still in front of the building on the opposite corner. It was only a second, not even that, but Mark’s already frantic mind filled in the rest; the black hair, the pale eyes, the uncanny resemblance to Boris Karloff, a long black coat. And a scar: a long, thin white line down one side of the gaunt, staring face.
He would later reason that he could not have seen any of this, not in the darkness and shadows. It was, he would decide, something he had felt rather than seen, the knowledge of a presence across the street, watching him.
Then the van rattled noisily by in front of them and rumbled off down the street.
Mark blinked and looked again. The opposite corner was empty.
He turned immediately to Tracy. “Wait here.”
“Mark, is something—”
He didn’t hear the rest of what she said. He was already halfway across the street, dodging to narrowly miss the yellow taxi that whizzed by behind the van. He reached the opposite corner, peering into the gloom.
Nothing, anywhere. The corner, the street, all the stretches of sidewalk that he could see were empty. He blinked again, his heart racing. No, his rational mind told him, there had not been a man here a moment ago. It was impossible.
With that, he turned around and headed back to the light of the street lamp, to Tracy.
“What’s up?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought—I thought I saw—someone I knew. I guess it was a ghost.”
She smiled and placed her hand in his.
“Take me home, Mark,” she said. “It’s cold out here.”
10
They made love that night. Tracy would remember that later, when she was trying to sort everything out in her mind. She and Mark made love, and it was wonderful, as usual, and shortly after that she dozed off. Then, somewhere in the early hours, she woke with the distinct sensation that someone was moving around the bedroom.
She sat up on the bed, aware of the dim light coming from the clothes closet on the other side of the room. When her sleepy vision cleared, she saw that Mark was silhouetted in the closet doorway, and he was doing something there. He was reaching up to pull something down from the shelf above the rack. Two things, she now saw: a small black box and a smaller red one. As she watched, he carried the two boxes across the room to the open suitcase on the chair in the corner and carefully laid them inside it. He stood there, his back to her, staring down at the suitcase.
“Mark?” she said. “Is something wrong? Why aren’t you asleep?”
He whirled around to confront her, obviously startled by the sudden sound of her voice. And there was something else about his face: an odd expression she could barely make out in the dim light from the closet, a look she’d never seen there before. It was the look of a child who has been caught doing something naughty. That was her impression of it, at any rate. But the odd expression dissolved in an instant, to be immediately replaced by a smile.
He shrugged. “I can’t seem to go to sleep tonight. I always get restless when I’m nearing a deadline. You should know that right now, before you marry me. You still have two months to change your mind. I was watching you, though, a little while ago. You’re beautiful when you’re dreaming.”
Now she smiled, too, disarmed as she always was by him. “Thanks, I guess. But I wasn’t dreaming—not that I recall, anyway. What time is it?”
“Nearly four,” he replied. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”
She thought about arguing, about asking him what was preoccupying him, but she immediately thought better of it. He was being evasive about this sudden trip, about his work in progress, and she was going to have to respect that. She wouldn’t pry, even though there was something about the two boxes she’d seen in his hands that bothered her, something she couldn’t quite place.…
She settled back against the pillows and drifted off again.
When Tracy woke at seven-thirty, he was gone. She got out of bed, wrapping herself in his discarded bathrobe as she made her way around his apartment. She brushed her teeth and showered in his bathroom and dressed for work. She thought about the busy day ahead as she went into his kitchen to make coffee. She was having breakfast with a new client at nine, followed by two meetings, then lunch with an editor from Ballantine, and two more meetings. After that full itinerary, she was having dinner with her mother.
She was staring distractedly around Mark’s immaculate, orderly kitchen, wondering for the hundredth time why this room and the rest of his apartment didn’t seem to have any personal touches, when she recalled the earlier scene. She had been awakened by his moving around the bedroom, and he’d carried two boxes over to the suitcase. Now, awake and alert, she remembered clearly. A black box and a red box, just like the ones her father had kept in his bedside table in her childhood home. She’d found them there once, when she was seven or eight years old, and their contents had fascinated and chilled her. She’d never been able to ask her father about them, because she’d been snooping in her parents’ bedroom, something she never, ever did again. The two boxes had scared her too much.
The black box had contained a big black gun, and the smaller red box had held ammunition. Bullets.
She raised a hand to her chest, wondering what had been in the two similar boxes Mark had packed and taken with him to Washington.
MONDAY
11
Ronald O’Hara would be in his mid-fifties now, Mark thought as he drove the rented Chevy Lumina through the suburbs of Washington. He was retired from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Mark knew all about that, too. He had apparently resigned in a fury when his superiors had suspended the file on the Family Man case due to a complete lack of new developments.
O’Hara had been obsessed with the case from the moment he had become involved in it, in Los Angeles thirteen years ago. He had led the FBI team that had been sent there following the Fourth of July massacre in the Hollywood Hills. Popular television actor Ian Webster and his family had been found on the holiday, four months after the
first incident, the Mardi Gras murders near New Orleans. The first case had been a matter for the New Orleans police, but the L.A. incident occasioned the arrival of the Feds when it became apparent that the two cases were related. It was then that someone coined the name “The Family Man.”
The Bureau could hardly be blamed for having brought the investigation to a halt. The two cases and the subsequent incidents in Illinois, upstate New York, and New York City had yielded nothing but bodies, holiday decorations, and only one brief suspect. Mark grimaced as he remembered this, and as he remembered O’Hara’s well-documented rage at the director’s decision to put aside the file. The Family Man had gradually faded from the public consciousness, except for the obligatory quickie true crime books and cheesy TV movies inspired by the case. And Mark’s novel.
Now Mark was on his way to find the man who had given up his high-profile job, not to mention a good chance of promotion, over a case he probably never wanted to hear about again. And Mark was going to try to talk to him about just that. Add to that the fact that Mark was already one of O’Hara’s least favorite people, and the forthcoming interview—if he found the man—was not something he approached with any joy.
No one else may know about the game.
He’d printed out the letter from the disk, and the pages were in his pocket. He’d practically memorized it by now, but he figured that particular instruction had been waived in the case of the former agent. The markings in the New York Post had indicated this action—at least, he hoped that was what it meant.
Mark slowed, a result of the steadily increasing number of cars before him. He was approaching the city proper, and he was doing it at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon. He’d only been to Washington three times before—once in his travels while in college, once as a New York Post reporter, and once recently for background, “local color” for his second novel. He had only the haziest memories of various landmarks, impersonal hotel rooms, and horrible traffic on virtually all roads at all times of the day. But not at night: this, unlike New York, was a daytime town. Even the cars disappeared at night. His most vivid memories were of the Lincoln Memorial, the Vietnam wall, the Kennedy Center, and the Smithsonian. He was always impressed by Washington’s cleanliness. The public sections, at least, were immaculate, giving huge portions of the capital city the appearance of a lovingly tended public park, which, in a way, is precisely what it is.
At least the weather was good today, Mark mused. The sun shone brightly down from a blue sky only marginally dotted with clouds. The temperature was still brisk enough to warrant his leather jacket, but hat-and-glove season was definitely over for another year. He looked around at the city basking in the bright sunshine, realizing that the beautiful day was doing nothing to cheer him.
The highway gave way to streets, and the streets became hilly as he entered Georgetown. He passed the university and turned up a steep road, first checking his newly acquired gas station map to be sure it was the correct one. It was. He found the address halfway up the street, in a row of graceful townhouses that reminded him of Kane Street in Brooklyn yesterday. Parking was a problem: he had to turn around and search down another street before he found a space. Then he proceeded back up the hill on foot.
He stood before the building, remembering why all of this was familiar to him. One of the steep blocks nearby was well-known to everyone, courtesy of Hollywood. The Devil had once visited this place, years ago. In The Exorcist, Ellen Burstyn and her unfortunate daughter had resided in a townhouse just a short walk from here.
O’Hara’s wife was Wanda Morris, the famous singer and actress, and it was she who owned this house. A federal agent, no matter how highly placed, could never have afforded it. Mark thought this as he went up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. He waited a minute, idly examining the black carriage lamps that flanked the door, then rang again. No response.
Great, he thought. A long drive for nothing, a day wasted. And he only had until midnight tonight, though he wasn’t sure what he was to learn from the man. But Scavenger obviously wanted Mark here, so here he was.
He turned from the door and went back down the steps, trying to remember the name of a hotel in the area. The Watergate was the only name that sprang to mind, for obvious reasons, and he couldn’t afford that. Some little place near the university where he had stayed three years ago on the research mission—Whitney? Whateley? Something like that. He’d find it and get a room for the night. A meal somewhere, then he’d come back here and try again. He started down the sidewalk toward the street where his car was parked, aware of a sudden feeling of relief that the interview would not take place just yet.
Then he stopped, staring, and the chill of anxiety returned. A large, powerfully built, middle-aged African-American man was coming up the hill toward him. The man was jogging, dressed in a light poplin jacket over a sweaty T-shirt and a pair of blue shorts. White socks and Nikes. He was panting from his exertion, pumping his huge arms as he ran.
It was O’Hara. He was older than Mark remembered, which stood to reason. His close-cropped hair was more gray than black now, and his mustache was nearly white. But the fierce eyes beneath the thick brows were the same, as was the scowl of his lips. As he approached, he looked up toward his destination and slowed, taking in the sight of the man who waited at the base of his front steps.
By the time he arrived before Mark, he had slowed his pace to a walk, and he was eyeing him with trepidation. And something more, Mark knew: distaste. He came to a stop, still panting slightly, not five feet from Mark. He continued to regard Mark as he removed a small towel from his waistband and wiped his gleaming face. The two men stood there on the sidewalk in Georgetown, staring.
“Well, well, well,” O’Hara muttered at last. It was the menacing basso profundo voice Mark remembered all too well. “Matthew Farmer, as I live and breathe.”
“Yes,” Mark said.
Ronald O’Hara was not pleased to see him. His voice, his expression, everything about him conveyed that message. Mark wasn’t surprised: he had been expecting it. He would have been surprised by any other reception.
Now the man glanced up at the house, then back. “Looking for me?” It was barely a question.
“Yes,” Mark said again.
“Why?”
It was a perfectly simple question, but Mark had no simple way to answer it. He had to think a moment. “I—I have to talk to you.”
The thick brows above the fierce eyes shot upward in grim amusement. “Writing another—book?” He managed to make it sound like a dirty word.
“No,” Mark whispered. “But I—I have to talk to you about The Family Man.”
The big man made a guttural sound that might have been a laugh. Then he shook his head, turned away from Mark, and went up the steps. He pulled a key ring from the pocket of his shorts and unlocked the door. In a moment he would be inside.
“Please!” Mark heard himself say to the man’s back, wincing at his own impotence in this situation.
Ronald O’Hara turned around to face him. “There’s nothing to talk about, Mr. Farmer. The Family Man is dead. The case is closed.” He started to turn away again.
“No,” Mark said. “It isn’t. Not anymore.”
O’Hara paused now, turning slowly back to stare at him. “What makes you say that?”
Mark shrugged, looking away. “Someone—someone has contacted me. I think they know who The Family Man is. Was. Whatever.”
He saw O’Hara step forward, could almost hear the sudden intake of breath. “When?”
“Two days ago.”
Another step. “Who?”
“I—I don’t know. He’s sending messages. I haven’t seen him.”
“How do you know it’s a he?”
“I got a description of the man from my super’s wife. She saw him.”
O’Hara was obviously intrigued, but he was still wary. “What makes you think this guy knew The Family Man?”
M
ark shrugged again. “Because he’s sending me all over the place, collecting clues that are supposed to lead me to The Family Man’s identity. He sent me here.”
“He sent you to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The burning gaze was too much for Mark: he looked away from the man. “I think you’re supposed to help me figure out my next move.”
Now the agent leaned back against the doorframe. “What do you mean, your ‘next move’? ‘Collecting clues’? Sounds like some kind of treasure hunt.”
“It is. He’s playing a game with me, a scavenger hunt. He calls himself Scavenger.”
There was a pause. Then the man said, “Uh-huh. And why is he suddenly interested in you?”
“He read my novel, Dark Desire.”
O’Hara grunted. “Yeah, I read it, too. You made me a white man in the story, thank you very much! What does this Scavenger want you to do now—write the real story?”
“Yes,” Mark said. “That’s exactly what he wants me to do.”
The eyebrows went up again. “Why you?”
Mark forced himself to look into the fierce eyes and hold the gaze. “Why do you think?”
O’Hara held the gaze, too. “Are you telling me he knows who you really are?”
Whatever reply Mark might have been about to utter flew from him as the equilibrium flew from his body. He felt it in his ankles, his knees, all the way up his spine. His vision blurred, and he reached out with his arm to grab on to something, anything, but he clutched at empty space. One moment he was standing there, confronting O’Hara, and in the next instant he was not standing at all. He was lying on the sidewalk.
He recovered almost immediately. He sat up, blinking, aware of the harsh curse and the pounding as O’Hara came down the steps. The big man reached down and helped him to his feet. Mark stood there, still blinking, feeling the first surge of embarrassment at his ridiculousness as he sagged helplessly against the other man’s shoulder.
