Scavenger

by Tom Savage

  It was his self-improvement, he would later explain to Carol, that had made him reevaluate his family. He knew that he was an atheist, and he had no use for any religion, to say nothing of the Church of the True Believers. But they were his family, and he had not seen or spoken to them in nearly five years. He said he missed them. A couple of tentatively successful phone calls to his parents had inspired him to take Judy’s oft-repeated suggestion: he would go to see his family on Christmas Day.

  Carol Grant paused here, warning Tracy that the next part of the story was extremely unpleasant. Then she told her what Matthew Farmer—Mark—had found at his home that Christmas morning. She told her about The Family Man.

  Tracy listened. She’d certainly heard of The Family Man, but she’d never made the connection. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the information. She couldn’t seem to react properly, couldn’t arrange her thoughts into any coherent pattern. She didn’t know what to say, so she remained quiet, staring blankly at the woman across the table from her. When the story was over, the two women sat in silence for a long time, Carol finishing her meal and Tracy recovering from the shock.

  She was thinking about Mark’s novel, Dark Desire. She remembered it vividly, having read it twice, and her new knowledge seemed to accelerate her memory until she thought she could remember every page, every sentence. Suddenly the novel took on new meaning, new weight, new resonance. Mark’s guilt at the fate of his estranged family had obviously prompted him to write it. It was horrible, in light of what Carol Grant had just told her. She would have to think it through when she could think clearly again …

  Now, with their places cleared and coffee before them, Tracy came to a decision. She would get through the rest of this meeting as politely as possible; on automatic pilot, if necessary. Then she would go home and make a cup of Sleepytime tea and sit quietly in her apartment. There, in the cool darkness of her living room, she would assess everything. She would decide what she was going to do next.

  At last the meal came to an end. Carol Grant smiled at her and led the way out to the sidewalk and the fresh air.

  “I hope you can deal with all of this,” Carol said. “I mean, it isn’t what Mark is, but what he was. It’s something that happened to him. When I first met him, I romanticized his quiet standoffishness, but he finally told me the whole story. I thought I could find a way to handle it, to stay married to someone who was so damaged, so consumed by guilt, but it eventually became too much for me. I guess I was selfish. I needed something more, or something different, in a marriage, and that’s what I have now. But that’s no reason for you to change your mind. He’s a good man, Tracy, and I hope the two of you will be very happy. I really do.”

  Tracy smiled at Mark’s former wife because it seemed to be the proper reaction to her kind words. She was beginning to feel as she’d always imagined a robot would feel. That was ridiculous, she knew: robots felt nothing. Yet it was the best way, the only way to describe the numbness that was spreading through her, permeating her. She continued to smile absently, watching the blond couple from the dining room who now stood beside them, talking softly together as the hotel’s doorman hailed a taxi for them. Before she was aware of having made the decision, she gave in to a sudden impulse. She turned to Mark’s former wife and blurted out her next question.

  “Did Mark have a gun when you were married?” she asked.

  Carol studied her face for a moment before replying. “Yes. Yes, he did. I found it once, by accident, in the top of the bedroom closet. It gave me a shock, I must say—I’ve never liked the things, and the thought of having one in my house was unsettling, to say the least. But I never asked him about it, never even mentioned it. In light of what I’ve just told you, I think you can understand that. I didn’t lose my entire family to a serial killer, and you and I can only guess at what that does to someone. Why did you ask me that? Does he still have it?”

  “Yes,” Tracy whispered. She knew in that moment that it was true, and that she had seen what she’d thought she’d seen the other night.

  The two women regarded each other in silence. Then Carol said, “Just remember my two questions, and your answers. That’s all that matters, really.” She briefly embraced Tracy, kissing her cheek, before turning to the doorman, who handed her into a cab.

  Tracy stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, watching as the cab pulled away. It wasn’t until the car disappeared in the traffic that she realized what Carol had meant.

  “Do you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you going to marry him, no matter what you may learn about him?”

  “Yes.”

  She knew it was the truth. Still…

  “Would you like a cab, miss?”

  Tracy blinked. The doorman was watching her. She nodded to him, and he raised his silver whistle to his lips.

  24

  The second time Mark saw the man with the scar, he recognized him instantly. And he knew he was not a ghost.

  It was just after dinner. Mrs. Mullins, the proprietor of the guest house, had recommended a restaurant a few blocks north, on Bourbon Street, where he would find what she assured him was the best jambalaya in New Orleans, in the entire state of Louisiana. She became so rhapsodic about it that Mark briefly wondered if the guest house was her only financial concern, but he thanked her and took her advice.

  As he was getting ready to leave, he picked up the room phone and dialed Tracy’s number. He’d been gone two days now, and he wanted to hear her voice. But he wasn’t going to tell her where he was; she thought he was in Washington, which was good enough for him. She didn’t answer the phone in person: her recorded voice went through the familiar litany, and then came the beep. He’d drawn in a breath to leave a message when he remembered that she’d just installed caller ID, which would record the number in New Orleans. He quickly slammed down the receiver and left for the restaurant.

  The food, not surprisingly, was everything Mrs. Mullins had promised, and the terrific Dixieland band in the packed, boisterous room was the perfect antidote to the clinic—the asylum—of the afternoon. The party extended out into the street itself, where there seemed to be some sort of festival in progress. Of course, every day in New Orleans was some sort of festival, he realized. Now, in spring, there were probably all kinds of saints’ days and historical observances. All of them were observed, with bells on, because the locals knew that any tourist coming to the city expected Mardi Gras, even when that particular holiday was gone, and they were nothing if not accommodating.

  It was perhaps for this reason that there was a parade coming down the street as Mark emerged from the dining room onto the crowded sidewalk. He stood in the restaurant’s doorway, momentarily unable to move through the wall of human flesh around him, acutely aware of the heavy revolver in the inside pocket of his bomber jacket pressing against his rib cage. He’d planned to go directly from dinner to the Tennant house, and he wasn’t going there without the gun. The red Taurus was parked nearby, and he would head north to Claiborne Avenue, then west out of the city. He could find his way from there.

  It was not a particularly big parade, more like an impromptu gathering. There were perhaps fifty people marching down the street, some of them wearing colorful masks, many of them playing musical instruments, all of them carrying liquid refreshments. Not big, but enough to draw a brief crowd. The constant stream of movement around Mark finally enabled him to make his way slowly forward to the curb. He would have to cross Bourbon Street to get to his car. He looked out into the street, at the ragtag orchestra playing a crude but lively rendition of “Basin Street Blues,” and at the dense, drunken crowd that watched and took photos, many of them dancing and singing along to the music on the opposite sidewalk.

  That’s when he saw him.

  The man was standing directly across the street from him. He was unusually tall, taller than everyone around him. And there, before Mark’s eyes, was all the rest of it: the now oddl
y familiar black hair and mustache, the black suit, and the long black coat that had been described by two witnesses. Mark had briefly glimpsed it himself. And, clearly visible through the crowds and the exploding flashbulbs and the dim light in the street, the scar: a long white slash down the right side of the man’s ruggedly handsome face. But the single fact that proved his identity, even more than the scar, was the fact that he was looking not at the makeshift entertainment but at Mark. Not merely looking, but staring. He was staring directly into Mark’s eyes. Into his soul.

  The sudden materialization of his nemesis was the last thing in the world Mark had been expecting, and he did not react quickly. Not quickly enough, at any rate. By the time he moved, stepping off the curb and shoving his way through the teeming mob to the other side of the street, the man had vanished.

  He barged up onto the sidewalk to stand on the spot where the man had stood only moments before. It was impossible to see very far in either direction; there were too many people in the way. But he was near a corner, just off to his right, whereas the sidewalk on his left was a long, uninterrupted stretch. He glanced at the doorways to the bars and restaurants that lined this block, dismissing them immediately. The man who called himself Scavenger would never be so foolish as to allow himself to be cornered inside a building. He would be on the move.

  Mark shoved his way rather violently to the corner and plunged down the side street. There was no crowd here, they were all behind him now, and he could see all the way to the next intersection.

  A tall, dark-haired figure in a long black coat was at the far end of the block, walking quickly, turning into the next street. He disappeared around the corner just as Mark caught sight of him.

  Mark charged ahead, throwing himself down the length of the block as swiftly as humanly possible. There was no time to think of the obvious danger of what he was doing. Catching up with his opponent might be the worst thing that could happen to him, even deadly, but it didn’t occur to him in the panic of the moment, in his sudden, overwhelming need to reach the man and confront him. He arrived at the corner where the man had just been and spun around it into the next block.

  There were not many people or cars in this street, and one swift glance told him that his quarry was nowhere in sight. In the space of mere seconds he had simply vanished. Mark paused, panting, sweating, gazing wildly around him, and that was when he saw it.

  The movement was so small as to be almost subliminal, the tiny sound possibly imagined. On his immediate left, wide white steps led up to huge double oak doors between columns. In that instant, Mark thought he saw one of the doors swing shut, and perhaps he heard a muffled thud as it did so.

  Then he was rushing up the wide steps and pushing at the heavy, brass-studded doors. He plunged forward into cool darkness and stopped, gazing around at the cavernous place, blinking.

  It was a church, a Catholic church, and the interior was so vast that it might actually be a cathedral. Hundreds of polished wooden pews stretched away toward the side walls, which were lined with big stained-glass windows depicting various Bible scenes. He had only fleeting impressions of Moses and Noah and what might have been the Tower of Babel. He blinked again, adjusting his vision to the gloom. The only light was supplied by what appeared to be a thousand candles before the altar a hundred feet in front of him. The dim light winked on gold and brass adornments and glowed softly on the rows of white columns at the sides, and on the endless rows of benches.

  He stepped slowly, cautiously forward into the room, aware of the new fear that now suffused him. Despite the cavernous expanse before him, he felt a sudden constriction in his throat, a fresh beading of perspiration on his forehead. The walls, as far apart as they were, seemed to be pressing in on him, crushing him. He couldn’t breathe, and it wasn’t from the running. It was the old, familiar feeling from all his childhood years, the endless hours with his father, with his family, in similar settings. The rows of benches, the organ, the stained-glass windows, the inevitable cross with its dreadful burden. Now, as an adult, he knew that there was a name for it: claustrophobia.

  There were only a few people in the place at this time; three or four elderly women, their heads covered with shawls, and a lone middle-aged man who knelt in a front pew, apparently praying. The evening service would have concluded by now, and anyone else who had been here was gone. Scavenger was nowhere in sight.

  Mark stood at the top of the wide center aisle, peering into every corner, looking for movement of any kind. Just as he looked off toward the right of the front dais, he saw a tiny sliver of light, and a tall figure in long, flowing black slipping through what was obviously a side door.

  And he was running again, down the center aisle, his pounding feet making no sound on the thick red carpet. He tore across the room between two long rows of pews and down the extreme right aisle toward the side door. The old-fashioned wooden confessionals were here, and he nearly collided with the first one in the dark, but he put up his hands to check himself and ran on.

  When he found the door, he paused another moment, gasping for breath, and turned for one more look at the big room behind him. The scent of incense; the low whisper of prayer; the pinpricks of light from the votive candles; the enormous, gleaming gold cross suspended above the altar. With a shudder of distaste, he pulled the door open and barged outside into the cool, revivifying evening air.

  He was now in a side alley, with the lit windows of a rectory on his left. On his right was the entrance to the alley, the street from which he had entered the church. He ran down the length of the alley and emerged into the street, gazing frantically in both directions. There was nothing, no one in the street to his left, so he turned right, toward the church, to the direction from which he had come.

  He stopped short, frozen into inaction by the unexpected sight before him.

  There, not twenty feet away, at the base of the wide steps to the church, the tall man in the long black coat was standing quite still, his back to Mark, embracing a pretty, laughing young woman. Mark stared, taking in the scene, the complete, abrupt surprise of it, feeling the rush of adrenaline as his feverish mind tried to decide what to do.

  It never came to that. As he watched, the man kissed the woman’s cheek. Then, joining her in her laughter as he threw his arm across her shoulders, the man turned around, and the couple began walking directly toward Mark.

  He was not Scavenger. Not even close. He was off by at least twenty years. This tall, dark-haired man in the long black coat was not much more than thirty, and his handsome face was unscarred.

  Mark stood quite still, rooted to the spot, staring at the attractive young couple. As they came abreast of him, the young woman pulled a black bandit’s mask from her purse and handed it to her companion. As he slipped it over his head and down over his eyes, she produced a similar one, this one bright blue and edged with rhinestones, and put it on her face. Now they, along with the intoxicated throng in Bourbon Street a block away, were faceless, anonymous.

  He stood there for a long time, long after the couple had passed him and gone to join the parade, staring blankly ahead of him into the darkness of this relatively quiet, relatively unpopulated street. The whole incident played through his mind in fast motion: the sighting in Bourbon Street, the headlong chase, the eerie cathedral with its sights and smells that reminded him of things long forgotten. And all for this. Again, as in New York two nights ago, he had been chasing a shadow. A phantom. Scavenger, whoever he was, was gone.

  It was cool now, in this evening on this quiet street in New Orleans. A breeze wafted down the sidewalk, chilling him, bringing with it the faint music of the remote celebrants. Mark had no more choices, no more options. He knew what he must do now.

  Once you have begun to play, you cannot stop for any reason until the game is over. With a little sigh, half of frustration and half of capitulation, he turned around and slowly made his way through the dark streets to his car.

  25

  Tra
cy got out of the taxi and walked quickly up the steps to the door of her building. She used the key on the first door, then paused in the entryway before the second locked door to check her mailbox. Bills, political announcements, a mail-order catalog, department store white sales, a literary newsletter to which she subscribed. There was only one piece of mail of a personal nature—an invitation, by the size of it. She carried everything in through the second door and up the stairs to her second-floor apartment.

  She left everything but the invitation on the table beside her front door and went into the kitchen to make tea, shedding her coat as she walked. While she waited for the water to boil, she opened the envelope. Oh, yeah, she thought, the baby shower. A college buddy was expecting her first baby next month, a boy, and here was the information about the party. She would have to get a gift. She filed it away mentally as she made a mug of tea and went out into the living room. Thinking of her pregnant friend made her smile to herself, and she knew she was thinking of her own impending marriage to Mark.

  Mark …

  The smile faded as she went over to the telephone to check for messages. She hit the replay button and sat on the couch, sipping tea. The first voice was that of her friend Mona, who had also received the shower invitation, and what on earth were they going to get for the baby? Please call and advise. Then a frantic Richard Gaines, her author with the big medical thriller, who had just seen the proposed dust jacket copy of the book and was clearly not happy with it. Please call and advise. The third beep was followed by a few seconds of silence, then the click of a hang-up.

  She called the author first, but he was out, so she left a message telling him not to panic; she’d call his editor in the morning. She couldn’t remember Mona’s number, and Mona had neglected to leave it in her message, which was typical of her. She was about to rise and go to the bedroom to check her Rolodex when she spotted the caller ID box beside the phone.