Home Before Dark (24 page)

40
. if you’re all right

templedog: I need to talk to you adorable joker. wj what happened? aj: you better make it quick, i’m at work
td: nothing happened, I just wondered ..
ay— look, i’m fine, okay?
td: obviously not a good moment
aj: is this hard for you, Ed?
td: only because we’re talking for the first time in a week
aj: we shouldn’t be talking at all… and it’s been two days
td: don’t worry, I’m not trying to pressure you
aj: i can’t help worrying, mister

Ward frowned and reached for his glass of wine. It was
Sunday, how could she be at work? She lied to him all the
time, about almost everything – it was one way to keep him
at arm’s length. And the big chump is too besotted to notice.
They were something else these two.
'You just wondered if she was all right, Ed?’ he jeered at
the screen. 'You “just wondered” . . . hell, I bet you did.’
The guy won’t let go. He’s got it pretty bad, and she knows
it. this hard for you?’ ... I mean, really – she loves the
hold she has over him, the little piece of work. She’d be crazy
if she didn’t. He took a sip of the wine, a very reasonable
Sancerre, and yawned.
A wave of tiredness rolled over him.
He couldn’t make up his mind whether he was hungry
enough to go out for something to eat. There was nothing
in the refrigerator. A walk might help him to stay awake; his
body was still on Greenwich Mean Time. If he went to bed
now, he’d only wake up again in a few hours and have to lie
there till dawn listening to police sirens and garbage trucks
painting the town every colour but red.
Seemed hard to believe that only last night he was sleeping
under a hedgerow in the Wiltshire downs. He brought up the
pictures he’d taken of Greenside, the leafy deer park with its
six-acre lake, the magnificent old house where his Sophie
was raised. Shame about her black Lab – there it was now
plodding along the lane – but he couldn’t risk the animal surprising
him and barking its head off while he loaded the program.

He still had the taste in his mouth. The last bewildered look
from Jura’s filmy seal-pup eyes had released the flavour and
texture of candy floss – it wouldn’t have been so bad if he
had a sweet tooth.
Out of respect for its owner, he’d kept the dog’s name-tag,
adding it to his key-ring for good luck. It was working already.
When Ed Lister left the house, he’d successfully installed
another Trojan in his laptop, replacing the program he’d
ordered to self-destruct after Paris.
He liked the library at Greenside, the smell of whisky and
tobacco, the worn, over-stuffed chairs, all those leather-bound
books – it reminded him of his grandmother’s old home. At the
foot of the stairs, he’d stood and listened to the others moving
around on the bedroom floor above, and thought of Sophie.
He’d been in and out of there in three minutes.
It felt good though to be back in the city. The apartment
had been vacuumed while he was away; the bathroom and
kitchen left spotless, which suggested Mrs Karas had been
in, at least twice. The tidiness of his three featureless rooms,
glazed partitions under the stamped-tin ceiling of a modest
loft, was comforting to him. Everything in its place, as Grace
used to say, and a place for everything.
He sat in his work-space, the horseshoe-shaped network
of banked computers, monitors and electronic boxes that
he called home. The custom-built set-up, which included
mail and file servers, switches that routed incoming traffic
to the correct ports, and an impenetrable firewall on a
Linux computer with packet-filtering rules he’d written
himself, all tightly screwed down, was Ward’s listening post,
his flight deck, his cybernaut’s module – gateway to the universe.
He retrieved the text and scrolled down through a tedious
section of dialogue where Ed comes on to the girl as a patron
of the arts – he wants to help her study piano in Paris, no
strings attached, he’s doing this because he believes she has
talent, etc, only she gets all fired up and righteously tells him
she could never accept his charity. What crap! He’s got the
cash, she’s basically a hustler . . . where’s the problem?
But then they get into something a little more interesting.
In what has to be a calculated move, Jelena lets him know
she’s been seeing someone . . . and, surprise, surprise, Ed
doesn’t take it too well.

adorablejoker: remember i told you i broke up with my old lover when he
relocated to LA? Well he’s back in the city and we went out the other night
templedog: I see … how did it go?
aj: we had a lot of catching-up to do
td: you sleep with him?
aj: it’s too soon for that, but who knows… i think there’s a reasonable shot of
us getting back together…
td: you know I still feel the same about you
ared, please… all i’m doing is getting on with my life
td: and you feel it too, you’re just pretending
aj: no, I don’t. I meant what I said, it’s not real… moving on, you told me i
wasn’t in any danger. What made you think i might’ve been?
td: It was only if someone was trying to get at me and it ever came out that you
and I knew each other
a:ahhh, okay… so it’s your reputation you’re worried about.
td: no, I meant they could use you

Ward leaned back and closed his eyes.

He knew what Lister was going through. He remembered
the exact moment when Sophie, his princess, had told him
online that she had someone she cared about back in England.
The shock and hurt stayed with him, the empty feeling, the
nothingness, the rage at being rejected … it never went away.
The boyfriend, he found out later, didn’t in fact exist, but
that was beside the point.
It might seem strange that a person of Ed’s intelligence,
who stank up any room with his aura of money and power,
could become infatuated with this nobody from nowhere,
could be so deluded. A powerful man flirting with self-destruction
was not an edifying sight, not even tragic. But Ward
couldn’t say it altogether surprised him.
Anyone could see she was playing him for a sucker anyone
but Ed, that is. He had to believe that deep down his
little cyber-whore was in love with him and that in time she’d
come to realise that the two of them were meant. There was
only one place this was heading. He wasn’t going to accept
that the relationship was over. He wasn’t going to take no
for an answer.
What the girl didn’t know was that Ed Lister had been
here before.
It felt like a stroke of luck, if not entirely unexpected, when
he discovered that Ed was pursuing a woman half his age
on the internet. He was intrigued by the way their paths were
converging. But Ward could claim at least some credit for
enabling and enhancing the process. Like the
ESP
connection
that Ed was under the impression he enjoyed with Jelly. The
only reason she knew about the party at Greenside was
because he had told her. And the next time Ed checked his
archives he would find the conversation that proved her right.
YOU
TOLD
ME . . . yes, well, let’s call it a joint effort.
If Ward looked hard at the situation there was a symmetry
here, a kind of poetic justice in the range of possibilities it
opened up. He wondered if Ed had any idea how much they
shared, how close they were getting.
Soon, he thought, no one will be able to tell us apart.

Norfolk

44

'Mr Armour?’
A thin hunched figure reading a book on the terrace lifted
a hand in greeting as Campbell pulled into the driveway of
the fieldstone farmhouse and cut the engine of his rented
Toyota. The old man rose and shuffled slowly forwards to
meet him.
'You found the way all right. I’m so glad.’ Bent nearly
double from osteoporosis, Dr Stilwell was the same height
sitting or standing.
It had taken Campbell an hour to drive out from Bradley
airport, following the doctor’s precise directions that brought
him up through the samey small white towns, the rolling hills
and never-ending woods of Litchfield County. Approaching
Norfolk, he’d spotted a dead brown and gold bear lying curled
up in the ditch like a worn couch somebody had thrown out,
and suddenly felt a long way from Tampa. It was his first
foray into the Yankee heartland.
'Great place you got here, doc’ Campbell said, looking
around him, as he stepped from the car. The old house and
its barn were set back on an oak-shaded rise in a half-acre
of scrupulously tended grounds.
'On a day like this . . . well, I can’t think of anywhere I’d
rather be.’ Stilwell spoke with a soft New England accent,
squinting up sideways at Campbell through half-moon glasses
perched on his nose; he was wearing, despite the heat, a heavy
tweed suit and bowtie. They shook hands and the doctor led
him over the terrace of uneven flagstones to a circular cast
iron table and chairs.
'Can I interest you in some iced tea?’ A tray had been laid
out with a pitcher, silver spoons, and two glasses filled with
ice and mint. 'My wife’s secret was to add a little ginger ale.
She was from the south . . . like you.’
The doctor filled their glasses, letting him know that Mrs
Stilwell had passed away three years ago and that he’d given
up general practice soon afterwards. It occurred to Campbell
he must have worked on” well past retirement age. He had to
be eighty, at least. There was a silence. He was wondering
how to bring up the subject he’d come here to discuss, when
Stilwell asked, 'What can I do for you, Mr Armour? I don’t
see patients any more and you don’t look to me like a medical
man.’
On the phone, he’d been careful not to say too much about
the purpose of his visit or what he did for a living. He
suspected that a private investigator nosing about up here in
the backwoods would not be made to feel welcome.
'I’m a computer analyst.’ Campbell cleared his throat. 'I was
given your name by Claudia Derwent at Yale. I believe you sent
her some notes on a patient of yours – This was way back – a
boy suffering, if that’s the word for it, from synaesthesia.’
Stilwell nodded slowly. 'Sure, Derwent published a letter
in the New York Times inviting anyone with the condition to
take part in a sample. I wrote her partly to have her confirm
my diagnosis. But also because the case had some exceptional
features.’
'The boy claimed he could “taste” music. Is that right?’
The doctor’s eyes met his and held them in an open and
friendly gaze. 'What exactly is your interest in the subject,
Mr Armour?’

Campbell had prepared his answer. There was no sense in
talking at this point about a murder investigation, when it
might not even be relevant.
'It’s really my wife who’s interested. She’s doing research in
clinical neurophysiology at Tampa General. They have an
epilepsy programme there and she’s studying parallels between
temporal lobe seizures and the synaesthetic experience.’
It wasn’t so far removed from what she actually did.
'I see.’ The doctor’s eyes were still friendly, but the lines
around his mouth had tightened. Campbell feared he could
see right through him.
“I’m just running errands for her.’ He gave a little grin that
would have infuriated Kira. 'I thought maybe if I was able
to trace your patient . . .’ He tried to make it sound like a
casual enterprise. 'You wouldn’t happen to know what became
of him, doc, would you?’
'Last time I saw him he was a little boy … must be twenty
five years ago, more. I wouldn’t even know where to start
looking.’
'What about your patient files?’
He laughed. 'No doctor keeps 'em that long.’
'Do you remember the name of the boy?’
'Of course. He was Ernest Seaton . . .’ Stilwell paused,
studying Campbell over the top of his reading glasses, as if
waiting for his reaction. He frowned. 'I take it then you don’t
know the story?’
Campbell shook his head.
'I’m surprised Professor Derwent didn’t warn you.’
The doctor, not to be hurried, leaned forward and took a
sip of tea.
'Ernest was the sole survivor of a family tragedy, Mr
Armour.’ He put the glass down and went on. 'The Seatons
lived out of town over towards Colebrook, big place up on
the ridge called Skylands. It happened during the heatwave
we had here, summer of nineteen seventy-nine. One night
after a drunken argument, the father cut the mother’s throat,
then shot himself with a twelve-gauge. Hell of a mess. Their
bodies were discovered by the housekeeper when she came
to work next morning.’
'Jesus.’ Campbell tried to hide his excitement. 'I had no
idea.’
'The level of violence was . . . extreme. Some people felt
June Seaton had it coming to her, but he butchered her, literally
slashed the poor woman to ribbons.’
'What about the kid? Was he there?’
'He was found alone in the house, hiding in a broom closet,
his face finger-painted with his mother’s blood. The murder
weapon was a kitchen knife, one of those curved blades with
twin handles. What do you call 'em . . . ? Italian word … a
“mezzaluna”. It’s not known whether the boy witnessed the
crime.’
'Oh man,’ Campbell said, turning his head from side to
side. He felt a pulse start up in his neck. 'He must have been
. . . Jesus, I dunno.’
Stilwell gave him a look. 'Ernest was nine at the time. An
only child. He didn’t speak about what happened; not to the
police, not to me, not to anyone.’
'Did you know his parents? Were they patients of yours?’
'This is a village, Mr Armour, everyone knows everyone.
I wasn’t their family doctor and we moved in different
circles, but we were on friendly terms. Gary Seaton had a
dental practice in Torrington. June, his wife, came from a
higher social milieu – she had artistic leanings. Ran an
antique clothing store here in town that kept her amused
for a while. Skylands was hers. The house had always
belonged to her mother’s family, old-money Norfolk
grandees.’
'Why did people say she had it coming?’
'I guess there were rumours she was unfaithful to him.
June was quite a beauty, high-strung, with an aura of big
city glamour about her, you know – she had dash. She was
on a different level to Gary. His drinking could also have
been a factor. Sad business, but at least no one else was
caught up in their troubles. The inquest established no third
party involvement.’
'Except for the boy.’
'Yes, of course, Ernie.’ He paused. 'The reason you’re here.’
Campbell said, 'What kind of a person would do that to
his own kid?’
'You know, Mr Armour, the tragedy was not exactly hushed
up, but it was contained locally. You might have expected the
story to draw a reporter or two from New York, but luckily
no. This isn’t the sort of place that revels in notoriety.’
'Sure, I understand. I’m only interested in finding him.’
It was easier for Dr Stilwell to talk with his head bowed.
But he made an effort now to prop himself up, resting his
chin on a hand so that he could maintain eye-contact with
his visitor.
'Were you called to the scene?’ Campbell asked.
'As a doctor, you mean? No, I wasn’t involved professionally.
At least, not until later on. The boy’s grandmother Nancy,
Mrs Calvert, was June Seaton’s mother – brought
him over to see me a month or two after it happened. I’d
treated her husband once for depression and she wanted my
opinion. She had taken Ernest to a big child psychologist in
Manhattan for counselling. It was suggested to her that as
well as being severely traumatised, her grandson might be
schizophrenic’
'Hard to imagine going through what he did and not being
driven crazy.’
'Children on the whole are remarkably resilient,’ Stilwell
said. 'I examined the boy. He was maybe a little withdrawn,
but I found him pretty well-adjusted, all things considered.
I saw him three or four times.
'We sat over there, the two of us, in my summer office.’
Campbell glanced at the converted barn the doctor had
pointed out to him earlier, a listing white clapboard shack
with tall windows overlooking the pond and bog garden. He
knew he was jumping the gun, but he felt almost certain now
that this was where it all began. The emotional wasteland out
of which 'Ward’ had arisen.
'I remember the exact moment I realised Ernest wasn’t ill,
but different. I had some Mozart playing in the background
and he asked me to turn it off. I was curious to know why.
He said the notes tasted bad. “Like flies when they get in your
mouth!”
'I’m not a big fan of Mozart either, but man . . . that is
harsh.’
Stilwell gave a little smile. 'I thought so too.’
'But you knew what it signified.’
'There were other signs. I got him to do some drawings.
One of them, which I couldn’t decipher, he explained was
a drawing of the sound a helicopter makes. We looked at
letters of the alphabet and he instantly put a colour to each
of them.’
'Then you didn’t share the psychologist’s view?’
'I told Mrs Calvert I thought Ernest was synaesthetic and
that his condition most likely had become more pronounced
because of the trauma, but she just said, Oh, the boy’s always
been a dreamer. She looked after him for a while longer, but
it was too much for her to handle. She packed him off to be
raised by a cousin out West somewhere, I think it was
Wyoming. He never came back.’
'Is the grandmother still alive?’ Campbell asked.
'She died in New York two years ago.’
'What about the cousin who raised him? Any other relatives
or friends of the family who might know what happened to
the kid?’
Stilwell shook his head. The detective, who’d been leaning
forward to catch the old man’s sometimes barely audible
voice, sat back in his chair.
A silence grew between them, not uncomfortable this
time, restoring the peaceful drowsy hum of the garden.
Campbell was about to try a different approach, when he
heard Stilwell say softly, 'Don’t make any sudden movement,
Mr Armour.’
The doctor was staring intently at something behind him.
'We have a visitor. Turn around very slowly. There’s a
hydrangea bush to your left. Look among the top trusses and
you’ll see one of our humming birds. Iridescent green with
a black throat patch?’
Reluctantly, Campbell did as instructed. 'Okay, I got it.’
'Keep your eye on the black patch and watch what happens
to it when he moves into the sunlight. There!’
There was a flash of deep ruby red. Campbell had never
seen anything in his life so intensely red before. Then it was
gone, leaving a whitish after-image that quickly faded against
the sky. As always, when he experienced something new or
beautiful, he thought of Kira – the experience incomplete
unless he could share it with her.
The doctor beamed at his delight. 'He was a big favourite
with my wife. It tickled her that only the males have that
gorgeous colouring. She named him “Beau”.’
Campbell sensed he was about to go into reminiscence
mode, but the old man became quiet. Taking the hint, he
stood up. 'It was good of you to see me.’
'Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’ Stilwell held out a hand
for him to shake. 'Have you a place to stay in town, Mr
Armour?’
'I booked a motel online. The Mountain View.’
'Never heard of it. You’d be more than welcome to our
guest room.’
Campbell smiled. 'I already used up enough of your hospitality.’
The
doctor insisted on walking him back to his car. At the
end of the terrace, he stopped and put a bony hand on
Campbell’s arm. 'You could always try talking to Grace Wilkes.
She was housekeeper at Skylands. She might be able to tell
you more.’
'Grace Wilkes,’ he repeated, wondering what had made
him change his mind.
'Had a rapport with the boy. She’ll be in the book for
Winsted.’