The Dark Door (4 page)

“And what if I look into it and decide that it was all coincidence, after all?”

“That would be the absolutely finest report any of us could hope for.”

Charlie was gazing at him fixedly, his eyes narrowed. “There’s something else, isn’t there, Thoreson? What is it?”

Thoreson drained a few drops of melted ice into his mouth, then, keeping his gaze on the glass, he said, “In those firm cases I mentioned, each time, the fire department—volunteer departments in every case—seemed to delay fighting the fires. Almost as if they deliberately let them burn past saving before they went into action.”

Regarding Thoreson with near indifference, Charlie lazily held up his hand to catch Ron’s attention. In a moment Ron appeared with a tray of new drinks. Only then did Charlie speak. “So you think the various volunteer fire departments are in on the conspiracy, too?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Thoreson admitted. “A million in claims, Mr. Meiklejohn, that’s what I really think about. Old abandoned buildings, good for nothing in most cases. And there must be hundreds more just like them scattered around the country. Hundreds!” He rubbed his eyes. “With your experience, you could go to some of those places and talk to the people in the fire departments, find out what they know, if they know anything. Find out if they really did delay taking action, and if so, why. Stern showed me the manual you wrote, the bible for volunteer fire fighters, he said. Those people would talk to you. You could say you’re gathering data for a new book or something. They’d talk to you.”

Constance wanted to shout, No! He won’t work for you! Go away! She wanted to hold Charlie and whisper, not this one. Not this time. No more fires. No more arson. No more burned-out buildings with rotten timbers ready to fall on you, floors ready to cave in, walls ready to crumble down. “Charlie,” she said, touching his arm. He turned his face toward her, but she knew he was not seeing her, not now. His eyes had gone flat, like chips of coal, ready to flare, ready to burn. “Charlie,” she said again, more insistently. The light came back to his eyes. “We have to go to San Francisco in ten days, remember? And then a couple of weeks in Mexico. Remember?”

He blinked, looked back to Thoreson, and shrugged.

“Let me leave the reports with you,” Thoreson said, in near desperation. “I have them all here in my briefcase. Don’t decide right now. Look over what we’ve managed to get together first. We wouldn’t expect you to drop everything and concentrate on just this matter. After all, it stretches out over five years
as it is. But if you can look into it in the next few
weeks, the next few months…”

He means he’ll be sure to have Phil call, Constance wanted to say, and drank her Irish coffee. Charlie thought the same thing, but he said mildly that he would read the reports, study the claims, and be in touch. Thoreson was so relieved he would have signed a blank check, Constance thought.

“We asked Phil Stern to handle the details,” he said. “Since you’ve worked with him in the past it seemed appropriate. His company is one of a consortium, as is mine. We’re equally responsible, but he will be the liaison, if that is agreeable.” He tasted his second drink and stood up. He did not offer to shake hands with either of them.

“If you can let me know in the next day or two…”

“By Friday,” Charlie said, also not offering to shake hands. He did not rise. Thoreson looked from him to Constance, his lips a tight line; then he nodded and left.

“Charlie, this is insane,” she said as soon as Thoreson was out the door of the roadhouse. A few new people had drifted in; voices and music were rising to a routine volume. “What can you possibly do five years after the fact? Do you really intend to spend the next few years traveling from Vermont to California to Ohio, and wherever else he mentioned? Alone?”

He grinned at the threat. “Nope. I’d hire Tom Hoagley to do some preliminary research for me while I stay home and pick apples, and then go to San Francisco and listen to you on your panels.”

She felt a chill. Was that the reason he had not tossed Thoreson out? She had written a series of articles on xenophobia and its impact on everything from the behavior of elementary school children to national foreign policy, and as a consequence had been invited to participate in a national psychology symposium. She had assumed he was looking forward to going to San Francisco for a week with the same enthusiasm she felt.

Although in theory she was retired, in practice she was as busy as she ever had been, giving papers, writing books, doing research, consulting. The only thing she had dropped was teaching. Also in theory Charlie was supposed to be using his time in writing a definitive book on fire investigative methods; the manual Thoreson had mentioned was the only product to come out of his efforts.

“An assistant,” Charlie said with a nod. “Tom Hoagley. Let someone else find out things, like were there unusual strangers in the areas before the fires? Any repetition of any unusual behavior? Developers casing the places? Offers to buy the properties? Unusual newspaper subscriptions before the fires? Owners showing signs of unusual wanderlust in the past few years?” He was gazing thoughtfully at the room, filling now with the usual weeknight customers. “If a stranger showed up in our little community and did anything weird, how long before everyone in this place would know, do you suppose?”

“The next day,” she said. “Charlie, are you going to take this case?”

“Not sure yet. Like I told him, I’ll go over the reports, then decide. See who investigated, for instance. Some pretty good guys out there prowling about, you know. What really gets me is that he said the fire departments let the places burn. Not that I believe him. He’s an asshole. But there are some pretty good people out there poking about in the ashes. I wonder if that’s what they’re saying.”

She looked shocked. “You don’t believe that!”

He had been thinking out loud and now regarded her soberly. “I don’t believe or not believe it. But if it turns out to be true, I sure as hell want to know why. Let’s have dinner here. Hungry?”

They made their way to the dining room a few minutes later and he looked at her with horror when she ordered sweetbreads. A shudder passed over him.

When they got home that night the acrid smell of burned chilies was nearly gone, but the cats acted as if an invading army had moved through the house. They went from room to room sniffing warily and jumped when Charlie dropped Thoreson’s briefcase.

During the night Constance came awake to hear a howling wind savaging the trees in the yard. The long mellow autumn had come to an end.

Chapter 4

“You look like
hell,” Charlie said to Phil Stern, who was in bed in his Manhattan apartment
. “Why’d you send Thoreson out cold like that? Is it serious? Should I keep my distance?”

“It is serious,” Phil said darkly. “If it wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have to be in bed, right? Since I am here, it must be serious.” He grunted when he shifted his position. “Keep your distance. Flu. What are you doing here?”

“Helping Constance deliver apples.” He shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

“So you met Sore Thumb.”

Charlie felt blank. “Sore thumb? I give.”

“Thoreson. Halbert Thoreson. Those of us who know and love him call him Sore Thumb. If he made it, you know why.” Ah, Charlie thought, the man in pain, with the tight lips. He nodded. “You up to talking? Shouldn’t you be quiet? Rest, or something?”

“I’m resting. I’m resting. Up to my gills in dope, swimming in dope and resting. Sore Thumb’s a pain in the ass, but he’s probably onto something. I’m surprised he showed up. The thought of scandal scares him more than the bogeyman.”

Phil repeated much of the story Thoreson had told. He thought the number of arson fires was probably closer to ten, or even twelve, but some of them were doubtful. “Look,” he said a few minutes later, “Thoreson’s company has been hit harder than anyone else in this mess—one reason they abhor publicity. Thoreson’s name’s not even linked to any of this, that’s how cautious he is, how careful about his company’s reputation. I’m fronting. Me and the company,” he added. “Not that old man Boyle’s happy about it, but that’s how it is. So you decide, and we send out the contract, except I’m taking off for Bermuda as soon as they unlock my door here. Sick leave,” he added, too smugly. “I have good insurance.”

Charlie spread his hands and said, “Then there’s no case at this time, not until you’re back in harness.”

Phil started to shake his head and grunted again. “That’s one of the things I shouldn’t do yet,” he said after a moment. “You’re on, Charlie. If you’ll look into it. God, we’ve got more than forty of those white elephants on our books! We haven’t been hit yet, but I’m afraid we will be.”

“Usual terms?” Charlie asked.

“Whatever you say. Sore Thumb complained about the amount, but I said you don’t work cheap. We’ll have a check mailed tomorrow. Give yourself a raise. I’ll initial it. A reasonable raise, that is.”

Charlie leaned back and surveyed his friend critically. “Must be a hidden head injury, brain fever. Okay. Meanwhile, Bermuda’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, I know.” Phil closed his eyes. “I’m tired. You talk. What’s this bullshit about apples?”

Over on Houston Street Constance was regarding her old friend Patrick Morely with affection. “It really is about ten bushels,” she said. “But we couldn’t pack bushels very well, so we scrounged up the liquor boxes instead. “You’ll just have to explain the best you can how you came by ten liquor boxes, my friend.”

Father Patrick Morley, executive director of the children’s home that occupied most of the block, laughed with delight. “And you say there is no independent good or evil! Come along inside and let me give you a cup of coffee. Where is Charlie?”

Two adolescent boys appeared and started to unload the boxes of apples. One of them kept looking at Constance with a shy smile. Patrick led the way inside the massively built school. A few more children peered at them from a doorway; the door closed softly when they drew near. A faint grin played on Patrick’s face, the only indication of his awareness of his charges’ interest in the visitor. Everywhere the building needed repairs—paint, new woodwork, a window. … It was scrupulously clean. They went into his study and sat down near a low table that held a few mugs and a thermos. He righted two of the mugs and opened the thermos, inspected the contents, then poured. “I probably could find some sugar and cream,” he said without conviction.

She shook her head. “Charlie’s visiting an old friend. We’ll meet for lunch. How are you?”

“Well,” he said, dismissing the subject. He looked dreadful, too thin, pale. He was dying of leukemia. Looking at him, aching for him, Constance could almost admit to the evil that he believed had an independent existence.

Somewhere a bell rang, and the quiet beyond his study door was broken by young voices, footsteps, doors opening, closing. Patrick’s smile widened. Constance sipped her coffee. It was very bad coffee. Why are you sacrificing your life? she had wanted to ask him many times, though she never had, and never would.

He was regarding her again, his eyes calm, serene. “Do you remember the game we played in school?” he asked suddenly. “Someone in the back row tapped the person in front of him and whispered, ‘Pass it on.’”

She nodded, grinning now. “By the time it got to me it was more than just a tap.”

He laughed. “Exactly. The multiplier effect. Good is like that. A good thing happens to you, you pass it on, bigger, better than you received. It multiplies.” The smile left his face, and with its absence he seemed suddenly very old, very aware. “Evil’s like that, too, Constance. People like you, so basically good, call the good you do reasonable. You call the evil you see irrational, evil behavior done by people who need help. In that context even evil becomes reasonable. Your own rationality is dangerous, Constance. It can be a trap more deadly than you can conceive.”

“What a terrifying world you live in,” she said softly, chilled by his death that seemed too close now, too imminent.

“For me there is no terror,” he said, and she believed him. His personal serenity was unshakable, his faith beyond question. “You see my world as terror filled because I admit to absolutes—absolute good and evil, absolute faith and belief. I see your world as even more terrible, Constance. You can’t measure good and evil with a relative yardstick. When you see absolute good you have to search for hidden motives, puzzle out a compensation system, even if the good is your own. I’m afraid that when you are confronted with absolute evil, you will find your rationality gone, and without reason or faith, you are truly lost. Then you become a tool of evil, no more than that; or you die.”

“I’m not afraid of death,” she whispered. “That isn’t evil. Death is part of all life. You know that.”

“We pass on our knowledge of death, our fear if it’s present. Some feel it as a tap, others as a blow. But when that death is brought about by a confrontation with evil, what we pass on can be a fatal blow and those we leave behind feel it that way. Some recover. Many don’t, and they in turn pass it on, ever harder, ever more insistent, ever stronger with the force of evil behind it. It multiplies its effects until someone is strong enough to deny it again, to quell it for the time being. It doesn’t die, it waits for a new victim to start the game again.”

Constance stood up abruptly. “I have to go. I’ll be late.”

Patrick rose also. “Remember when our paths crossed over twenty years ago? How outraged you were that I had become a priest. You told me very firmly that if I ever tried to convert you, our friendship would end. I never did, did I?”

“Of course not,” she said coolly. “Nor I you.”

He laughed and took her hands. “Goodbye, Constance. Thank you for the apples. For all your goodnesses.” He did not immediately release her; his hands were hot.

“Why did you talk to me like this now?” she asked, making no motion to draw away.

“I don’t know. Ever since you called, I’ve had a darkness in my mind about you. My dreams are… troubled these days, dreams of old friends, people I have loved, people I must speak to, people I must ask to forgive me for injuries so old they seem to belong to someone else. People I must warn. At least one person I felt I must warn. You.” He studied her face, then kissed her on the forehead. “I feel that you’re in grave danger. I’m sorry.”

Whenever Charlie and Constance got to town together they had lunch at Wanda Loren’s restaurant on Amsterdam, half a dozen blocks from the apartment they had lived in for so many years. The neighborhood never changed yet was always different, Charlie thought, as he strode briskly, half an hour late. One shop vanished, was replaced with another not very different. Fondue was out, yogurt in. Sushi houses had appeared; the Italian restaurant that used to serve the world’s best veal in marsala was gone. An Indian restaurant was there instead. The crowds were exactly the same people, he felt convinced, just wearing different clothes. Suits for men and women were in; casual jeans and tee shirts out. The air smelled the same, a poisonous mix of exhaust fumes and metal and people. The noise level was the same, five decibels above tolerable. He ducked into Wanda’s.

“Hey, Charlie, how are you, for Chrissake! She’s here already.”

Wanda greeted him with a hug. She was four feet ten inches, weighed too much to talk about, she always said, and had a beautiful face, a cameo face with perfect lines, almond shaped eyes, and not a blemish or touch of makeup.

“Wanda, if I weren’t such an old man I’d sweep you off your feet,” Charlie said and kissed her on the mouth. “You’ve lost a couple hundred pounds.”

“Twenty, Charlie. Just twenty so far. But thanks.”

He joined Constance and saw with surprise that she had a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and was already drinking it. Before he could comment, she asked, “You’re taking the case? Tell me what you’ve been up to. Okay?”

He put his hand over hers for a second, then poured wine for himself and started to recount his morning’s activities. He knew about Patrick, knew it must have been bad. Later she would talk about it, he also knew, but now he would fill in the silence.

Afterwards, he thought that if it had not been for Patrick’s approaching death and his warning that had so disturbed Constance, everything would have been different. She would have been sharper with her questions; he probably would have turned over more of the investigation to Tom Hoagley. Aware that the very fine food Wanda served them was being wasted on Constance, that she was deeply abstracted, he found himself including her in his plans, assuming a partnership, taking it for granted that she would allow herself to become involved. Anything, he thought, to wipe that blank look from her face, to make her refocus her eyes on the here and now, not on some vision Patrick had implanted. He would need her help in reading the newspapers, he said, and she blinked finally and looked at him.

“Tom is going to get newspapers together from the communities where the fires broke out,” he explained again. “It’s going to make quite a stack, I’m afraid. I’ll need help in going through them, searching for anything that might link one area to another. Okay?”

He had intended to have Tom Hoagley do that, but saying it this way made him aware that he wanted to do it himself, with Constance helping him. Together they might spot relationships that someone like Hoagley might not see, although he was quite clever.

“You really think all those fires are related, make a pattern?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation; until that moment he had reserved judgment. Even then it might not have been too late if she had pressed him for a reason, pressed him to defend his position. He could not have done it then, but it might have made a difference.