Muller, Marcia - [McCone 04] Games to Keep the Dark Away (v.1,shtml) (24 page)

"Sort of."

"Cars. Country club. A house in the hills. This boat. The
kind of women I chose. The things they wanted—Oriental carpets,
sheets, towels, sterling silver. And each time one of them turned out
that way, I'd choose another. Another with the same wants and needs.
And me with mine, always looking to another woman for the solution.
And then Janie."

"Was she different?"

"Yes. She was different. She was willing to work for it all.
When everything went to hell and it looked like I was going to lose
the house and the cars and maybe even The Tidepools, she didn't
worry. She just went to San Francisco, said she'd find a way to buy
us out of the trouble."

"With a social worker's salary?"

It was a mistake to have asked it. He frowned and set down his
glass. "I'm talking too much. I always do when I drink. For that
matter, I'm drinking too much. You'd better go."

"No, what you've said is very interesting. It's a real
commentary on contemporary values—"

Keller stood up. "Like I said, you'd better go."

I went. But at the other end of the parking lot, I stopped at the
marina office. It was locked, and a sign indicated someone would be
back at one-thirty. That might help me, if my plan worked at all.
There was a phone booth outside the office, and I stepped in there,
dug out a dime, and called the number of the phone on Keller's boat.
When he answered, I pitched my voice higher than usual and said, "Dr.
Keller, this is Beth at the office."

"Who?"

"Beth. You probably don't know me; I'm new. Anyway, I wonder
if you could come up here for a few minutes."

There was a sigh. "Why?"

"It's about those things the woman who was staying on your
boat lost last week."

"What things?" His tone was suddenly more alert.

"Oh, didn't she tell you? She lost a key ring and a
checkbook. One of the other slip holders turned them up. We have them
here if you'd like to—"

"I'll be right there."

It had been a guess, but it had turned out to be right on target.
Now I'd have to move fast. I ran across the graveled parking lot,
back along the slips, and along one of the side floats. In a couple
of minutes, Keller hurried along the dock toward the office. I waited
until he was past, then sprinted for his slip and climbed on board
the cruiser. As I'd hoped, he hadn't locked the door to the companion
way. I went down there, almost slipping on the ladder.

The galley was straight ahead, but that didn't interest me. I went
aft, where there were sleeping quarters. The teak-paneled cabin had
two built-in bunks with a dresser between them. On the dresser was a
small tan suitcase with the initials JMA. Irrelevantly, I wondered
what Jane Anthony's middle name had been.

The case was full of cosmetics, underwear, jeans, and tops—all
thrown in together. Fastidious Jane had never packed—or
repacked—these things. I looked through them, found nothing
unusual, then turned my attention to the rest of the cabin. One bunk
was rumpled, its covers turned back. The other was smooth and on it
sat a cardboard box. I went over and saw it was full of file folders.

As I reached for the box, I heard a thump on the deck above. I
froze, listening. Footsteps went toward the companionway and down the
ladder, and then Keller appeared, his back to me, heading for the
galley.

He was back much sooner than I'd anticipated. Had he realized the
call was a fake? Would he search the boat? I flattened against the
wall of the cabin, wishing the box of folders was still within reach.

There was the sound of an icetray being emptied and then the crack
of a seal, probably on a fresh bottle of gin. Keller's voice said
wearily, "Let them keep the stuff. It's of no use to me. Or to
Janie anymore." Next I heard breaking glass. "Jesus
Christ," Keller said. There was a long silence and then he
added, "You've had enough, fellow."

Keller's footsteps left the galley and I held my breath, hoping he
would go up on deck and leave the boat without the files. The
footsteps came on, however, toward the cabin. I got ready and, as he
stepped through the door, rushed past him, heading for the ladder.

Keller whirled. "Hey!"

I banged my knee on one of the rungs but scrambled up.

"Come back here, dammit!" Keller was right below me,
grabbing for my ankle. He got a good hold on it, and I fell to the
deck, then started crawling for the rail when he let go. He lurched
up the ladder and grabbed me by my hair, yanking me backward. I
screamed. He bent my arm behind me and glowered down, breathing gin
into my face.

"That call was one of your cute tricks, eh?"

I tried to wrench free, but he held me firmly.

"So you know Jane stayed here," he said. "So what?"

"The police will be interested."

"Not when they find there's no evidence of her presence. Who
are they going to believe—you or me?"

I didn't want to debate our relative credibility. I struggled
harder, but he pinned both my arms behind my back and dragged me to
my feet.

"You're trespassing, you know," he said. "Why don't
I call the police and let them handle you?"

"Why don't you? When they arrive we can discuss what the
personnel files from The Tidepools are doing below."

"Why shouldn't they be there? I was going over them, working
here because it's quieter than my office."

"Sure you were."

"Like I said, who are they going to believe?"

He was right; they were his files and the police would believe
him, particularly when he got Ann Bates to back him up, as I was sure
he could. Still, I decided to call his bluff. "So pick up the
phone and call Lieutenant Barrow."

He was silent for a moment, breathing hard. Then he chuckled. "No,
I've got better plans for you."

"Such as?"

He twisted my body sideways, and one of his arms went under my
knees, the other around my shoulders. I pushed out at him with my
freed hands, but he lifted me and stepped over to the rail.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said.

In seconds, I was flying through the air, and then I hit the
water. I started to yell but closed my mouth just in time before I
went under. The water was cold and oil-slicked. When I bobbed to the
top, my hair was plastered to my face, and I had to part it to look
up at the boat. Keller leaned on the rail, laughing uproariously.

"That'll teach you to be so goddamn nosy!"

"Fuck you!" It was one of the few times in my life I'd
ever said that.

It only made Keller laugh harder.

I began to swim in the opposite direction, toward the main dock,
Keller's laughter following me. I'd lost both shoes sometime during
the struggle, but my skirt—the grown-up-person skirt I'd worn
to impress Ann Bates—greatly impeded my progress. I wanted to
appear dignified, but it was impossible while attempting the
Australian crawl, fully clothed, in six feet of dirty water. I could
still hear Keller's laughter when I hauled myself up on the dock and
sloshed off toward my car.

I'll get even, I told myself. I
will
get even. By the
time I'm through with this case Allen Keller won't be laughing at
anything.

I
called Lieutenant Barrow as soon as I got back to the
motel and told him what I'd found out at the
Princess
Jane
—omitting the part about my impromptu swim. He said
they'd already talked to Keller—who had claimed not to know
where Jane had been during the week before her death—but
promised to go out and talk to him again. I said I would check with
Barrow later, and then hung up and took a long, hot shower. By the
time I'd finished dressing and drying my hair it was after four. One
thing was certain: I was never going to get a look at The Tidepools'
files now. I sat down and considered the problem, then decided to
approach it from another angle.

At the public library, I requested the microfilms for the week of
Barbara Smith's death once again. I read through them slowly, looking
for any facts I might have skipped over before, then checked her
obituary. It listed a sister, Mrs. Susan Tellenberg of Port San
Marco, as one of the survivors. I looked her up in the directory,
found a number and address, and called her. The phone rang ten times
with no answer.

When I left the library it was nearly dusk. I wanted to go to
Salmon Bay, to talk with both Mrs. Anthony and John Cala, but I
decided to stop by the police station first and see what Barrow had
gotten out of Allen Keller. The desk sergeant told me the lieutenant
was out of the office but due back any minute. I waited on a bench in
the lobby, watching uniformed cops and plainclothesmen come and go.
What business there was that evening was strictly routine: a father
picking up a lost child, a wife filing a missing person report on her
husband, a tourist reporting a stolen camera. After an hour it became
apparent that Barrow either had been delayed or wasn't coming back,
so I left a message that I'd stop by again and went out to my car.

I drove north to Salmon Bay along the now-familiar coastal highway
and parked in front of Sylvia Anthony's house. It was dark and closed
up, just like last time. Maybe Jane's mother had gone to stay with
friends or relatives.

I looked over at Cala's junk-cluttered yard and saw a porch light
on. At least I would get to talk to the fisherman. I took my keys
from the ignition, but before I could get out of the car, Cala came
through his front door. He was pulling on a windbreaker as he hurried
down the walk toward a beat-up pickup truck. As soon as he jumped in,
the truck's lights flashed on and its engine roared. I started my own
car as the truck pulled away.

Cala drove fast through the rutted lanes to the coastal highway,
then headed south. The truck had a distinctive broken taillight and
was easy to keep in sight. Once on the main road, I dropped back and
let a small car ease in between us. I followed Cala into Port San
Marco and through the tourist area to the lower part of town near the
boarded-up amusement park. He left the truck at the curb by the
public beach and went to stand on the seawall.

I stopped a few yards down the street and watched as Cala checked
his watch. Beyond the seawall the ocean was placid, its waves barely
disturbing the image that the newly risen moon reflected on it. Cala
stood on the wall for a few minutes, as if admiring the scene, then
stepped onto the beach.

Leaving the MG where it was, I strolled slowly down the sidewalk,
scanning the beach for Cala's figure. There were no other
pedestrians, and the area had a desolate, rundown feeling. It even
seemed colder here than in the brightly lit tourist section to the
north, and I couldn't help contrasting it with the kaleidoscope of
color and sound and smells I'd known as a child, before the amusement
park died.

Cala was walking diagonally across the wide beach, toward the
water but also toward the high board fence of the park. The fence was
posted with NO TRESPASSING signs and colorful posters proclaiming it
the future site of the Port San Marco Performing Arts Center. Above
the fence, on the far seaward side, the old roller coaster towered,
its girders dark against the evening sky.

Cala continued across the sloping beach to where the park was
built up on pilings. As I watched from the seawall, Cala ducked down
and disappeared among them.

I went along the seawall to the perimeter of the park, then
crossed the beach, keeping in the shadows. When I reached the
pilings, I slipped under there as Cala had and crept forward,
searching for him. I spotted him finally, going up a set of steps
that led into the park above. It was a well-hidden entrance that
could be seen only from directly under the roller coaster—or
from the water, if you happened to be out there in a boat. That was
probably how Cala knew about it.

But what was he doing here at the deserted amusement park? He had
left his house in a hurry and had waited on the seawall after
checking his watch. Was he meeting someone? If so, who? And why here,
of all places?

From the direction of the steps I heard a door close. Cala must be
inside the park. I followed, my footsteps muffled on the damp sand,
and looked up the steps. The door at their top had once been
padlocked, but the hasp hung on splintered wood. Vandals must have
been at work here, and just kids looking for a place to drink and
neck. I climbed the steps and touched the door. It swung open
quietly.

It took a moment for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark.
Then I made out a wide expanse of boardwalk and the outlines of
abandoned booths. They were mere shells, but their signs—the
signs of my youth—remained: COTTON CANDY, CORN DOGS, THREE RING
TOSSES FOR A QUARTER…TEST YOUR STRENGTH, IMPRESS YOUR LADY FRIEND,
WIN A GIANT PANDA.

I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me, and stood pressed
against the wall. A clammy, salt-tanged breeze was blowing up through
the cracks in the boardwalk and nearby something that sounded like
old newspaper rustled, but otherwise I heard nothing. Cala was
nowhere in sight.

To my left were more booths and the merry-go-round with its domed
top. It had been stripped of its horses and, without them, the top
looked like a flying saucer hovering ten feet above the platform. To
the right was the Penny Arcade, the Fun House, and the Tunnel of
Love. I went off that way, since the overhang of the buildings
provided greater cover.

The park was so silent that, had I not seen Cala go in there, I
would not have believed there was another soul within miles. I looked
into the Penny Arcade and saw nothing but empty space and a row of
skee-ball alleys. The mouth of the Tunnel of Love gaped at me, and I
went over and glanced down into the trench that had once held the
boats. It was dry now, full of beer cans and other trash. Moving
along, I mounted the steps to the Fun House.

As I entered, a sudden motion startled me. I shrank back, my heart
pounding. Then I realized that what I had seen was myself, reflected
over and over in ripply shards of glass. The mirror—the one
that made you short and fat, tall and skinny—had been smashed
but still hung on the wall. I stared into it, seeing my face
distorted into exaggerated lines of alarm. Curbing my urge to giggle
with relief, I went on through the little maze of now-empty rooms.
Nothing here. Cala must have gone the other way, toward the
merry-go-round.

I had just reentered the room with the mirror when things
began
to happen.

First there was a muffled grunt, and then a thump. I froze,
listening, trying to place the origin of the noises. Then I heard the
sound of running feet. I bounded out of the Fun House in time to see
a dark figure come down the steps from the Tunnel of Love's boarding
platform and sprint toward the door to the beach. It wasn't Cala; the
person was too short and much thinner.

The figure saw me and whirled, then darted to the side as I ran
toward it. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound. A three-foot-high
boxy shape came at me and caught me squarely in the stomach. I fell
forward over it, and it continued rolling, slamming me against the
counter of the cotton candy booth. Pain exploded in the small of my
back. I slid off the thing that had hit me and fell to the ground.

I tried to get up, but I was pinned between the bulky object and
the booth. As I flailed around, the door to the beach slammed and I
heard footsteps run down the stairs.

I kicked out and freed myself. The clumsy object was one of those
chairs on wheels that porters used to roll along the boardwalk,
charging patrons a small fee for the privilege of riding in
old-fashioned style. Giving it a vicious shove, I got to my feet and
ran to the door and down the steps. I couldn't see anyone among the
dark pilings.

I ran through them and looked up the beach. There was no fleeing
figure, no one scaling the seawall, no car roaring away from the
curb. My MG and Cala's truck were still parked where we had left
them. Whoever had fled must have run south down the beach. I scurried
through the pilings and peered into the darkness. In the distance, I
thought I could make out a shape, but just barely. There was no
possibility of overtaking him now.

But what about Cala? His truck was here, which meant he must still
be inside the park. I climbed the steps again, rubbing my back where
it hurt, and looked around. It was as quiet in there as before. I
waited in the darkness for a minute, then took out my small
flashlight and went toward the Tunnel of Love.

I shone the flash around the mouth of the tunnel, then went up the
steps to the platform where you boarded the boats. The tunnel curved
away into darkness—the only way to explore the place would be
to climb down into the trench. I turned the flash downward. It picked
out old newspapers, cans, and bottles. Some of the newspapers were
splashed with a dark red liquid.

I stiffened, then moved the flash a couple of feet. There was more
red, and a foot in a tennis shoe.

Slowly I moved the flash again, up a leg to the torso and finally
to the face of John Cala. He lay on his back in the trench. The front
of his windbreaker was soaked with blood. It had to be a stabbing,
since I hadn't heard a shot; and the knife had apparently hit an
artery, because the blood had spurted all over.

I stepped back and almost tumbled down the steps from the
platform. Grasping the railing, I leaned against it, closing my eyes
and forcing down the bile rising in my throat.

Blood. So much blood. Not a clean killing, like Jane Anthony. A
messy killing. Blood. A sickly-sweet smell. And the rising stench of
feces…

My stomach lurched and I ran down the steps, fell to my knees, and
retched. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the two beers on
Keller's boat that morning, so what I ended up with was a fine case
of the dry heaves. After a minute they stopped and I felt around for
where I'd dropped the flashlight.

My fingers encountered it and I shone its beam around me. There
had once been public phone booths in the park and I wondered if they
were still in working order. I had to call the police, had to get
them out here, had to explain…

Explain what? Explain why I was the one who found all the corpses
in Port San Marco? How was this going to look? What if, in the course
of questioning me, Barrow asked to talk to my client? If he found out
I didn't even have one…

Well, that couldn't be helped. All I could do right now was find a
phone booth. There didn't seem to be any in the park and, in a way,
that relieved me. I'd just as soon get-out of here. When I reached
the stairs to the beach, I gave the Tunnel of Love a final glance.
Its mouth yawned at me, like the door of a crypt.