Darkroom (23 page)

Jim sat back. ‘
This
is why the Benandanti wanted me to have this apartment.' He passed over the diary and watched Eleanor as she read it. ‘Vane is invisible, when he wants to be. Nobody can see him, except me and people like me. If there
are
any people like me.'

Eleanor said, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘What's the point in being sorry? Four young people are dead and being sorry isn't going to bring them back to life.'

Eleanor picked up another diary and riffled through the pages. ‘Does Raymond say how he trapped Vane here?'

Jim opened the diary for 1965 and turned to September. ‘Here – this is when he first agreed to move in here.'

‘“I was asked today by X to take over the guardianship of Robert H. Vane's portrait, despite what the Benandanti now know about his invisible comings and goings. I declined. I knew what a thankless and tedious task it would be, and unquestionably dangerous, if I attempted to thwart him in his gathering of souls.”

The following week, however, Raymond had written the following:

The next entry was very short.

‘Well,' said Jim. ‘Now we know what we're really up against. Raymond died, and when Raymond died, the exorcisms stopped, and Vane was free to climb out of his portrait. He's started taking pictures again, too. He must have taken a picture of Brad Moorcock, because that was who that wino saw, breaking into the Tubbs' beach house. Not the real flesh and blood Brad Moorcock, of course, but Brad Moorcock's evil self, taking his revenge on Sara Miller for dumping him.'

He stood up. ‘It all fits. Raymond died just over three weeks ago, and it was three weeks ago that Brad's fellow students began to notice that he was acting out of character. He was so
nice
all of a sudden that they couldn't believe it. And, of course, the reason was that he had no evil in him any more –
none.
He was one hundred per cent Good Brad. All of his evil self had been caught on a photographic plate, by Robert H. Vane. But that evil self is just like a vampire now, hiding inside a daguerrotype instead of a coffin, and just like a vampire he can only come out at night, when the moon draws his evil out of the silver.'

‘So what are you going to do now?' Eleanor asked him.

‘Step one: I'm going to find out where Robert H. Vane keeps his daguerrotypes.'

Brad shuffled into the interview room, wearing bright-orange prison pajamas, and handcuffed. He looked exhausted and unshaven, and he sat down at the table with his head bowed.

‘Brad?' asked Jim. ‘How are you holding up?'

‘I saw the bus burning on TV,' said Brad. ‘That was horrible.'

‘That's one of the reasons I'm here. I think that the bus fire may have something to do with the way that Bobby and Sara were killed.'

Brad lifted his head and stared at him. ‘Huh? How do you figure that?'

‘I can't explain exactly, not yet. But I want you to know that you didn't kill Bobby and Sara and I believe I can prove it. Well you
did
, but it wasn't really you. Not the you that's sitting here, talking to me now.'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Rook. I don't understand.'

‘Well, let me put it this way. Have you been feeling different in the past three weeks? Happier? Friendlier? Much less irritated by your friends and fellow students?'

Brad shrugged. ‘I guess. I don't know. It hadn't really occurred to me.'

‘At any time, in the past three weeks, have you had your photograph taken?'

‘Yes, I have. After we won the game against Santa Cruz.'

‘Who took it?'

‘It was just some guy with a van, with a tent rigged up at the side of it.'

‘Where was this?'

‘Right outside the college, on West Grove Drive. He had a sign saying that he took old-style photographs. Some of them were hung up outside and they looked cool – you know, like real old “wanted” posters.'

‘Could you describe him? The photographer?'

‘Unh-hunh. It was pretty gloomy inside of that tent, and most of the time he kept this black cloth over his head. He asked me to stand in front of this background, and
bam
, he took this flash picture, and after that all I could see was stars.'

‘But who took your money? And your name and address?'

‘A woman. I guess she was his assistant or something.'

‘Can you describe her?'

Brad thought for a while, and then slowly shook his head. ‘I don't know why, but I can't remember what she looked like. I get the feeling that she was
dark,
but that was all.'

‘Was she tall? Or short? Do you remember what her voice sounded like?'

‘No, I'm sorry. It's like a total blank.'

‘Can you remember anything she said? Anything at all?'

‘She said … No, I can't remember.'

‘Try, Brad.'

Brad pressed his fingertips against his forehead, his eyes tight shut. ‘She said … “Have your picture taken, young man, have your worries taken, too.” Something like that.'

‘Did you ever get the picture?'

‘Sure. About a week later. It's at home.'

‘You didn't happen to notice where it was mailed from?'

‘No. Is that important?'

‘It could be. Did anybody else have their picture taken?'

‘Just me. Danny Magruder was going to have his done, too, but his girlfriend showed up to give him a ride, and he took a rain check.'

‘Thanks, Brad.'

He stood up to leave. Brad said, ‘Are you going to get me out of here, Mr Rook? I can't take much more of this place.'

‘I'm doing my best, Brad.'

‘I didn't kill Sara, I swear on the Bible. Nor Bobby, neither.'

‘I know that, Brad. All I can ask you to do is have faith.'

Because of the tragedy at Rolling Hills cemetery, Dr Ehrlichman considered closing West Grove Community College until the end of the week. But Nita Kherevensky, the college counselor, strongly advised that he should keep it open. The students needed to talk, and hug, and share their grief together.

‘Ve haff to express our painfulness, and to esk itch ozzer vy did zis happen? Vy, vy, vy?'

‘If you ask me,' said Raananah Washington dryly, ‘she's just vying for attention.'

When Jim walked into Special Class II, he was surprised to see that everybody had showed up, even Randy, who had been badly bruised when Jim threw him down the stairs of the bus. Others were patched up with plasters, or had their hands bandaged, and Roosevelt was sporting a piratical eye patch.

As Jim put down his books, the class all rose to their feet, and clapped him. He stood for a moment with his head bowed, and it took all of his self-control not to cry. After a little while he raised his hand for silence, and they sat down.

‘Usually,' he said, ‘when something terrible happens, we can't make any sense of it. Auto wrecks, accidental drownings, overdoses, house fires – all we can do is grieve, and tell ourselves that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and try to carry on.

‘What happened yesterday, however, when we lost Pinky and David, that wasn't just some random, inexplicable act of God. Your bus didn't catch fire by accident. There was no lightning, in spite of the fact that many witnesses saw flashes of bright light. There was no ruptured fuel line.'

The class looked at each other, quizzically, and Shadow mouthed: ‘Wha'? Wha's he talkin' about?'

Jim paused for a moment, but then he carried on. ‘What I'm going to tell you now may sound crazy, and if you choose not to believe me, then that's your privilege. But I'm telling you because it's true, no matter how bizarre it may sound. Also, I desperately need your help to stop it from happening again.

‘Some of you may have heard that I have the ability to see things which most people can't see. I almost died when I was a boy, and ever since then I can see dead people as clearly as I can see you. I can also see forces and presences which might be described as demons.

‘Yesterday, your bus was attacked by the spirit of Robert H. Vane, the same Robert H. Vane that we have been studying in class.'

‘Oh,
right
,' said Roosevelt, slouching back in his chair.

‘Is this some kind of a test?' asked Philip suspiciously.

‘Come on, sir,' Edward protested. ‘Robert H. Vane died over a hundred and fifty years ago!'

Jim waited until they had quietened down. Then he said, ‘That's right, Robert H. Vane died in 1857, and his body is buried somewhere in Los Angeles, in an unmarked grave. But the evil side of his spirit lives on. He's hiding inside a portrait of Robert H. Vane that's hanging on the wall in my apartment. I think he's frightened that I can discover a way to destroy him, although I haven't yet. Because of that he's determined to destroy
me
first.'

He looked around the classroom. ‘Unfortunately that also appears to include anyone I care about, which means you.'

Most of Special Class II were very superstitious. They believed in the Blair Witch, and zombies, and every urban legend about homicidal hitch-hikers and killer bees in the toilet. All the same, Jim knew that he was stretching their credulity to the limit.

But they had nearly died yesterday, when their bus was ablaze, and Jim had risked his life to save them, and for that reason alone they sat in respectful silence and listened to what he had to say.

He told them everything that had happened to him since he had moved into the Benandanti Building, and everything that he had discovered from Raymond Boschetto's diaries. He even told them about Brad, and the fact that only Brad's shadow-self was guilty of taking his revenge on Bobby and Sara.

Roosevelt put up his hand. ‘That shadow-self, that's still part of Brad, though, right? So, like,
part
of Brad is guilty of killing them, isn't he?'

‘Yes, you're right. But not the part of him that's sitting in police headquarters waiting to be arraigned. That part is totally
good
. And there's another thing to consider. If Brad hadn't had his photograph taken, and the evil part of his personality was still inside him, he would still be the conceited pain in the ass that he always used to be, yes. But it's highly unlikely that he would have killed Bobby and Sara. His
good
self would have kept his
bad
self in check … the same as it does with all of us, all the time. All of us are a balance between good and evil.'

‘Kind of like
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
,' Edward suggested.

‘Kind of like that, yes. Except that Brad's evil self can come out whenever it wants to, even when Brad's in jail – just so long as his daguerrotype stays intact.'

‘You said you needed our help,' said Freddy. ‘I mean, what can
we
do? We can't see no dead people. I think I'd dump in my pants if I did.'

‘I need four or five you to help me. An A-Team. The next time Robert H. Vane climbs out of that painting, I'm going to follow him. I'm going to find out where he hides his van, and where he stores his daguerrotype plates, and I'm going to destroy them.'