Instruments of Night (6 page)

“Only that he was accused of the murder.”

“Accused, but that’s all,” Saunders said. “Never even arrested. Just questioned, then let go.” He looked down anxiously at his watch. “I have to be going now, Mr. Graves. Other chores, you know.”

Graves followed him out onto the porch, watched as he eased himself down the stairs and headed toward the car. He’d just opened the door and was about to pull himself in, when Graves called: “How old were you that summer? When Faye Harrison was murdered.”

“Seventeen. Just a year older than Faye.” Saunders smiled thinly. “Until tomorrow morning, then,” he said.

Graves remained on the porch, staring down at Saunders, the dark, tale-making engine of his mind already turning, so that he saw Saunders not as he now was, an aging man with clipped hair, but framed in a series of vivid flashes: first as a boy swimming across a wide green pond, happy and carefree; then walking idly in the forest, thinking of the girl he’d fallen in love with; still later slumped over a chill stone, broken and dejected, his face buried in his hands, a rage steadily building in him; and finally as a figure lurking in the shadows of a bat-infested cave.

It was just a story, of course, the type his mind instantly concocted on such occasions, and for the rest of the day Graves worked to keep himself from imagining any others. But there were few distractions at Riverwood, and without his typewriter—his time machine—he could not escape into the past. And so he had no recourse but to stroll the grounds again, walking idly around the pond and along the slowly flowing canal that stretched from the pond to the river, peering into the boathouse, pausing to rest beside the empty tennis court that lay just behind it.

He imagined all the glittering evenings Allison Davies had spent here as a girl, smelled the sumptuous food and drink, heard the string quartet. How different her childhood had been from his own; how different the Davies mansion from the cramped farmhouse in which he’d lived
throughout most of his boyhood. It was the smell of fertilizer and cotton poison he most remembered from that time. As for sounds, he had learned to shut most of them out, though from time to time his mind played an eerie tape of things he’d never heard: a car grinding down the red dirt road, Ruby barking as it came to a halt in the dusty drive, feet moving swiftly up the old front steps, things Gwen must have heard that night, then glanced fearfully at the unlocked door.

Toward evening Graves returned to his cottage. He found dinner waiting for him on the table and ate it alone, reading the newspaper that had been folded and placed on the same tray with his supper.

When he’d finished, it was still light enough for him to go outside again, but he remained indoors by the window, watching the evening’s darkness descend upon the pond. For a time he thought of going to bed, but he’d slept so fitfully the night before, hearing footsteps outside his window though none were there, feeling the breeze from the nearby pond like a cold breath. There were even moments when he’d felt sure he’d heard distant voices, low, muffled, steeped in maliciousness and conspiracy. He’d long ago recognized such things as auditory hallucinations. They were sounds that he imagined, or, if real, to which he gave a dark, nearly paranoid intent. In the past few months, he’d begun to wonder if his mind might soon add visual hallucinations as well, plague him with the same false visions Slovak had already begun to see in his own room at night: shadows slipping silently across the bare wall, a bloody ooze flowing slowly from beneath his closet door, a tiny arm dangling from a half-closed bureau drawer, its decaying fingers dripping a greenish slime.

He stood abruptly, bent on getting away from Slovak’s
disordered visions, walked out onto the porch and stood behind its gray metal screen.

For a time, everything remained silent and motionless. Then Graves noticed a subtle movement at the water’s edge.

She was standing by the canal, staring down at the gently flowing water, tall, slim, her white hair loose, falling over her shoulders, a figure he at once recognized as Allison Davies. She was dressed in a long nightgown, its hem sweeping over the ground as she drifted slowly along the edge of the channel. For a moment she stopped and lifted her head abruptly, as if something had occurred to her. Then she lowered it again, turned, and made her way toward the boathouse. She’d almost reached it, when a man suddenly came out from behind it, his hair as white as Miss Davies’, his body wrapped in a checkered housecoat.

It was Saunders. Graves continued to watch as he walked directly to his employer and stopped in front of her, as if to block her way. They seemed to speak a few words, then Miss Davies nodded and headed back up the walkway to the house while Saunders remained near the boathouse, watching her until she reached the door, paused briefly, then went inside her home.

Saunders lingered a moment longer by the water, still staring toward the great house, his back both to Graves and to the dark grounds that separated them. Then, as if his duty had been done, he returned to the boathouse and disappeared inside.

After that the grounds remained motionless and deserted. But Graves lingered on the porch, peering out over the lake, oddly disturbed by the scene he’d just witnessed, peaceful though it was, quiet, tender, and yet, as the grim engine of his brain forever insisted, perhaps not entirely innocent.

Saunders arrived promptly at nine-thirty the next morning. Graves was already packed and waiting.

“Did you sleep well, sir?”

“I suppose,” Graves answered.

On the way back to Britanny Falls, Saunders talked of nothing but the coming summer. “It’s really nice here in the summer. Riverwood has everything anybody could want.” He glanced toward Graves. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay.”

“I haven’t decided if I’m coming back for the summer,” Graves told him.

Saunders nodded, but said nothing.

“Miss Davies went for a late walk last night,” Graves added as casually as he could.

Saunders’ eyes lifted toward the rear view mirror. “Miss Davies has trouble sleeping sometimes. Takes walks to relax.” A beat passed before he added, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Graves, I keep a lookout for her. It’s easy for me to do it from my own place. From the boathouse, I mean.”

“You live in the boathouse?”

“In what used to be the boathouse. It was converted into a regular house quite a few years ago. Anyway, from my bedroom window I can keep an eye on the house and grounds.” Saunders appeared to consider his next words. “That’s where she’s taken to walking lately. Along the edge of the canal. I mean, since she started thinking about what happened to Faye Harrison.”

“Did you see Faye the day she disappeared?” Graves asked.

“Yes, I did. She came around the side of the house, then headed across the lawn toward the woods. That was the last anybody saw of her. Except for that kid.”

“What kid?”

“A local kid,” Saunders answered. “He saw Faye walking in the woods near Indian Rock. It’s all in the old newspaper clippings Miss Davies has back at the main house. The ones you’ll be reading through if you decide to come back.”

They’d reached the main street of Britanny Falls. Saunders guided the Volvo over to the curb, but did not get out. Instead, he turned to face Graves in the backseat. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Graves,” he said with his quick smile. “Hope you come back for the summer.”

Perhaps because of his natural suspiciousness, the veil of malicious motive and secret conclave that colored everything, Graves was not at all certain that Saunders hoped for any such return.

W
hen the bus reached New York two hours later, Graves walked to the nearest station and took the subway to his apartment. An envelope waited for him just as Miss Davies had said it would.

“Something for you, Mr. Graves.” The doorman drew it from a stack of others on his desk.

Graves took the envelope from him and went upstairs. But instead of opening it, he walked directly to his desk and sat down at his typewriter, feeling oddly guilty that he’d left Slovak on the rooftop ledge for so long, now eager to get him off it somehow.

He read through the last scene he’d written before leaving for Riverwood. At the end of it, Slovak stood at the far corner of the building, the vast city stretching out behind him, its spires and smokestacks charred black against a “bloodred dawn.”

Graves stared at the word “bloodred” for a moment, decided it was lurid, and considered changing the color of the sunrise first to wine, then to burgundy. But these
words seemed too soft. Too romantic. And so he decided to eliminate color altogether, so that with the rapid addition of a row of x’s Slovak now stood with his back to a jagged cityscape, the buildings in a black silhouette against a background whose exact shading the reader could provide.

With that decision, Graves began to type again:

Now what?

Graves stared at the page, his fingers still on the typewriter keys as he struggled to find some way for his hero to get out of his predicament. This was the part he hated—the working out of the physical details, when it was the hearts and minds he really cared about. Still, it couldn’t be avoided. Slovak must escape if the series was to continue. The only question was by what means.

Graves considered the possibilities. The first to occur to him was that Slovak could go over the side of the building just as Kessler pulled the trigger. Then he could grab the
railing of the fire escape and swing to safety on the landing below.

He evaluated this idea for a moment, trying to recall if he’d ever used it. Various scenes of physical peril raced through his mind, tight spots he’d put Slovak in, then saved him from at the last minute. In
The Prey of Chance
, Slovak had hurled himself onto a passing coal barge. In
The Secrets of the Chamber
, he’d leaped in the path of an oncoming train, then scrambled out of harm’s way, leaving Kessler standing on the deserted rails, a thin, bemused smile playing on his lips.

But Slovak had been younger then, vastly more agile, emboldened by a sense of his own invulnerability. In those earlier, less disillusioned days, he’d wanted to live, had expected his wife to live, had envisioned their growing old together, enjoying the comfort of their final days. His life had seemed to have a determined and authentic course then, a perceivable direction. He’d felt worthwhile, his work a mission, Kessler’s recent escapes not yet a prelude to a life of failure.