The Frighteners (13 page)

Ten

T
he sheriff’s office was spacious and open; most of the men worked in one large squad room, with Walt Perry’s office in the back. The usual assortment of chalkboards and posted-up notices occupied the rest of the perimeter, along with a coffee station, watercooler, and a refrigerator. This was a new facility, and most of the desks had computer monitors, although at one-thirty in the morning, most of them were switched off and the few deputies still on duty sat around looking tired.

Lucy sat on a gray-vinyl-covered office chair clutching a cup of coffee. Sheriff Perry sat across the desk from her, looking thoroughly exhausted and more than a little confused; Deputy Passell took notes.

“I’m trying to understand what you were doing with Frank Bannister tonight,” Perry said.

“I told you three times, we were having dinner.”

“And a séance?”

“Yes. I told you that, too. I asked Frank to make contact with Ray for me. There was something I needed to ask him.”

“And what was that?” Perry asked.

“What he did with sixteen thousand dollars I entrusted to him,” Lucy replied.

“And what was that?”

“He blew it,” she said.

“You said your dead husband was having dinner with you at the restaurant?” Perry asked.

“Yes.”

“What did he order?”

She sighed. “We never had time to get past the wine. That poor man had a heart attack while Frank was in the bathroom at the same time as him, and then that horrible Ravanski woman insulted him.”

Perry said nothing on the subject of Magda Ravanski. Her temper tantrums were well known around town.

“How much did Bannister charge you for the séance?” the sheriff asked.

“I told you, nothing.”

“Not a dime?”

“No, and he was buying me dinner, too. Frank Bannister is a gentleman. He just happens to be tuned into a world that you and I know nothing about.”

Perry and Passell made eye contact and tried hard not to smirk.

The sheriff was about to ask another question when Milton Dammers walked in. Perry saw the man through the glass partition that separated the squad room from the front desk. He was looking around the office, a wary glint in his eyes.

“Who’s that?” Perry asked his deputy.

“That, boss, is Special Agent Milton Dammers,” Passell replied.

“I thought FBI men were sharp looking. That guy looks like a retard.”

Dammers was in his late forties, short, and wiry. The almost complete absence of a neck had given him the habit of continually trying to crane his head up—and failing. His eyes were dark and piercing, and he had no smile, just a tooth-bearing grimace.

“The guy specializes in unexplained phenomena,” Passell said. “What do you expect him to look like?”

“I’d give you an unexplained phenomena,” Perry said. “What the hell happened to that burger I ordered an hour ago?”

Dammers shuffled into the middle of the office and stood uncomfortably, clutching his hands and staring at the floor. He seemed desperate to avoid eye contact, like a member of some aboriginal tribes who are afraid that if you look a man in the eye he can steal your soul.

“What’s he lookin’ for?” Passell asked. “J. Edgar Hoover’s panty hose?”

“Oh God,” Perry said. To Lucy, he added, “Excuse me.”

The sheriff hurried over to Dammers and introduced himself. Lucy watched as the federal man shook hands—making a point of using only his left hand. Dammers didn’t raise his eyes above the level of Perry’s belt buckle, and in fact for a time seemed to be staring at the sheriff’s knees.

Finally—Lucy was sure it was mainly because Perry was unable to get anywhere with the man—the sheriff brought Dammers over.

“Lucy, this is Special Agent Milton Dammers from the FBI.”

She nodded. Predictably, Dammers failed to look her in the eye. He chose instead to speak to the trash can that sat on the floor near her chair.

“I came by car,” he said. “I didn’t take the flight. I felt bad about the plane.”

Lucy looked at Perry for a clue as to how she should respond. Perry looked away, at a filing cabinet.

“At what time—precisely—did Bannister leave for the bathroom?” Dammers asked.

“I’m not sure, exactly,” she replied politely.

“Did he use excessive quantities of table salt during his meal?”

“What?” she asked, flustered.

“Answer the question,” Dammers said, raising his voice but not his eyes.

“It’s one-thirty in the morning,” she yelled. “And that is the dumbest question I ever heard! No, he didn’t use excessive quantities of salt. I’m a doctor, Special Agent Dammers, and I wouldn’t let him.”

Dammers blanched, the blood draining out of his face. Without looking up, he backed away from Lucy as if she were a dangerous animal. When he was apparently a safe distance away, Dammers turned and hurried off.

“Where’s the men’s room?” he asked a deputy, who was so astonished by this performance he spilled coffee on himself.

“Down the hall, second door on the right,” the man replied, reaching for a handful of tissues.

Perry took off after the stricken agent and caught up with him as he leaned over the sink, splashing water on his face. “Milton?” he asked, his voice showing great concern.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Dammers said, flustered. “I have a problem with women yelling at me.”

“I suggest you stay away from the local newspaper office,” Perry recommended. “Can I get you anything?”

Perry put a comradely hand on Dammers’s shoulder. The man glared at it as if it were a tarantula. Then he jumped away.

“Sheriff Perry!” he said in alarm. “You are violating my territorial bubble.”

“I’m sorry,” Perry replied, heading back toward the door. Bathrooms were clearly unhealthy places that night. He went back to the desk at which Lucy sat.

“What happened to him?” she asked.

“Um, he had to make a sudden pit stop,” Perry replied.

“Well, I can remember exactly when
he
went to the bathroom,” she said, consulting her watch. “It was one thirty-seven in the morning and time for me to go home and get some sleep.”

Perry sat back down and said, “In good time. First, let me say something about Frank Bannister. You’re still grieving. It’s very easy for someone like him to take advantage of you.”

“You have such closed minds,” she replied.

“I object,” Dammers said, walking stiffly across the room and planting himself a safe distance away.

“Special Agent Dammers has many years of experience in the field of paranormal psychology,” Perry said. “Much of it was spent undercover with various cults and sects.”

“I get all the fruity cases, Mrs. Lynskey,” Dammers said.

“I’m glad you think I’m a fruity case,” Lucy replied.

“Not you—Bannister. I’ve seen a lot of odd things in my time with the Bureau, but he’s one of the weirdest.”

“The man has been very nice to me. He rid my house of ghosts, for one thing.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dammers said.

“No, it’s true. They were tossing furniture around as if it were made out of balsa wood. Even my husband believed what he saw.”

“Your
late
husband, you mean,” Dammers corrected. “Bannister seems to be associated with death.”

“My
late
husband died of a heart attack. Are you also a medical doctor? Did you spend time in medical school when you weren’t underground in cults?”

Dammers shifted his weight uncomfortably, and Perry said, “For God’s sake, sit down, Milton.”

“I am more comfortable standing,” the man replied.

“Agent Dammers is the government’s number-one man for . . . this type of inquiry,” Perry said.

Lucy was growing impatient. “I still don’t see what possible interest the FBI could have in Frank.”

At last Dammers looked at her, fixing her with an icy stare. “Mrs. Lynskey,” he snapped, “you know nothing about Frank Bannister. You claim he is a bona fide psychic, yet all I have heard is several minutes of ill-informed waffling.”

Lucy stared daggers back at him. It was Sheriff Perry’s turn to be uncomfortable. He signaled it by shifting his weight in his chair.

“On the third day of July 1984,” Dammers continued, “Frank Bannister—at that time a successful architect—came out of the Jesson’s sporting-goods store on Third and Garrett. He had just picked up a Ruger level-action twenty-two-caliber rifle. It had his name engraved on the barrel.”

“Lots of people have guns,” she said.

“Bannister would later claim that the weapon was intended for a rat infestation at the back of his property. His wife, Debra, was in the front seat of his car. Frank Bannister was agitated that morning.”

Dammers’s voice had lowered somewhat, prompting Perry to say quietly, “You’re mumbling, Milton . . . I can’t hear a damn word you’re saying.”

Speaking louder, the federal agent continued, “He’d just had a blazing argument with Jacob Platz, a builder, over the positioning of the foundation for his new house. It was twelve thirty-three
P.M.
, and their eighty-two Ford was seen heading into the hills. It was Holloway Road, to be exact.

“That was the last time the couple was seen. Soon after, possibly twelve thirty-six or twelve thirty-seven, the car left the road on a tight corner. Presumably Bannister took the curve too fast.”

“She was killed,” Lucy said softly.

“Her body was found some fifteen yards from the car,” Dammers continued. “She had sustained a single gunshot wound to the back of the head. She was killed execution style.”

Lucy was horrified.

“Bannister was picked up two hours later. He was wandering in the forest not far from the grounds of the old hospital. He claimed to have no recollection of the events—not even the car accident. The presumed murder weapon, his Ruger twenty-two, must have been very well hidden. To this day, it has never been found.”

At this point Perry cut in, “Frank never went to trial,” he said. “There was no murder weapon, there were no witnesses, and he denied all knowledge. To be fair to the man, he was pretty torn up about it. He quit his job. He took to the bottle for a time and drank his money away.”

Lucy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You could make an argument for post-traumatic stress disorder,” she said. In that instant, though, it didn’t sound like she herself would be willing to so argue.

“But do you know what was really bizarre?” Dammers asked, raising his voice, his eyes blazing. “Debra’s corpse had the number thirteen carved into its forehead.”

Dammers traced the number thirteen on his own forehead, using his finger.

Lucy was white. Dammers’s gaze cut into her. But she also remembered how Frank told Ray the number thirty-seven was tattooed on his forehead; she had seen nothing, but then Frank seemed to see so many more things than she did.

“Thirteen is unlucky for some,” Dammers said.

“It sure was for Debra Bannister,” Perry added.

The door of Magda Ravanski’s bedroom was all modern, befitting a city girl who had moved to the seaside without leaving all her past behind. The bedroom set was cream-colored Formica with round edges that gave the huge, seven-foot-high headboard, with its matching mirror, an Art Deco look. Each side of the bed had its own end table—actually a ledge that ran half the length of the mattress and contained such built-ins as a clock radio and a television. The right side ledge had as well a compartment that carried a selection of men’s cologne. The unmistakable message, one lost not even on Steve Bayliss, was that Magda didn’t like to sleep alone.

The young reporter lay on the bed, sweating profusely. The lights were out in the room, and moonlight cast a silvery glow across his naked torso.

Magda straddled him, then slipped off her brilliant red gown, revealing a provocative silk camisole. Tossing her hair around, she leaned hungrily toward him.

“Did you really like my story about the water treatment plant?” he asked nervously.

“It was brilliant,” she said. “You win the cub-reporter-of-the-year award. Now, would you like to go for a Pulitzer Prize?”

He tensed up as she plunged her face into his neck. “I know you only wanted nine hundred words,” he said. “But I couldn’t keep it to length.”

“Length is never a problem for me,” she said, breathing heavily.

Bayliss suddenly sat up, coughing. “Could I have a drink of water, please?” he asked.

Magda frowned, but pulled her wrap back on and walked into the kitchen. Unseen by her, something peered into her kitchen window, watching her, and then shrinking back into the shadows as she glanced out.

She dropped three ice cubes into a glass of water, then reached into the freezer for the bottle of Stolichnaya. She poured a healthy splash of vodka into the water.

There was a creaking groan. She looked around as the kitchen wall bulged ever so slightly, then slipped back into its normal shape. Then cups began to rattle in the cupboard.

Magda spun around, grabbing an ice pick and holding it up. But she could see nothing.

Hearing a noise in the living room, she put down the glass but retained the ice pick. As she edged her way to the living room door, she asked, “Steve, is that you?”

There was no reply, only another creaking. The far wall bulged out just as the kitchen wall had, making several framed photographs tilt crazily.

“Who’s there?” Magda felt a rush of fear as the wall snapped back into place, sending two framed photos crashing to the floor. The glass in one of them shattered.

She whirled around as something seemed to brush her shoulder, lashing out with the ice pick, trying to stab whatever was moving in on her, playing with her the way a cat plays with a mouse it intends to kill.

Then whatever it was disappeared again into the wall, which bulged out to accept it. Magda moaned softly, genuinely frightened, and backed away down the hall toward the front door. En route she noticed that the paneling in the hall bulged out, just the way it had in the Bartlett House. The bulge began to follow Magda down the hall. Screaming, she turned and dashed to the front door and flung it open.

She screamed again. Frank was standing there in the doorway. He forced his hand over her mouth, snatching the ice pick with his other hand.