The ground floor offers nothing of interest. The usual rooms are filled with comfortable but unremarkable furniture.
Upstairs, he stops only briefly at each room, getting an overall picture of the second-floor layout before taking time for a thorough investigation. There’s a master bedroom with attached bath, walk-in closet . . . a guest bedroom . . . kids’ room . . . another bath . . .
The final bedroom at the end of the hall—which puts him at the front of the house—is used as an office. It contains a big desk and computer system, but it’s more cozy than businesslike. A plump sofa stands under the shuttered windows, a stained-glass lamp on the desk.
One of the two longest walls is covered with paintings hung in a double row, frames almost touching. Although the pieces of the collection are obviously by more than one artist, the subject matter, without exception, is dark and violent, rendered with unimpeachable skilclass="underline" twisted shadows, disembodied eyes wide with terror, a Ouija board on which stands a blood-spotted trivet, ink-black palm trees silhouetted against an ominous sunset, a face distorted by a funhouse mirror, the gleaming steel blades of sharp knives and scissors, a mean street where menacing figures lurk just beyond the sour-yellow glow of street lamps, leafless trees with coaly limbs, a hot-eyed raven perched upon a bleached skull, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, an ice pick, meat cleaver, hatchet, a queerly stained hammer lying obscenely on a silk negligee and lace-trimmed bedsheet . . .
He likes this artwork.
It speaks to him.
This is life as he knows it.
Turning from the gallery wall, he clicks on the stained-glass lamp and marvels at its multi-hued luminous beauty.
In the clear sheet of glass that protects the top of the desk, the mirror-image circles and ovals and teardrops of color are still lovely but darker than when viewed directly. In some indefinable way, they are also foreboding.
Leaning forward, he sees the twin ovals of his eyes staring back at him from the polished glass. Glimmering with their own tiny reflections of the mosaic lamplight, they seem to be not eyes, in fact, but the luminous sensors of a machine—or, if eyes, then the fevered eyes of something soulless—and he quickly looks away from them before too much self-examination leads him to fearful thoughts and intolerable conclusions.
“I need to be someone,” he says nervously.
His gaze falls upon a photograph in a silver frame, which also stands on the desk. A woman and two little girls. A pretty trio. Smiling.
He picks up the photograph to study it more closely. He presses one fingertip against the woman’s face and wishes he could touch her for real, feel her warm and pliant skin. He slides his finger across the glass, first touching the blond-haired child, and then the dark-haired pixie.
After a minute or two, when he moves away from the desk, he carries the photograph with him. The three faces in the portrait are so appealing that he needs to be able to look at them again whenever the desire arises.
As he investigates the titles on the spines of the volumes in the bookcases, he makes a discovery that gives him an understanding, however incomplete, of why he was drawn from the gray autumnal plains of the Midwest to the post-Thanksgiving sun of California.
On a few of the shelves, the books—mystery novels—are by the same author: Martin Stillwater. The surname is the one he saw on the mailbox outside.
He puts aside the silver-framed portrait and withdraws a few of these novels from the shelves, surprised to see that some of the dust-jacket illustrations are familiar because the original paintings are hanging on the gallery wall that so fascinated him. Each title appears in a variety of translations: French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish, Danish, Japanese, and several other languages.
But nothing is as interesting as the author’s photo on the back of each jacket. He studies them for a long time, tracing Stillwater’s features with one finger.
Intrigued, he peruses the copy on the jacket flaps. Then he reads the first page of a book, the first page of another, and another.
He happens upon a dedication page in the front of one book and reads what is printed there: This opus is for my mother and father, Jim and Alice Stillwater, who taught me to be an honest man—and who can’t be blamed if I am able to think like a criminal.
His mother and father. He stares in astonishment at their names. He has no memory of them, cannot picture their faces or recall where they might live.
He returns to the desk to consult the Rolodex. He discovers Jim and Alice Stillwater in Mammoth Lakes, California. The street address means nothing to him, and he wonders if it is the house in which he grew up.
He must love his parents. He dedicated a book to them. Yet they are ciphers to him. So much has been lost.
He returns to the bookshelves. Opening the U.S. or British edition of every title in the collection to study the dedication, he eventually finds: To Paige, my perfect wife, on whom all of my best female characters are based—excluding, of course, the homicidal psychopaths.
And two volumes later: To my daughters, Charlotte and Emily, with the hope they will read this book one day when they are grown up and will know that the daddy in this story speaks my own heart when he talks with such conviction and emotion about his feelings for his own little girls.
Putting the books aside, he picks up the photograph once more and holds it in both hands with something like reverence.
The attractive blonde is surely Paige. A perfect wife. The two girls are Charlotte and Emily, although he has no way of knowing which is which. They look sweet and obedient.
Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
At last he has found his life. This is where he belongs. This is home. The future begins now.
Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
This is the family toward which destiny has led him.
“I need to be Marty Stillwater,” he says, and he is thrilled to have found, at last, his own warm place in this cold and lonely world.
Two
1
Dr. Paul Guthridge’s office suite had three examination rooms. Over the years, Marty had been in all of them. They were identical to one another, indistinguishable from rooms in doctors’ offices from Maine to Texas: pale-blue walls, stainless-steel fixtures, otherwise white-on-white; scrub sink, stool, an eye chart. The place had no more charm than a morgue—though a better smell.
Marty sat on the edge of a padded examination table that was protected by a continuous roll of paper sheeting. He was shirtless, and the room was cool. Though he was still wearing his pants, he felt naked, vulnerable. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself having a catatonic seizure, being unable to talk or move or even blink, whereupon the physician would mistake him for dead, strip him naked, wire an ID tag to his big toe, tape his eyelids shut, and ship him off to the coroner for processing.
Although it earned him a living, a suspense writer’s imagination made him more aware of the constant proximity of death than were most people. Every dog was a potential rabies carrier. Every strange van passing through the neighborhood was driven by a sexual psychopath who would kidnap and murder any child left unattended for more than three seconds. Every can of soup in the pantry was botulism waiting to happen.
He was not particularly afraid of doctors—though he was not comforted by them, either.
What troubled him was the whole idea of medical science, not because he distrusted it but because, irrationally, its very existence was a reminder that life was tenuous, death inescapable. He didn’t need reminders. He already possessed an acute awareness of mortality, and spent his life trying to cope with it.