And then he just cried.
She lit a cigarette. She was down to six a day now but she couldn't quit completely. Times like these drove her to light up.
"I'm going to see a TV reporter in a little while," she said.
Slowly, he quit crying and looked up at her. "A TV reporter?"
"A woman named Chris Holland."
"How can she help?"
"I don't know if she can, but I at least want to try. She's covered a lot of murders in this city, including the ones my brother supposedly committed. She'll at least listen, I think."
"I'm afraid of tonight."
"Afraid?"
"There was a girl's name in the manila envelope."
"I saw it. Marie Fane."
He touched his stomach.
She was slowly becoming aware of the odour; the uncleanness.
"I want you to help me."
"How?" she said.
He reached in the pocket of his sport coat. "I stopped by a hock shop this afternoon. I got these."
In the shadows, he held up a pair of handcuffs.
"While you're gone visiting the reporter, I want you to handcuff me to the bedpost. And you take the key." He looked at her through his teary eyes. "I don't want to hurt this Fane girl. I don't want to hurt anybody at all."
She sighed. She couldn't go to the police but maybe Chris Holland could. She might at least listen to her.
"I'll be glad to help you," she said. Then, "Do you know there's some bourbon in the kitchen? Would you like a shot?"
"Yes. Please."
"I'll be right back"
While she was pouring them two drinks, he said, "You know there's an old man at Hastings House who knows all about the tower."
"There is?"
"His name's Gus."
She brought the drinks in. "Really?"
"Yes, but whenever he tells people about the tower and the snake, people just smile at him. Think he's crazy."
"I wonder how long he's known."
"Years probably. He's been there since the fifties."
"My God."
Richard Dobyns sipped his whiskey. "That's why I'm afraid to tell anybody about what's happened to me. They'll start looking at me the way they look at Gus."
"There's also a janitor named Telfair who knows about the tower." She sighed. "My brother tried to get back to Hastings House. After he killed those women, I mean. So did the other men."
"Other men?"
She nodded, sipped at her own whiskey. "Since 1891 there've been six escapees who committed murder and were then killed- either by police or by suicide. Every one of them tried to get back to the tower. One of the men committed suicide by climbing up on the turret next to the tower and jumping."
He stared at her, miserable again. "I know why those men committed suicide, believe me."
"The thing inside you," she said.
He smiled bitterly. "The devil made me do it?"
"Something like that, yes."
He bowed his head and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He looked up at Emily again. "I called my wife today. I couldn't explain to her, either."
"I know."
"I just wanted to see her one more time before-" He paused. "You'll help me with the handcuffs?"
"Of course." She glanced at her wristwatch. She had to turn it so she could get the light of the dying day through the edges of the curtain. Nearly 5:45. She had to get going if she was going to be on time meeting Chris Holland.
She stood up and walked over to the chair.
This close, the odour was stomach turning.
She recalled the same smell on her brother.
His eyes had looked like Dobyns's, too. So sad; so sad.
"Come on," she said softly, taking the handcuffs from him.
She led him into the bedroom.
He sat on the soft double sized mattress, the springs squeaking beneath his weight.
She'd never held handcuffs before. Not real ones; only play ones that Rob and she used to use when they were cowboys and Indians. These cuffs were heavy and rough.
She snapped one cuff on his wrist and one cuff to the brass bedpost.
"Too tight?" she said.
"No. Fine."
"I'll be back here after I see Chris Holland."
He reached out and touched her hand. "I can't tell you what this means to me. I don't want to get-overwhelmed again and-kill anybody. You know?"
She touched his forehead gently. "I know." She smiled and touched his cheek now. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Would you call my wife when you come back?"
"Really?"
"Yes. It'll all sound less-insane-coming from you. Then maybe afterward I could talk to my daughter. For just a few minutes. Before we go to the police, I mean."
He was a decent and honourable man, she thought. And now she wanted to cry, too.
Her brother had also been a decent and honourable man.
She left him there, handcuffed to the bed.
Chris Holland had once been picked up by a Prudential insurance salesman in a dark, chilly bar very much like this one. This was not an achievement she talked about much-especially considering the fact that afterward the insurance salesman had confessed that he didn't find the Ku Klux Klan "all bad, I mean they're just doing what they believe in." He then said that he'd kind of lied to her and that he was, in fact, ahem, married and was now feeling kind of shitty about going to bed with her, nothing personal you understand. And that he'd be shoving off (what was he, a goddamn sailor?). And getting home to that wife and kids. All of which left Chris feeling just great, of course, and wondering if she shouldn't give up her career, find a nice fat bald guy, and retreat to suburbia and raise some kids.
She sat in the bar now, waiting for the woman who'd called her about the murders, and realised that in the eight years since the Prudential guy her love life had not improved a whole hell of a lot. She just had lousy instincts where men were concerned. She could not seem to understand on any gut level the truth all her friends understood-that damaged men, of the type Chris liked to help put back together, inevitably dragged you down with them. Hell, even the Pru guy had had that air about him-vulnerable, hurt, lonely.
The waitress in the cute little handmaiden's costume (though Chris doubted that handmaidens had worn hot pants) brought the day's second beer, picked up her tip, and started away.
And that was when she saw the tall, very Nordic woman in the tailored grey suit standing just inside the entrance door staring at her.
The woman was sombre and beautiful and regal and, now that she was walking, quite graceful, too.
Chris had been secretly dreading that her informant would turn out to be some obviously crazed attention starved lunatic who was going to help 'solve' a murder that took place in 1903 or something. TV reporters were always getting calls from such folks.
But if this one was a lunatic, she was a lunatic with great breeding.
The woman came over to Chris's table and put out a long, strong dry hand. "I'm Emily Lindstrom."
"Nice to meet you, Emily. Why don't you sit down?"
So Emily Lindstrom sat down.
The first thing she did was glance around the place. The walls were all got up like the interior of a pirate's sailing vessel. On each table tiny red encased candles burned fervently. In the darkness, Frank Sinatra sang Laura, from the era when he still had a voice. In one corner two salesmen types, all grins and gimme-gimme eyes, were huddled over their table talking about Chris and the Lindstrom woman, obviously trying to figure out how to make their moves. Hell, Chris thought sourly, maybe they work for Prudential.
The waitress came. Emily Lindstrom ordered a small glass of dry white wine. The two salesmen were both grinning at them openly now.
"I'll get right to it if you don't mind," Emily said.
In the flickering shadows, the Lindstrom woman was even more impressive looking. There was the clarity of a young girl about her beauty, yet there was pain in her blue eyes, a pain that suggested dignity and perhaps even wisdom. If she was a crackpot, Chris thought, she sure wasn't your garden variety crackpot.