Only Gayle Corrington had freely asked Stryker to investigate her haunted house.
Nothing made sense.
Mandarin thought he heard a television set going. Maybe Gayle was around back, catching some early morning sun, and couldn’t hear his knock. Worth trying.
Russ headed toward the rear of the house. As he reached the patio, he saw Prissy lying beside a holly bush. At first he thought the little border collie was asleep.
Not random. A pattern.
The sliding glass door from the patio was curtained and at first glance appeared to be closed. Russ saw that the catch had been forced, and he cautiously slid the glass panel open, stepped inside.
Gayle Corrington was wearing dark slacks and a black sweatshirt. She was hog-tied with her wrists bound back to her ankles, her body arched like a bow upon the couch. Her lips were taped with adhesive, but the cord knotted tightly into her neck would assure that she would never cry out.
Russ stared at her dumbly. He knew there was no point in searching for a pulse.
“Hello, Russ,” said Stryker. “Come on in.”
Russ did as he was told.
Curtiss Stryker was straightening out from where he worked over the brick hearth. The hearth had been lifted away, revealing an opening beneath the floor.
“Used brick hearth on a mountain stone fireplace. Should have tipped me off from the first — an obvious lapse in taste.” Stryker was holding a Colt Woodsman. It was pointed at Mandarin’s heart.
“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” said Stryker.
“You son of a bitch,” said Mandarin.
“Probably. But you just stand still where you are.”
Russ nodded toward Gayle’s body. “Your work?”
“Yes. While you were ringing. Just not quite in the nick of time, Doctor. But don’t waste any tears on our Mrs Corrington. She tried to kill both of us, after all — and I gather she was certain that you, at least, were most decidedly dead. This is her gun, and she would be disappointed to learn that her aim was not as infallible as she imagined.”
“I don’t get it,” Russ said. “What are you doing?”
Stryker glanced toward the opened hearth. “Just getting a little social security. Maybe you can understand.”
“I don’t understand a goddamned thing! I came here to ask Gayle what it was that she told you while I was out of the room that day. Seems that a lot of people are interested.”
“You might as well know,” Stryker decided. “She wanted me to perform an exorcism.”
“An exorcism?”
“Or something to that effect. She’d read my books on the occult, decided I was a better ghostchaser than a priest would be. Maybe she’d already tried a priest.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Then I’ll make it short and snappy.”
“Is this the point in your story where the villain always explains everything to the hero before he shoots him?”
“It is. I’m afraid this story won’t have a happy ending, though. After all, an author has his privileges.”
“I wept for you.”
“I know. I’ll weep for you.”
Stryker kept the Colt Woodsman steady in the direction of Mandarin’s chest. Russ recalled that Curtiss had always bragged about his marksmanship.
“Our Mrs Corrington changed a few details, and she changed a few names. She played the part of Cass in the highly revised account she gave us of this house. She and her Libby were medical secretaries. They had access to patients’ records, and they knew various prominent citizens who had certain sexual quirks. Knowing their particular weaknesses, it was simple enough to lure them out here for an odd orgy or two— black magic, S&M, any sort of kink their secret selves desired. Then there were the hidden mikes and camera, the two-way mirrors. Made for some lovely footage. Here’s a respected publisher who likes to dress up in women’s clothing and be whipped, here’s a noted doctor who prefers to give enemas to submissive girls. Maybe just a Baptist preacher who can’t get a blow job from his wife. They knew about them, and preyed on them.
“But they needed another girl — another feminine one for their fantasies — delivered orgies. So they brought in a third girl — and that was a crowd. Cass — Gayle — liked her better than Libby, and Libby got jealous. She was going to blow the whistle on the entire operation, unless the other girl was sent away. But that was too dangerous, and Gayle was growing tired of Libby. They had a special black sabbath orgy that night, and when it was over they gave Libby an injection of insulin. Your friend, Dr Royce Blaine, didn’t give any trouble over signing the death certificate; after all, he was in the photos. Later, when Gayle grew tired of Tina, she married Dr Blaine — probably saved her life; his too, maybe.”
“But why did Mrs Corrington call you in on this?” Russ wondered if he could jump the older man.
“Because she really did think she was being haunted. Nothing more than a nuisance, but it preyed on her nerves. So she made up this plausible story, and she reckoned I’d perform some magical miracle, just like the heroes in my stories. But she didn’t reckon on how good a researcher I was. I got suspicious — you know: ‘Doctor, I have this friend…’ and it didn’t take long to dig out the facts. It happened while you were off in New York.”
“So then?”
“Well, I wrote down my findings, made a carbon for you, then set out for another talk with Gayle Corrington. Of course, then I didn’t know about the blackmail angle — I just wanted to confront Gayle with the fact that I knew her part in the story was more than just an innocent bystander.
“She followed me after I left her house, ran me off the road into the lake. By then I knew about the blackmail — she was too upset with me to lie convincingly that night — so I thought I’d just lie doggo for a few days and see what happened. I destroyed my notes, but that little bastard Brooke Hamilton beat me to my office and stole your carbon of the chapter rough. I caught up with him last night, made him tell me where he’d hidden everything, then destroyed it all — and that little shit. In the meantime, Gayle knew of my carbons, so she was checking out my house, and afterward yours. You walked in on her at my house, and she thought she’d killed you. That’s two mistakes. You should have seen her expression when she walked in here afterward. Thought she’d seen a real ghost this time.”
“Just Uncle Dudley in a monster suit.”
“Just like one of my old thrillers. No ghosts. Just greed. And a guilty conscience that made ghosts out of chance phenomena.”
“Now what?”
“I take over the racket, that’s all. After a little persuasion, Gayle told me what I already knew — that the films and tapes were all hidden in a little safe here beneath the raised hearth. I’ve got enough on some of our city’s finest and wealthiest to retire in style. I’ll just make an appearance later on today, say I was knocked for a loop by my accident, took a day or two wandering around the lakeside to remember who I was.”
“What about me?”
“Now that does bother me, Russ. I hadn’t counted on your dropping in like this. I think you’ll be the drugged-out killer in the story — the one who conveniently takes his life when he realizes what he’s done.”
“Saunders won’t buy that.”
“Sure he will. You’ve been walking around town with a screw loose ever since your wife died — before that maybe. You were the one who blew her diagnosis when she complained of chronic headaches.”
“I was your friend, Curtiss.”
“Writers don’t have friends. Only deadlines. And cheating publishers. And meddling editors. And carping reviewers. And checks that never come when they’re supposed to come, and are always short when they do come. I’ve scraped along for a living at this damn trade for over forty years, and I’m still living hand to mouth, and I’m just an old hack to my fellow writers. This is my chance to make someone else pay — pay big.”