called, and he could think of no other way that the killer could have obtained it.
In minutes, he ascertained that the Marine Corps emblem tattooed on the palm of Hanes’s right hand was not in support of a fraudulent persona. The orderly served admirably in the Marine Corps, was decorated and honorably discharged.
Hanes had no criminal history in this state or in any state with which it shared information. Even his driving record was without a blemish.
The truth of military service and the lack of a police record did not clear him of having colluded with Billy Lucas, but it made the possibility less likely than it otherwise might have been.
When Dennis Mummers called back, he said, “Billy doesn’t have a phone. Are you certain it was him?”
“His voice was unmistakable.”
“It is distinct,” Mummers acknowledged. “But how often have you spoken with him before your visit here?”
Deflecting the question, John said, “He mentioned something to me that only he could know, related to my interview with him.”
“Did he threaten you?”
If John confirmed the threat, they would expect him to file a report, and if he did so, they would learn that he had no authority to involve himself in the Lucas case.
“No,” he lied. “No threat. What did Billy say when you searched his room for a phone?”
“He didn’t say anything. Something’s happened to him. He kind of cratered. He’s funked out, withdrawn, not talking at all to anyone.”
“Is there a chance maybe someone on the staff might have allowed him to use their cell phone?”
“Depending on the circumstances,” Dennis Mummers said, “that could be a reason for dismissal. No one would risk it.”
“In this work, Officer Mummers, I’ve learned some people will risk everything, everything, for the most trivial of reasons. But thank you for your assistance.”
After he hung up, John went to the kitchen, where he turned on just the light in the exhaust hood over the cooktop.
Most of their friends drank wine, but for the few with a taste for something stronger, they kept a small bar in a kitchen cabinet. Certain that he could get back to sleep only with assistance, he poured a double Scotch over ice.
He was disturbed less by the threat Billy Lucas had made than by the last words the murderous boy had spoken on the phone.
To the best of his recollection, John had never shared with the police any of what the murderer of his parents and sisters, Alton Turner Blackwood, had said before he died. John had been mute with grief and terror, but Blackwood had tried to distract him with talk.
The next-to-last thing Blackwood said on that long-ago night was word for word the last thing Billy said on the phone less than an hour earlier: Your lovely sister, your Giselle. She had such pretty little training-bra breasts.
Zach dreamed that he woke in his dark bedroom and saw a blade of amber radiance slicing out of the closet, under the door. In the dream, he lay staring at this narrow brightness, trying to remember if he had extinguished the closet light before going to bed, and he decided that, yes, he had turned it off.
He switched on his nightstand lamp, which left most of the room still in shadows, and he got up from the bed and slowly approached the closet, behaving exactly like your typical bonehead in a brain-dead horror movie where everyone dies because everyone is terminally stupid. When he put his hand on the doorknob, the light in the closet went out.
Someone or some godawful thing had to be in there to operate the switch, so the worst of all dumb-ass moves would be to open the closet without having a weapon. Nevertheless, Zach watched his hand rotate the knob, as though he had no control over it, as though this also must be one of those movies in which a clueless dork undergoes a hand transplant and the hand has a mind of its own.
This was when he began to realize he was dreaming – because his hands were the same pair with which he’d been born, and they always did only what he intended them to do. With that fluid transitional dissolve common to dreams, he never opened the door, yet abruptly it stood wide, and he was poised on the threshold of the pitch-black closet.
Out of that lightless hole, enormous hands seized him, one by the throat, the other gripping his face, meaty palm crushing his nose, stoppering his mouth, his scream, his breath.
He seized the hand that cupped his face, frantic to break free, the wrist as massive as a horse’s hock, hard gnarl of bones, thick tendons. Cold, greasy fingertips bigger than soup spoons digging at his eyes, and no breath, no breath—
Sucking breath at last, Zach startled up in bed, the nightmare bursting away like a shattering shell.
The thunder of his heart pealed through him, but even as his dream fear quickly subsided from its peak, he saw that the fright-flick scenario of his sleep played out also in the waking world. In the true darkness of the real room, the blade of amber light knifed through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor.
Earlier, when the door swung open on its own, he dismissed it as the house settling, the door out of plumb and moved by gravity. When it seemed, as an afterthought, that something had been wrong with his reflection when he saluted himself in the mirror, he didn’t dwell on it, didn’t hurry back to take a second look, because he recognized who were the actual-factual, sure-enough villains in the world and didn’t need bogeymen to distract him from worrying about real evil.
Some quality of the just-ended dream changed him. Suddenly he knew a kind of fear he hadn’t felt before, or maybe it was a kind that hadn’t rocked him in so long that his memory of it faded the same way that his memory of infancy had receded beyond recall.
Most nightmares were less ordeals than they were entertainments, infrequent rides through a funhouse of the mind. You drifted in your stupid gondola past one weird tableau after another until one of the horrors turned out to be real and the totally improbable chase was on. After a brief terror, you woke, and if you were able to remember the details, they were usually ridiculous and they made you laugh, just a brainless spookshow no scarier than the kind of half-assed monsters you’d find in a TV cartoon for little kids.
This freaking dream had felt as fully real as the room into which he awakened: the cold, greasy hardness of the assaulting hands; the pain of his nose pressed flat, nostrils pinched; the sense of suffocation. Even now, a lingering ache in his eyes suggested that the soup-spoon fingers had been real and would have gouged him blind if he hadn’t thrashed up from sleep.
He switched on the nightstand lamp and sprang out of bed, though not to rush the closet as the idiot Zach had done in the dream. In the corner near his desk stood a replica of a Mameluke sword, which he drew from a highly polished nickel-plated scabbard.
Modern-day Mamelukes were strictly for show, cool badges of rank carried by officers during ceremonies of various kinds. This one was stainless steel, the ricasso engraved, the quillon and the pommel handsomely gilded. And like any ceremonial sword, the edge was dull and useless as a weapon. The point wasn’t battle-sharp, either, but it could still do damage that the edge of the blade couldn’t.
Standing to the side of the closet, Zach threw open the door with his left hand, the Mameluke ready in his right. No assailant flew into the room to test the point of the sword.
The walk-in closet harbored no one, but it did hold a surprise. The ceiling trapdoor had been dropped, the folding ladder unfolded. Between the second and third floors, the dark crawlspace waited for him.
Zach hesitated at the base of the ladder, peering up, listening. He detected only the susurration of the ring burners in the two gas furnaces that heated the second and third floors, a hollow whispery sound like the roar of a waterfall