A Fine Line (22 page)

An hour or so later, Evie and I were lying on my bed passing a cigarette back and forth. Henry was curled up on the pile of clothes I’d left on the floor.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said.

She kissed my bare shoulder. “Nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m a dud.”

“You’re my sexy man.”

“Usually, the minute I see you . . .”

“It happens,” she said. “Really. Forget about it.”

“You think I’m getting old?”

She chuckled. “I think you’ve got something on your mind. You’re holding it in.”

“Holding it in, huh?” I said. “Thank you, Dr. Freud.”

“You’ve got to let it out. Come on, sweetie. What is it?”

“I don’t want to involve you.”

“I’m already involved,” she said. “I’m with you, and I’m not going away. Talk to me.”

So I took a deep breath and told Evie about the man with the muffled voice, the murders and the fires, my hunt for Ethan Duffy, my encounters with Detective Mendoza and Lieutenant Keeler, my session with the FBI, the Spotted Owl Liberation Front, the mysterious appearance of the cell phone, and my conversation with J.W. Jackson. I told her how the cell phone rang while I was walking across the Common, how the voice knew where I was, and how he was the one who’d mugged me, taken my wallet and my briefcase, and then returned them.

“See,” I said, “he’s watching me. He knows what I’m doing. Like J.W. said, he’s toying with me. He gets off on it. He probably knows you’re here now. That’s why I wanted to keep you out of it. He’s dangerous, unpredictable,
probably psychotic. I don’t want anybody else to get drawn into this. Especially you.” I hesitated. “I feel like he’s watching us right now. Maybe that’s why . . .”

“That’s impossible,” said Evie.

“I know,” I said. “But it’s how I feel.”

Evie took my cigarette from my fingers, dragged on it, and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “J.W. was wrong,” she said softly. “You should turn the whole thing over to the police.”

“No,” I said, “I think J.W. was right. Somehow, this guy would know it the minute I talked to the cops. He’d certainly know if I didn’t have that damn cell phone with me. If he called and I didn’t answer? It would infuriate him, and there’s no telling what he’d do. This way at least he feels like he’s in control. He’s having fun with it. He’s bound to make some kind of slip. That’s what I’m waiting for. Meanwhile, I’m trying to be really careful.”

“Like canceling our weekend together,” she said.

“It seemed prudent, yes. It still does. You should leave.”

“No way,” said Evie.

We lay there quietly for a few minutes, looking up at the ceiling.

Then Evie said, “We really are all alone here, you know. Just big strong you and little old bare-naked me.”

“And Henry,” I said. “Don’t forget Henry.”

“We’ve been alone with Henry before,” she said. “His presence has not deterred us. Do you feel any better?”

“I guess so,” I said. “Telling you about it, sharing it with you, getting it off my chest, it’s kind of a relief. I don’t like holding things back from you.”

Her hand slid up the inside of my bare leg. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “You
do
feel better.”

I was slogging through the murk of a bleak senseless dream about rain and mud when Evie prodded me. “Hey,” she said. “Hey, wake up.”

“What?”

“Your phone.”

“Huh?”

“Your cell phone. It’s ringing.”

“Shit. I don’t hear anything. Where is it?”

“You left it on the coffee table to recharge it, remember?”

“What time is it?”

“Quarter of six.”

“Let it fuckin’ ring,” I grumbled.

She poked me again. “You better get it.”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute, then blinked them open. “Yeah, okay.”

I stumbled my way into the living room. The phone’s green light was a beacon. It beeped again.

I picked it up, flipped the lid, and said, “What do you want?”

“Rise and shine,” he said.

“I’m up.”

“I’m waiting for you to thank me.”

“What’m I supposed to thank you for?” I said.

“Returning your wallet and your briefcase.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re entirely welcome,” he said. “Now get dressed and go down to your car.”

Then he was gone.

I put the phone down and went back into the bedroom. Evie was sitting up in bed rubbing her eyes. Henry opened his eyes, but didn’t bother uncurling.

“I’ve got to go out for a little while,” I said.

“What’s going on?”

“Go back to sleep. I won’t be long.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m supposed to go to my car. That’s all I know.”

“I’m coming with you.”

I kissed her. “Absolutely not. You stay here. I’ll be all right.”

“That man again?”

“Yes.”

She brushed her hair off her face. “I’m not going to let you go by yourself.”

“Please don’t argue with me,” I said. “Stay with Henry.”

“Brady, damn it—”

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll leave Horowitz’s number with you. If I’m not back in—” I glanced at my watch “—in four hours, and if you haven’t heard from me, call him. That would be about ten-thirty. Okay?”

“I don’t like this,” she said.

“Me, neither. I’d rather snuggle back in beside you. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

“Of course I’ll worry.”

“I know you will. That’s why I wish you’d stayed home this weekend.” I kissed her again. “Make sure to lock up behind me.”

Evie watched while I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt and my sneakers, then followed me out into the living room. I wrote Horowitz’s cell phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to her. I found my windbreaker in the closet and put
the phone in one pocket and the .38 in the other. Then I poured some of yesterday’s coffee into a car mug, gave it a minute in the microwave, made sure I had a full pack of cigarettes, and turned to Evie. “I’ll be back.”

She nodded.

“Don’t worry, okay?”

“Fat chance,” she said.

I kissed her, went out, waited to hear her lock the door behind me, then took the elevator down to the parking garage.

I went to my car, unlocked it, and slid into the front seat.

Now what?

I’d smoked half a cigarette and taken a few sips of coffee when the cell phone beeped. “You in your car?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Can you find your way to Storrow Drive by yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Do it, then.” And he disconnected.

There were virtually no other cars on the streets at seven on this Saturday morning. I swung around Commercial Street to Causeway, took Cambridge to the rotary, and less than fifteen minutes after I’d pulled out of my garage I was heading outbound on Storrow Drive with the Charles River on my right. A few carefree little sailboats were skidding across the water, and swarms of early-bird joggers were bouncing along the paths that traced the shoreline.

The phone beeped.

“You’re at the Esplanade,” he said, not as if it were a question, but something he knew.

“Passing it now.”

“Take the Harvard Bridge across the river.” He clicked off.

Was he tailing me? I glanced in my rearview mirror. I saw just one car, a dark SUV about fifty yards behind me. I slowed down to see what it would do.

It passed me, moving fast, and kept going. A newish Explorer, dark green, Massachusetts plates. I caught only the first two numbers and got just a quick glimpse of the driver. He was wearing a baseball cap. It could have been a shorthaired woman.

Up ahead was the Harvard Bridge. The Explorer didn’t turn onto it.

I did, and just as I was crossing the river, the phone beeped again. “Don’t hang up ’til I tell you to,” he said. “Stay on Mass. Ave.”

“Okay,” I said.

He said nothing. I kept the phone to my ear, trying to hear something significant in his silence—ambulance sirens, church bells, train whistles, construction noises, music from a car radio, some telling background sound that in a spy movie would turn out to be a plot-turning clue. But all that came through the phone was soft ambient static.

“You still there?” I said.

The voice chuckled. “I’m here.” Another minute of silence, then, “Up ahead on the right you can see a Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“I see it.”

“Take the drive-through. Buy yourself a large black coffee and a donut. What kind of donuts do you like?”

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“Plain, I’ll bet. You strike me as a plain donut kind of guy. Get yourself a plain donut, too. We want you strong and alert. Disconnect now.”

I did as I was told, and just as I was pulling away from the drive-through window, the phone beeped.

“Did you eat your donut?”

“Not yet.”

“Eat it while you drive,” said the voice. “Pull back onto Mass. Ave. Go right. Check your odometer. In one-pointfour miles you’ll come to a brick Catholic church on your right. St. Lucia’s. After you pass it, find a place on the street to park. Now disconnect.”

I put the phone on the seat beside me, took a bite of my donut, and continued on Mass. Ave.

When I came to the church, I realized where we were going. Vintage Vinyl, Conrad Henshall’s record shop, was almost directly across the street from St. Lucia’s Catholic church.

I found an empty space on the street, pulled into it, and turned off the engine. I finished my donut, lit a cigarette, sipped some coffee.

The phone beeped.

“I’m here,” I said.

“It should look familiar to you. Keep me on the line while I tell you what I want you to do. Get out of the car and cross the street.”

The voice was still too muffled and distorted to recognize. I wondered if it belonged to Conrad Henshall himself.

I felt ridiculous, crossing Massachusetts Avenue near Central Square in Cambridge early on a Saturday morning with a cell phone pressed against my ear.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ve crossed the street.”

“You’re in front of the record store?”

“Yes.”

“To the left of it you see an alley. Walk down there. At the end, go right. In back of the store you’ll see a door. Stop there. Don’t disconnect.”

It was a narrow alley, barely wide enough for me to pass around the trash barrels. I kept one hand in my pocket, gripping my .38. Where the alley ended, it intersected with another somewhat wider alley. I turned right onto it and came upon a doorway with a little wooden stoop under a small overhang.

“I’m here at the door,” I said into the phone.

“Enter, Mr. Coyne. It’s not locked. Ascend the stairs, open the door at the top, and go ahead inside. Don’t disconnect.”

I turned the knob on the door and went in. The stairway was steep and lit only by the dirty glass window on the door. It smelled faintly of cat piss. As near as I could tell, it led to a room directly over the record shop.

I took my gun out of my pocket, cocked the hammer, and climbed the stairs. At the top, I pushed open the door, held my gun at my hip pointing ahead of me, and went in. I was standing in a kitchen. Peeling brick-red linoleum floor, refrigerator that had once been white but now was yellowish, matching gas stove, sink with some pots and pans in it, rickety wooden table with four spindly wooden chairs around it.

The place appeared to be deserted. I let down the hammer on my revolver and put it back into my pocket.

“You there, Mr. Coyne?”

“I’m standing in the kitchen.”

“Close the door.”

When I turned to close the door behind me, I saw that a poster was tacked on its inside. I’d seen that poster before. It was a childish drawing of an owl with the big red letters S O L F under it.

“Is this Conrad Henshall’s apartment?” I said into the phone. “Are you Henshall?”

“I could be anybody, couldn’t I?” he said. “Look on the table, Mr. Coyne. Tell me what you see.”

I went over and looked. “I see a videotape. Also a sugar bowl and salt and pepper shakers.”

“Guess what we’re interested in?”

“I’d guess the tape,” I said, “but maybe there’s a prize in the sugar bowl.”

“Pick up the tape,” he said, “and take it through the doorway in front of you. You’ll see a television set. It’s very important that you do exactly what I tell you, Mr. Coyne. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you.” I went into the other room. “I see the TV.”

“Please play the tape. Then you’ll receive your next instructions. Isn’t this fun?”

Don’t lose your temper
, J.W. had said.
Don’t give in to him. He’s toying with you, like a fish on a hook. Don’t let him wear you down
.

I took a deep breath. “I’ve had more fun, I’ve had less fun,” I said. “This is mainly annoying.”

“It gets better,” he said. “Play the tape. Keep me on the line.”

I was in a tiny living room, maybe twelve by twelve. One sooty window looked across the alley to someone else’s
sooty window. The television sat on a table against one wall, and across from it was an overstuffed chair with a wooden coffee table in front of it.

I put the phone on the table, went over to the TV, turned it on, slid the tape into the VCR, hit the “play” button, and sat in the chair to watch.