The Dark House (3 page)

“That's it? Just the brother?” Marj asked.

If his sister Stephanie had lived, she'd be older than Marj. “That's all.”

“How about your parents? They still alive?”

Rollins kept his eyes on the road ahead. “My mother lives in a retirement center outside Hartford. My father is out west.”

“Divorced?”

“When I was eleven.” He'd clung to his father's pant leg the last time he came to the house, a ridiculous scene. His father was so tall then, over six feet, but Rollins himself was fully that height now. Harder to believe, he was almost exactly that age. Rollins reflexively stroked his chin. He seemed to be inheriting his father's jawline, too, along with his deeply inset eyes. Hawklike, he'd always thought as a child. “My father remarried—twice, actually. He has a young wife now. About your age.”

“You're older than your
mother
?”

“Stepmother,” Rollins corrected her. “I haven't met her, actually.”

“You're not close to your dad, I take it.”

 

Father down on the oriental rug with him. The living room of the big house. Father in his greatcoat, his silk scarf drooping, as he held one of Rollins' treasured toy cars, an Aston Martin, in his gloved hands. “Vroom, vroom,” Father was saying, as he flicked the wheels with the tip of a leather-clad finger. The gloves were black. The tone icy.

Mother beside him, her hair up, her pale neck glittering with jewels. “We should go, darling. The car's waiting.”

Then he was off with Mother again, to another party.

 

“Well?” Marj persisted.

“Not particularly.” Rollins had heard of the most recent marriage only by postcard. A Hawaiian beach scene, if he remembered right, from their honeymoon. He should check; he still had the card somewhere. He tried to keep such things.

“My dad's dead. My real one, I mean.” Marj finally switched off the Walkman. “He died before I was born, so it's okay. Well, okay for me. Well, relatively okay.” Her hands fluttered in her lap, several silver rings flashing. “He was stationed in Germany during the Vietnam War, and something exploded. I never got the full story. My mom married my stepdad when I was six.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well, what can you do?”

 

As they went along, Marj told Rollins she had the man in the dark house all figured. He was either passing nuclear secrets to foreign governments or molesting children. Rollins smiled, sure she got such wild ideas from television. His eyes roved to a crimson Mercedes with darkened windows.

“I'm boring you,” Marj said.

“Not at all.”

“I tend to talk too much. Especially when I'm nervous.”

A flutter pulsed outward from his heart. Rollins slowed the car a little and turned to her. “We don't have to do this, you know.”

“No—that's not what I meant.”

She did sound jumpy. This was going to be like that Cindy. A big mistake, he just knew it.

“I want to,” she continued. “It's just, oh,
I
don't know.” She lapsed back into silence. Her glance turned to the other cars on the road. “You could follow any of these?”

“I suppose.”

A sly look came over her. “Ever see anything good? Sex or something?”

“Heavens, no,” Rollins said. “You'd be surprised how boring people are.”

“So why do you follow them? You some kind of pervert?”

He smiled, hoping that was her idea of a joke. When her eyes stayed on him, his smile dimmed. “I don't do it very much. Very often, I should say.” Her eyes stayed right where they were. “I mean, I don't.”

“But when you do, I mean.”

Rollins took a breath, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind. He had never put this in words before; he wasn't sure there were words. “Just to see where they're from, what they do. I mean, look around.” He gestured to the other cars on the road—several Hondas, a couple of minivans, a Jeep. “Don't you ever wonder about all these people?”

Marj glanced about her. “Not too often.”

“Well, I do,” Rollins said.

“Jeez,” Marj muttered. “You might have followed
me
.”

“Don't be silly.”

But, of course, he had followed her, a month ago. He had been waiting at a corner not far from the downtown Boston high-rise where they worked. Because he had splurged on a very nice '42 Côtes du Rhone the night before, he decided to tail the forty-second car. It was Marj's, a beat-up Toyota Corolla. He recognized her immediately. Rollins had a policy against tailing people he knew, but, having settled on car forty-two, he had to see the matter through. Marj proved to be an erratic driver. She never signaled before turning and routinely scooted through intersections well after the light turned red. This made for a challenge, but Rollins had stayed with her, his visor down. There was something about knowing her that roused him, gave the
evening an even sharper edge than usual. She seemed remarkably carefree, and Rollins had to admire that. His own cautious introspection could be a burden. He followed her back to her Brighton apartment and waited there for two hours while she passed from one of her apartment windows to another in various states of undress. Finally, she emerged again in a lovely little red dress and heels. This time she hailed a cab, which ran a red light, and he lost her in traffic. He had not followed her again, although he had been tempted.

 

It was after eight when Rollins and Marj turned onto Elmhurst Drive in North Reading, and pulled up at the dark house.

“It's that one.” Rollins pointed to number 29. All the other houses along the street were lit up, with sounds of life streaming from the open windows. But number 29 was dark and silent. The driveway was empty. Next to it, the metal-sided exterior glowed dully in the lamplight. The few shrubs and one scruffy hemlock were nearly black on the unlit side.

“Creepy.” Marj scrunched down deeper in her seat.

“I thought you were interested.”

“Well, I was.” Marj hesitated. “But it's…it's not what I expected. It's like seeing a corpse or something.”

“It's just a house.”

“With maybe a guy inside!” Marj exclaimed. “And he might have a gun, you said so yourself.”

“I doubt he's home. Besides, I really don't think he has a gun. He didn't seem the type.”

Marj seemed unconvinced. “Can't we go get a coffee or something?”

“Let's wait a little, since we're here.”

They sat there for a while in silence. Time didn't mean much to Rollins. It was an abstraction, something to pass through. But Marj started plucking at the crease on her jeans, then smoothing it out again.

“All right, Rolo,” she asked finally, “are we going to stay here all night?”

“Just till something happens.”

“Like?”

“Somebody comes in, somebody goes out. Something like that.”

Marj crossed her arms in a sulky gesture that Rollins suddenly found irritating. He said nothing, however, and merely continued to sit there. That's what a pursuit was, after all. Watching and waiting.

“Why don't you go look around? Do
something
, at least.”

Rollins was tempted to explain his principles of pursuit to her. He'd have declaimed them with an edge in his voice, laying down the law to her with a sentence that started “Look here…” But he didn't dare be too combative with this nymph, for fear he might only provoke more questions about the frequency of his nightly travels or, worse, scare her off. So it was with only the slightest pique that he reached for the door handle. “And you?”

“I'll wait here, thanks.”

Rollins opened the door and climbed out. Black shadows sliced this way and that from the streetlamps. He regretted leaving the protective cocoon of his car and striking out toward the dark house. But so much of life is a matter of simply getting started. You start out in a certain direction, you keep going. Rollins kept on, across the road, along the sidewalk, up the steps, all the way to the door of the house. He stood there on the landing, his heart pounding as if he had sprinted the whole distance. He glanced back to the car, to see if Marj had noticed how daring he had been, but Marj had ducked down out of sight. Rollins was afraid she'd pulled on her Walkman again, tuning him out in favor of acid rock. He paused, weakened, and retreated down the steps. He went around to the side of the house and, pushing between some rough shrubbery, squeezed through to a window whose interior shade had not been pulled tight to the sill. He bent down, cupped his hands on the glass, and peered inside.

The whole house was empty except for the wall-to-wall carpeting. Not a stick of furniture anywhere. His nose was still up against the cool glass when he heard the crackle of tires on loose asphalt close by. He felt a bright light on him. He turned. A huge car had turned into the driveway and lit him up with its headlights. All he could think to do
was to raise his hands. A door opened and a man got out. The headlights remained on. Squinting, Rollins braced himself for a bullet.

“So, you're in the market?” the man asked.

Rollins moved his hands a bit to screen off the lights. He could make out a shadowy figure against the car—a big green Land Cruiser, he could see now.

“Great little piece of property, isn't it?” The man laughed a comfortable, genial laugh. “Hi, Jerry Sloane, Sloane Realty.” He extended a hand in what was obviously a practiced gesture. “And you are?”

“Harris.” Amazing how easy it was to lie.

“Harris, you say?”

Rollins nodded.

“Great to see you. That the Mrs.?” Sloane turned back toward Marj, who, Rollins could see, had gotten out of the car and crossed to their side of the street. She was standing on the sidewalk, her hands up by her face protectively.

Rollins said nothing. He wanted to keep Marj safe from all this.

“Oh, girlfriend, huh?”

Rollins looked over at Marj, who looked back at him.

“Doin' pretty well,” Sloane whispered to Rollins conspiratorially. Then he clapped him on the back and spoke up. “Well, come on, come on. What are you waiting for? Let me show you the house. Believe me, it's a steal at a hundred seventy-nine.”

“It's really for sale?” Marj called from the sidewalk.

“Jeez, sweetheart, I hope it is,” Sloane replied. “We wouldn't want to be caught trespassing, would we?” He gave out a big laugh and flicked out a forearm at Rollins in an unsuccessful effort to get him to join in. “I got the listing a few days ago. You're the very first one to check it out.” He handed Rollins a business card.

“Anyone living here?”

“God no. You'll see—it's all cleaned out.”

Rollins went up the path to the house, aware that he was following in the steps of the gaunt man from the night before. “It just looked like someone might be living here, that's all.” Somehow, Rollins thought he needed to explain.

Sloane dug into his pocket, pulled out a key, and fitted it into the door.

“You know who owns it?” Rollins asked.

Sloane pushed the door open. “Off the record?”

Rollins nodded.

“Can't tell you.” Sloane laughed again. A real joker, that Sloane.

 

While Sloane went inside, Rollins returned to Marj and laid out the situation.

“So the guy's a realtor?” Marj asked quietly, obviously confused. “I thought you said you thought he was in insurance.”

“This isn't the man I followed,” Rollins whispered. “This Sloane fellow
is
a real estate agent, at least he says he is. He gave me his card.” He handed it to Marj, who looked at it very carefully. “He thinks I'm looking to buy the house. I told him my name was Harris.”

“Is it?”

Rollins ignored that. “I thought I'd take a look around inside, since we're here.”

“This is majorly weird.” Marj took a step toward the house. “You're going to get in trouble, I just know it.”

Going up the walkway together, Rollins thought they might be a couple of newlyweds, then dropped the idea.

“Jerry Sloane.” The realtor thrust out a hand to Marj at the top of the stairs.

“Hi.” Marj did not give him a name.

Sloane looked from Rollins to Marj and then back again. “So, you two house hunting?” he asked. “Or”—he turned to Marj—“you just giving him real estate advice?”

“I'm afraid that's personal,” Rollins interrupted.

“Oh, absolutely! The wife says I shouldn't be so nosy. Bad habit, but it goes with the territory.” Sloane flipped on the lights and ushered them inside. The place was completely empty, just as Sloane had said, and it smelled of mildew and industrial cleaners. “It'd help to have a little air in here.” Sloane raised some shades and threw open a few windows.

Rollins glanced about. All that remained of the previous occupants
were some ghostly rectangles on the wall where a few pictures had hung. While Sloane lectured Marj on the details of the house's closet space, taxes, and proximity to local schools, Rollins slipped away to go through the kitchen cabinets, the drawers under the built-in bookcase in the living room, the hall closets. Nothing, hardly even any dust. Leaving Sloane to show Marj the back porch, Rollins crept downstairs to the basement. It was damp, with a small furnace. Rollins stepped warily, sure the gaunt man would jump out at him at any moment and put a knife to his throat. Still, he kept searching for a memento, a photograph, a vault, a passageway, a secret compartment—something, anything, that would explain the mystery of the night before. But he found nothing. As he trudged back up the basement stairs, he couldn't imagine why the gaunt man had come to such a place, why he'd had a key, what he'd done inside, what had become of him.