The Throat (96 page)

I put my hand
on the little holster clipped to my belt. The man with the flashlight
moved to the left side of the furnace— the beam of light flared across
the basement and flattened on the back wall. His footsteps clicked
against the cement. Then he stopped moving and turned off his light.

"I'm a police
officer," he said. "I am armed and prepared to shoot. I want to know
who you are and what you're doing here."

This wasn't
right—he wasn't acting guilty. Fee would have switched off his
flashlight the instant he realized that someone else was in the
basement. He wasn't even protecting himself by moving away.

"Say
something."

In my panic,
I couldn't remember the voices of either of the two men who could have
been Fee Bandolier. Rough chunks of mortar pushed into my side. Wishing
that I was anywhere else but in this basement, I grasped a thick chunk
of mortar, broke it off the pillar, and tossed it toward the stairs.
The mortar hit the concrete and shattered.

"Oh, come
on," the man said. "That only works in the movies."

He took
another step, but I could not tell where.

"Let me tell
you what's going on," he said. "You came here to meet a man who knew
all about you—he called a bunch of detectives, me, Monroe, and I don't
know who else. Either he called you, too, or you heard people talking
about it." He was moving noiselessly around as he talked, his voice
seeming to come from first one side of the furnace, then, in what
seemed an impossibly short time, the other. He sounded perfectly calm.

"You know
me—you can take a shot at me, but you won't hit me. And then I'll take
you down."

There was a
long silence, and then he spoke again, from somewhere off to the right.
"What troubles me about this is, you're not acting like a cop. Who the
hell are you?"

I wasn't
acting like a cop, and he wasn't acting like Fee Bandolier.

The pillar
was still between us. It was a good, sturdy pillar. Not a bullet in the
world could go through it. And if he didn't shoot, we were in the
basement for the same reason.

"Sergeant
Hogan?" I said.

Sudden light
flooded over me from somewhere behind my right shoulder, and my shadow
loomed against the wall like a giant. My stomach plummeted toward my
knees, but no gunshot resounded, neither from the man with the light
nor from Tom. I wanted to duck around the pillar, but I made myself
turn into the glare.

"I thought we
got rid of you, Underhill." He sounded angry and amused at the same
time. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"You
surprised me," I said.

"It's
mutual." He turned the light off me. I put my hand back on the holster
as the beam swept across the floor toward the source of his voice. The
circle of the beam diminished as it sped toward him and then flattened
out against his chest and jumped up to illuminate Michael Hogan's
handsome, weathered face. He blinked under the light, and then turned
the flashlight back on me, aiming the beam at my chest, so that I could
see. "What are you doing here?"

"The same as
you," I said. "I wanted to see if I could find the papers that used to
be in those boxes. When I saw that they were gone, I was looking for
anything that might have fallen out."

He sighed,
and the beam dropped to the floor. "How did you know where the papers
would be?"

"Just before
Paul Fontaine died, he said 'Bell.' It took me a couple of weeks to
understand that he was trying to say Beldame Oriental."

"You're the
lunatic who made the calls?"

"I didn't
know anything about that until you told me," I said. "What did he say?"

"How did you
get in here?"

"John
Ransom's father owned a hotel. He has lots of skeleton keys."

"Then how did
you manage to reattach the chain from the inside?"

"I came in
the front," I said. "About fifteen minutes before you showed up. I
didn't think I'd see anyone else in here."

"You were
down here when I came in?"

"That's
right."

"I guess I'm
lucky you didn't shoot me."

"With what?"

"Well, you
picked a hell of a night to go exploring."

"I guess
you're not Fielding Bandolier, are you?"

The light
jumped into my face again, blinding me. I held up my hand to block it.
"Did Ransom come down here with you? Is he somewhere in the theater?"

A jolt of
terror went through me like cold electricity. I kept my hand up over my
face. "I'm alone. I don't think John cares anymore."

"Okay." The
light dropped to my waist, and I lowered my hand. "I'm sick of the
subject of Fielding Bandolier. I don't want to hear anything more about
him, from you or anyone else."

"So you knew
about the theater because of the telephone call?"

"Knew what?"
He waited, and when I did not answer, he said, "The caller asked me to
meet him here. I thought that was unusual, to put it mildly, so I
checked up on the ownership. I gather you've heard of Elvee Holdings."

"Didn't you
get confirmation from Hubbel, the head of Bachelor's old draft board?"

"We never
talked to Hubbel. McCandless said he was going to organize that, and
then he called it off."

"McCandless,"
I said.

Hogan said
nothing. I heard his feet move as he turned around. The oval of light
swung away from me and traveled across the floor toward the stairs. "I
don't know why we're standing here in the dark," he said. "There's a
switch on the wall next to the stairs. Go over there and turn on the
lights, will you?"

"I don't
think that's a very good idea."

"Do it."

He moved the
beam to just in front of me and lit my way to the bottom of the stairs.
I walked along the moving oval on the floor, wondering where Tom had
hidden himself. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Hogan aimed the
light at the switch.

"What if
someone else shows up?"

"Who would
that be?"

I took a
breath. "Ross McCandless. He's a murderer. And if someone called a
bunch of detectives, trying to lure the right one here, then—even if he
already moved his papers—he has to come back to kill the person who
called him."

"Turn on the
lights," Hogan said.

I reached for
the switch and flipped it up.

Bare light
bulbs dangling over the bottom of the stairs, near the furnace,
somewhere near the crate of letters, and far at the front of the
basement, threw out enough light to stab into my eyes. The entire
basement came into being around us, larger and dirtier than I had
expected. It was brightly lit around the hanging bulbs, shadowy in the
corners, but entirely visible. Matted spiderwebs hung from the cords of
the light bulbs. Tom Pasmore was nowhere in sight.

In a gray
suit and a black T-shirt, Michael Hogan stood about twelve feet away,
looking at me dryly. A long black flashlight tilted like a club in his
right hand. He moved his thumb and switched it off. "Now that we can
see, let's check out the place where he put the boxes." Hogan wheeled
around and strode past the pillar and the furnace.

I walked
across the basement and came around the side of the furnace. Hogan was
standing near the boxes, staring down at the cement floor. Then he
noticed my feet. "What did you do with your shoes?"

"Left them
upstairs."

"Humph.
Junior G-man."

The empty
boxes lay on the dusty floor. Hogan scanned the area between the
furnace and the wall to our right, then the long stretch of floor
between the furnace and the dressing rooms. There were no crumpled
pieces of paper. I looked back at the dressing rooms. The door of the
first, the one farthest from us, hung slightly ajar.

"You notice
something?"

"No," I said.

"Tell me
about McCandless," he said.

"Some
Millhaven policeman has been using a false identity."

Hogan's face
hardened with anger, and I took a few steps away.

"I know you
think it was Fontaine, I thought it was Fontaine, but not anymore."

"Why is that?"

"That piece
of paper I found in the Green Woman was about a woman named Jane
Wright. She was killed in May 1977, if those papers are what I think
they are. The name of the town was partially destroyed, but it looked
like Allentown. So I looked through all the Allentown newspapers for
that month, but nobody of that name turned up."

"You think
that proves anything?"

"I found a
Jane Wright who had been murdered in a town called Allerton, Ohio, in
that same month. When Paul Fontaine was a detective in Allentown."

"Ah," Hogan
said.

"So it has to
be someone else. Someone who used Billy Ritz as an informant and who
came to Millhaven in 1979. And there are only three men who have those
things in common. You, Monroe, and McCandless."

"Well,
obviously, it isn't me," he said, "or you'd already be dead. But why
did you rule out Monroe? And how on earth did you find out about Billy
Ritz?"

"I kept my
ears open. I talked to a lot of people, and some of them knew things."

"Either
you're a born cop or a born pain in the ass," Hogan said. "What about
Monroe?"

Since I'd
already said that I had come inside the theater only fifteen minutes
before he did, I couldn't tell him the truth. "I stood outside in the
alley and watched the door for a long time before I came in. Monroe
showed up about twelve, twelve-thirty, something like that, looked at
the chain, and left. So it's not him." Hogan nodded, swinging the big
flashlight, and started walking away from the furnace toward the
dressing room side of the basement. "McCandless comes as kind of a
shock."

"But when you
first heard me, you thought I was someone you knew. Someone on the
force."

"Monroe told
a lot of people about that crazy phone call. I didn't know any of this
stuff you just told me about the place in Ohio. Allerton?"

I nodded.

"I'll fax a
picture of McCandless to the Allerton police, and that'll be that. It
doesn't matter if he shows up here tonight or not. I'll take care of
him. Let's go upstairs so you can get your shoes, and I'll take you to
Ransom's, or wherever you're staying."

"I'm staying
at the St. Alwyn," I said, hoping that Tom could hear me, wherever he
was. "I'll walk there."

"Even
better," Hogan said.

I walked away
from him faster than he expected, uncertain why I had not trusted him
completely. Why should it be better for me to be staying at a hotel
than at John's? I moved toward the stairs, hearing Tom Pasmore telling
me to remember what I knew about Fee Bandolier. It seemed that I knew a
thousand things about Fee, none of them useful. Hogan came after me,
moving slowly. I put my hand on the penlight in my pocket.

I got to the
bottom of the stairs and said, "Would you just stay where you are for a
second?"

At the worst,
I thought, I'd just look like a fool.

"What?" Hogan
stopped moving. He had been reaching toward the button that fastened
his suit jacket, and he dropped his hand when he saw me turning to face
him.

I slapped the
light switch down with my left hand, and with the other turned the
bright beam of the penlight on his face. He blinked.

"Lenny
Valentine," I said.

Hogan's face
went rigid with shock. Behind him, I saw Tom Pasmore move fast and
silently out of the dressing room. I switched off my light and
scrambled away from the stairs in the darkness. I had the impression
that Tom was still moving.

"We're not
going to go through this all over again, are we?" Hogan said. He hadn't
moved an inch.

From
somewhere near the pillar, Tom's light shot out and outlined his head.
Hogan turned to face the light and said, "Would you mind explaining
what you think you're doing, Underhill?" He could not have seen any
more than the bright dazzle of the flashlight, but he did not raise his
hands.

I reached
into my jacket, pulled out the revolver, thumbed the safety, and aimed
it at his head.

Hogan smiled.
"What was that name you said?" He tilted his head, still smiling at
Tom, and raised his right hand to unbutton the jacket of his suit. I
remembered seeing him make the same gesture just before I had surprised
him by turning off the light. He would have shot me as soon as I got to
the top of the stairs. I realized that I was holding my penlight along
the barrel of the revolver, aiming it at Hogan like another gun as if I
had been planning my next act all along, and when Hogan's hand reached
his jacket button, I switched it on. Tom instantly extinguished his own
light.

"Lenny
Valentine," I said.

Hogan had
already turned to face into my light, and he was not smiling anymore. A
shadow moved into his eyes, and he opened his mouth to say something.
The thought of hearing his next words sent a wave of pure revulsion
through me. Almost involuntarily, I pulled the trigger and sent a
bullet down the bright, hot beam of light.

There was a
red flash and a loud, flat crack that the cement walls amplified into
an explosion. A black hole appeared just beneath Hogan's hairline, and
the light illuminated a bright spatter from the back of his head. Hogan
rocked back out of the beam and disappeared. His body hit the floor,
and the stench of blood and cordite filled the air. A twist of white
spun in the beam of light and disappeared.

"You took a
while to make up your mind," Tom said, shining his light on me. My
stiff, outstretched arms were still aiming the revolver at the place
where Hogan had been. I let them drop. I could not remember what I'd
seen in Hogan's face. Tom shone his light downward. Hogan lay sprawled
on the cement with most of his weight on his shoulder and hip, his legs
bent and his arms flopped on either side. Blood flowed steadily out of
the back of his head and pooled beneath his cheek.