Bill Pronzini - Zigzag

When I confirmed my identity, a chain rattled and he opened up. He was not quite what I expected, but then that’s often the case when you form a mental image of someone you’ve only spoken to on the telephone. I’d figured him for fifty-plus; he was not much older than thirty-five. Casually dressed in a long-sleeved, light blue shirt and fawn-colored slacks. Well set up, fair-haired, strong jawed — not quite pretty-boy handsome but on the cusp. His unsmiling mien, the tight little muscle bulges along his jawline, confirmed the impression I’d had from his phone voice: man under some pressure and determined not to show how much he was affected by it.

If I was not what he’d expected, either — a conservatively dressed man in his mid-sixties instead of your typical young, mod Hollywood version of a private investigator — he gave no indication of it. He thanked me for being prompt, shook my hand, ushered me in and down a long hallway into a large, bright room with two walls of floor-to-ceiling French-style doors and windows that overlooked the terrace and the gazebo/summerhouse in the distance. The terrace wrapped around to the rear, where I could see a lot of white wrought-iron lawn furniture and the glint of sunlight on water. Swimming pool. Right.

On Erskine’s invitation I parked myself on one of several red-and-green-patterned chairs. The room, warm from the sun’s slanting rays, was decorated strictly according to a woman’s taste — the remaining two walls painted a pale yellow, half a dozen whimsical watercolor paintings of elves, gnomes, and leprechauns, lamps with frilly shades, a glass-front display cabinet filled with expensive-looking porcelain and pewter knickknacks. Bright, cheerful elegance, but the kind of room that would make me uncomfortable if I had to spend much time in it.

He didn’t immediately sit himself; he went first to the side windows, stood there as if composing himself, then turned abruptly and went to perch stiff backed on a chair facing me.

“This thing that’s going on is unnerving enough to me,” he said without preamble, “but it’s having an even greater effect on Marian, my wife. Her health is fragile as it is. She’s resting in the summerhouse now; she likes to spend her afternoons there when the weather’s good. We thought it would be best if I spoke to you alone first.”

I said, “What is it that’s going on, Mr. Erskine?”

“I think my life may be in danger. We both do.”

“You think so? You’re not sure?”

“Not completely, but there’s every indication of it.”

“Someone has cause to harm you, is that it?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned. The idea is fantastic.”

“A person you know well?”

“A man I never knew at all. What brought us together, if you can call it that, was an accident. And it was his fault, not mine.”

“What kind of accident?”

“On the freeway, just over a year ago.”

“A year is a long time to hold a grudge,” I said.

He made a chuckling sound, dry and humorless. “You don’t know the half of it yet.”

“Did this man threaten you afterward?”

“Yes. Vowed he’d have his revenge.”

“In front of witnesses?”

“Yes.”

“Make any threats since? Any attempt to carry out his vow?”

Erskine shook his head. Then, “I thought it was all past history until last Friday night.”

“What makes you think differently now?”

“There’s no other explanation for why I’m suddenly being stalked.”

“Stalked? Are you sure?”

“God, yes, I’m sure.”

“Have you been to the police?”

“No. There wouldn’t be any point in it.”

“Why wouldn’t there?”

Another headshake.

“Look, Mr. Erskine,” I said, “what is it you expect from me? I have to tell you that my agency doesn’t do bodyguard work, but I can recommend one that does—”

“No, no, I don’t want a bodyguard. There are weapons in the house, licensed handguns, and I know how to use them. I can take care of myself. I want you to find him, the one who’s doing this to me.”

“Why a private investigator? Why not the police?”

“Because they wouldn’t believe what’s been happening, what’s behind it, even if I showed them the black host. They’d think Marian and I were imagining things, hallucinating.”

“Black host?”

He didn’t seem to hear the question. “You may think the same thing — I won’t be surprised if you do. But I swear to you, we’re not. I’ve seen him three times now, Marian twice.”

“Seen who?”

The humorless synthetic chuckle again; the muscles along Erskine’s jawline rippled faintly. “Vok. Antanas Vok.”

“And who is he?”

“Not is, was . Antanas Vok is dead. He died in a San Jose hospital a year ago last Friday.”

Several seconds went by while I stared at him. Outside, some kind of bird cut loose with a series of melodious trilling sounds, bright and clear to match the afternoon. Sunlight made golden oblongs of the near side French windows; the places where its rays touched the yellow walls glowed warmly. And here was Peter Erskine, dragging dark shadows into all that cheerful radiance.

I broke the silence finally. “Are you trying to tell me you’re being stalked by a dead man?”

“That’s how it seems. Marian... well, she can’t get over the notion that such a thing is possible.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

“No.” But then he pulled back a little by saying, “I sure as hell don’t want to believe it.”

“Look, Mr. Erskine—”

He asked abruptly, “Do you know what a revenant is?”

“Revenant? No.”

“Supposedly it’s a spirit come back from the dead in human form.”

“... What, like a zombie?”

“No. A zombie is a mindless corpse risen from the grave. A revenant...” He nibbled briefly at his lower lip, then expelled a sighing breath. “A revenant, according to folklore, is the spirit of an evil person with a malevolent purpose — to terrorize and destroy the living.”

I said slowly, “That’s a pretty incredible notion.”

“I know it. It’s Marian’s, not mine. She has always had a fascination with the occult. When she was a girl she thought she might have psychic powers. She studied parapsychology, joined one of those psychic research outfits — still contributes money to it. Later on she developed an interest in witchcraft and black magic. Not that she actually believes in such things as revenants, let’s just say she’s susceptible to supernatural possibilities. Obviously I’m not. Whoever is stalking me is a living person, somebody in whatever nut group Vok belonged to. That’s why I asked you here, why I want to hire you. To find out who and why at this late date.”

I’d been on the verge of getting up and getting out of there. Over the years I’ve dealt with more than my share of eccentrics, weirdos, smart-ass cuties, and plain crazies, but Erskine did not appear to fit into any of those categories; he seemed straightforward, worried, concerned for his wife if not himself. As long as he didn’t expect me to go chasing after phantoms, I was willing to listen to the rest of his story.

I said, “Let me get all of this straight. You had no connection with this Antanas Vok until the freeway accident?”

“I never knew he existed until that day.”

“Who was he?”

Erskine’s mouth bent into a grimace. “A butcher. In more ways than one, probably.”

“What does that mean?”

Headshake.

“All right,” I said. “You’ve seen somebody three times now who resembles Vok?”

“Enough to be recognizable even at night. Size, height, Vandyke beard, burning stare, clothing... all the same.”