Bill Pronzini - Zigzag

“These sightings took place where?”

“Here, two times when Marian and I were together. The first on the side terrace just outside those windows there, around ten Friday evening. The other time we were having coffee by the pool when he appeared.”

“Was anyone else present either time?”

“No. Just the two of us.”

“You don’t have live-in help?”

“No. A gardener, a part-time cleaning woman, and a full-time cook, but none of them is here in the evenings.”

“You say this intruder appeared. How do you mean?”

“As if he’d materialized out of thin air,” Erskine said. “I’m not kidding. One second he was there, the next... gone. Vanished.”

“What exactly did he do each time?”

“Pointed and stared hate at me.”

“That’s all? No threatening moves?”

“No, but the implied threat was plain enough. I don’t frighten easily, neither does Marian, but the way he looked, his face and hands... Frankly, it made my blood run cold.”

“What about his face and hands?”

The muscles along Erskine’s jawline rippled again. “They were more bone than flesh. Like a skeleton’s. And there was a kind of eerie glow about him. Ectoplasmic, Marian called it.”

“Did he speak at all?”

“No.”

“How was he dressed?”

“The same as the day of the accident. Shabby black suit and black hat. But the clothing was all torn up, filthy with what seemed to be dirt.”

“Each time you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he leave any traces behind? Footprints or the like?”

“No. I looked everywhere on the property, but there was nothing to find. Except...”

“Except?”

“A lingering smell. Faint the first time, but last night it was stronger.”

“What sort of smell?”

“Nauseating. Like something dead and decayed.”

Well, hell. “That kind of stench can be faked,” I said. “So can the skeletal resemblance to Vok and the unearthly glow and the rest of it. Stage effects.”

“I know. But it was damned realistic nonetheless.”

There was nothing supernatural about the vanishing act, either, I thought. With climbable fencing and all the shrubbery and trees on the property, it wouldn’t have been too difficult for a man, the living, breathing variety, to trespass more or less unnoticed. Still, there should have been some signs of his presence. Erskine must have missed seeing them in the darkness.

“Where was the third sighting?” I asked.

“Out on the road near the front gate, two nights ago, as I was leaving for a meeting in Palo Alto. He was just standing there, pointing and hating the way he did in the hospital. By the time I stopped the car and got out, he was gone. Vanished, like before.”

“The hospital, you said. Was that where Vok made his threat against your life?”

“Yes. The day after the accident, just before he died.”

“You went to see him there? Why?”

“One of the doctors called and said he was asking for me. I didn’t want to go, but Marian talked me into it. Act of compassion. Honoring a dying man’s last request.” Erskine’s mouth quirked. “Softhearted, that’s my Marian. A trait I’d always admired in her before.”

“Did she go with you?”

“Yes. She saw Vok grab my hand and put that thing into it—”

“Thing?”

“—and heard him swear his sick vengeance. So did a nurse and another man who was in the room.”

“A member of Vok’s family?”

“I don’t know who he was. Possibly somebody from the coven or whatever it was they were involved with.”

“Coven?”

“You know, witchcraft.”

“Now what are you telling me? That Vok was some kind of devil worshipper?”

“That’s exactly what he was. He as much as said so, a lot of crap about Satan being his lord and master. That’s why Marian believes the revenant thing is conceivable.”

I had another urge to haul my carcass out of there. But it passed and I stayed put. There’s a kind of perverse fascination in stories like the one Erskine was spinning for me; the more fantastic they are, the greater the lure to hear them all the way through. I’m too practical minded to give credence to evil spirits wreaking vengeance from beyond the grave, but there’s no denying the existence of devil worship. Or that there are credulous people who buy into the whole occult shtick. Marian Erskine seemed to be one of those, even if her husband shared my skepticism.

“Look,” he said, “I know how crazy all of this sounds, but it’s true, everything I’ve told you. A newspaper reporter found out about the threat and claimed to have dug up information proving that both Vok and his wife belonged to a devil cult. He tried to interview Marian and me. I wouldn’t let him in the house.”

“Did he publish a story anyway?”

“Not that I know of. If I’d seen one, you can bet I’d have gone straight to our lawyers.”

“Remember his name? Or what paper he was with?”

“Not his name. The San Jose paper, I think it was.”

I said, “Tell me about the traffic accident. How did it happen?”

“Vok’s reckless driving. On the freeway near downtown San Jose. I was down there on a business matter, about to exit, when he veered over in front of me so suddenly he clipped my front fender. The impact spun us both around. I was lucky, my ’Vette stayed upright and all I got were some bruises and a cracked wristbone, but Vok’s van flipped and rolled and slammed into the overpass abutment. His wife was killed instantly. They got him out alive but in critical condition. He was barely hanging on when Marian and I saw him in the hospital the next day. Lived just long enough to swear his revenge.”

“What was your reaction to that?”

“It didn’t bother me very much — just a dying lunatic’s delusion. Marian was shocked and scared at the time, and even more upset and afraid for me when the reporter confirmed what Vok was into. But over time, when nothing happened, she got over it. Until last Friday.”

“One year from the date of the accident.”

“From the date of Vok’s death, actually.”

“How do you account for the passage of so much time before these recent sightings?”

“I can’t account for it,” Erskine said. “Marian says the revenant might have had difficulty crossing back from the Other Side, but that’s bunk. The only rational explanation I can think of is that there’s some kind of anniversary connection.”

“Somebody involved with this devil cult carrying out Vok’s threat.”

“Yes. The man in the hospital room must have told them about it.”

“Could he be the one impersonating Vok?”

“No. Vok was short, slight, in his fifties. The other man was tall, heavyset, years younger.”

“Did he give his name?”

“He never said a word.”

“Would you know if he’s the one who claimed Vok’s body? And the wife’s?”

“No idea.”

“You said something earlier about a ‘thing’ Vok thrust into your hand. What did you mean?”

The question produced another grimace. “A damned black host.”

“That’s the second time you’ve used that term. Explain it.”

“Better if I let it explain itself.” Erskine slid a hand inside his jacket, brought out a plain white business envelope, then stood to pass it to me. “Careful when you touch the thing. It leaves a residue on your fingers.”

The envelope was unsealed and nearly weightless. Inside was a solid black disc about the size of a poker chip. I upended it into my palm. It appeared to be made of some brittle, grainy substance, and there were three tiny triangular horns that gave it the look of a gear with most of its teeth missing. There were also shallow indentations and a shallow piece missing along the opposite edge. Bite marks.