John Manning: The Killing Room

“Enjoy,” he said, lifting his sherry to her as he sat down. They both took a sip. The liquid tasted strange, like no sherry Carolyn knew. Sweet, dry, but bitter as well. She set the glass on the coffee table in front of the divan.

“I’m very anxious to hear more about the project you want me to work on,” she said.

Mr. Young was studying her again with those ancient eyes. “In good time,” he told me. His raspy voice suggested it was rarely used anymore. Carolyn imagined even communication with the servants was infrequent. Surely they knew their jobs and probably had been doing them for decades.

“First,” Howard Young said, “I would like to learn a bit more about you. If we are to work together, I must make sure we are a perfect fit.”

Carolyn raised her eyebrows. “I thought that was the reason you came down to New York, to scope me out after Sid recommended me. And I thought I passed muster.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Oh, you did. But-”

“But?”

“I came back here with a few lingering concerns. Don’t worry. If I decide you’re not right in the end, I’ll more than compensate you for your time and trouble.”

“What are your lingering concerns?”

“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

It was like an accusation. Carolyn was momentarily at a loss at how to respond.

“When Sid referred you, I had the image in my mind of a middle-aged lady,” he continued. “I expected you to be wearing a plaid business suit with a skirt and sensible black shoes when I met you.”

Carolyn felt defensive. She couldn’t remember how she’d been dressed the day Mr. Young had come to her office, but today’s ensemble seemed appropriate enough. Sharply pleated khakis, a black turtleneck, low-heeled, open-toed black shoes, and a simple strand of pearls around her neck.

“Well, I’m sorry if I disappointed you,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not disappointment. Merely mild surprise.” He smiled again. “A man my age is never disappointed by a pretty woman.”

Carolyn’s smile was once again awkward.

He returned to being serious. “As you know, Sid referred me to you because of your work as an FBI investigator.”

She nodded.

“And I was delighted to learn how you had been a specialist in some very unusual cases.”

Again she nodded. “That specialty continued when I opened my own private investigation service in New York, which is how I met Sid.” She laughed. “He hired me for several of his…well, stranger cases.”

Mr. Young was nodding. “Indeed, Sidney has been an ideal lawyer for me. He has contacts all over the world.” He folded his long, twisted fingers in his lap. “And he asks only the most essential questions. He understands the need for secrecy.”

“Well,” Carolyn said, “Sid has represented many very high-profile clients, like yourself, who don’t want their personal business being thrown open to the prurient interests of the public. And I can assure you, Mr. Young, that my experience has also taught me the value of keeping secrets.”

He had gone back to studying her face, as if he saw something there-or wanted to. “You must have been very young when you started at the FBI.”

“It was right out of college.”

“And you said you were there for…four years?”

“Mr. Young,” she said, smiling. “If you are trying to discern how old I am, I can simply tell you. I’m twenty-six.”

He smiled and took another sip of his sherry. “And you are currently working as a freelance investigator?”

She nodded. “I take on investigative projects if someone like Sid refers me to them.”

“Why did you leave the FBI? It would seem to me you had a promising career there.”

She smiled tightly. “Personal reasons.”

The old man nodded, almost as if he knew what they were. “I told Sid I was looking to hire a smart, thorough, critical thinker to help me with my project and, just as importantly, to write up an account of it all. Those were the criteria. And yours was the name immediately at the tip of his tongue.”

He had told her as much that day in her office. “Well, as I said, I’m grateful to Sid for his confidence…”

“What matters,” Mr. Young continued, “is that I find someone whom I am able to trust with my deepest secrets. And also one who…” His voice trailed off as he seemed to search for the right words. “Who understands the world isn’t always governed by forces we can see and hear firsthand.”

Carolyn’s face betrayed her confusion.

Mr. Young trained his old eyes once more on her. “You have investigated such things, Carolyn,” he said. “Such things that live on the other side of our human senses.”

“You’re referring to-the supernatural?”

He nodded.

So Mr. Young’s “secret” had something to do with the supernatural. Carolyn had suspected it might. So many of the cases she had investigated had defied easy solutions. At the FBI, she’d been called several times to investigate “paranormal” activity, so much so that she became one of the “go-to” people in the Bureau for these types of things. For example, there had been a series of strange deaths surrounding an abandoned church on Cape Cod, where a whole town was nearly wiped out by some mysterious killer who was never officially identified, but whom residents believed to be a malevolent spirit. Then there was the eerie haunting of another village not far away, where the ghost of a celebrated killer from a hundred years ago seemed to have returned to kill again. And then, most recently, there had been a series of brutal murders of several students at a girls’ school in upstate New York-ritualistic slayings some blamed on the devil himself.

Of course, there was never conclusive “proof” of otherworldly or supernatural forces at work. But sometimes there was simply no other explanation. Investigating such stories had opened Carolyn’s mind to the possibility that science and logic could not explain everything. Over the last two years, Sid had gotten her involved in a couple of far-out cases. One wealthy woman, being sued by her husband for divorce, began to practice voodoo on him; although the official investigation could never prove it, Carolyn’s meeting with the husband left her convinced he was a zombie, and it was only through a strange woman who called herself a witch doctor that Carolyn was able to “wake him up” from the curse. Maybe he’d been faking; maybe he’d been psychotic; maybe he’d been on drugs. Still, it was all pretty exciting no matter what.

“When Sidney suggested you for my project,” said Howard Young, “I had no idea how truly perfect you’d turn out to be.”

She smiled. “So have I allayed all your concerns?”

“Most.” His face grew solemn. “Because what I need your help with is perhaps beyond any of our understanding.”

“Mr. Young, perhaps it’s time you finally tell me what exactly it is.”

“Patience, Carolyn. All in good time. First I must caution you that I have brought others in to help me in the past, and every one of them has failed.”

“I see.”

“Over the last fifty years I’ve worked with dozens of experts. And each time-” His face grew sad. “Each time we have met with failure. Now the time comes when we must address this issue again. And, given my age, it is certainly my last attempt to get it right.”

Carolyn was starting to feel a little strung along. “Mr. Young, please,” she said, “I’d like to give you my opinion on whether I can help you, but until I know more details…”

“The fact that you came all the way up here after our brief meeting in New York shows you are at least intrigued,” he said.

“Yes, of course I am.”