Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

A few doors down, the morgue was closed as well. Arthur had left. Had the old man forgotten?

Jeremy climbed the stairs to the ground floor, entered the cafeteria, and poured the day’s eighth free cup of coffee. He sat, drinking slowly, in the company of worried families, sleepy interns, jaded orderlies.

When he returned to his office, Arthur was waiting outside his door, dressed in a black, hooded slicker so long it nearly reached galosh-encased shoes. Puddles spread beneath rubber soles. The slicker was beaded with rain, and Arthur’s nose was moist. The old man had left the hospital and returned.

The hood covered Arthur’s face from eyebrow to lower lip. A few white beard hairs straggled above the latex seam, but the end result was near-total concealment.

How fitting for a man of his profession, thought Jeremy. The Grim Reaper.

“Cheers,” Arthur said. “We’ve got ourselves a torrential situation. I do hope you’ve come protected.”

Jeremy collected his briefcase and his trench coat. Arthur regarded the wrinkled, khaki garment with what might have passed for parental concern.

“Hmm,” he said.

“It’ll do,” said Jeremy.

“I suppose it will have to. You don’t object to my driving, do you? Under the best of circumstances our destination’s a bit out of the way. Tonight…” Arthur shrugged, the plastic hood rattled, rain sprayed.

The Reaper goes fishing, thought Jeremy.

Then: What would he use for bait?

The interior of Arthur’s Lincoln was warm and sweet-smelling, upholstered in a dove gray felt that Jeremy had only seen in much older cars. The engine started up with a purr, and Arthur backed out smoothly. Once they were out of the lot, Arthur sat up straight, big hands resting lightly on the wheel, eyes shifting from windshield to rearview, glancing at both side mirrors, then back on the road.

Alert, but that gave Jeremy meager comfort. The storm had reduced visibility to a few yards. As far as he could tell, Arthur was driving blind.

The old man aimed the Lincoln downtown but turned left just short of the high, distant twinkles that meant skyscrapers. Jeremy tried to follow Arthur’s route but quickly lost it.

East, north, east again. Then a series of brief turns that addled Jeremy completely.

Arthur hummed as he drove.

When taillights flickered up ahead, the old man seemed to use them as navigational aids. When darkness dominated, and the windshield was a matte black rectangle, he seemed equally at ease.

Raindrops pelted the Lincoln’s roof, a frantic steel drum concert. Arthur seemed unmindful, kept humming. Relaxed- more than that, enjoying the impossible conditions. As if the Lincoln was set on a track and the drive was no more daunting than a bumper-car circuit.

Jeremy looked around. From what he could tell in the darkness, the Lincoln was spotless. Nothing on the backseat. Before they’d set out, Arthur had unlocked the trunk, revealing freshly vacuumed gray carpeting, an emergency kit, and two umbrellas bracketed to the firewall. He’d deposited Jeremy’s briefcase next to the kit, closed the trunk gingerly.

Hum, hum, hum.

Jeremy felt himself nodding off. When he jolted awake, he checked his watch. He’d slept for just over a quarter hour.

“Good evening,” said Arthur, jovially.

The rain was coming harder. Jeremy said, “What part of town are we in?”

“Seagate.”

“The docks?”

“My favorite part of town,” said Arthur. “The vitality, the sensory stimulation. The working people.”

“The working people.”

“The spine of any civilization.” A moment later: “I come from a long line of working people- mostly farmers. Where did you grow up, Jeremy?”

“The Midwest. Not this city but not far.” Jeremy named the town.

“A mercantile community,” said Arthur. “Any farming in your background?”

“Not for generations,” said Jeremy.

“A farm can be an educational place. One learns about cycles. Life, death, everything that falls in between. And, of course, the transitory nature of it all- one of my fondest memories is helping to birth a calf. A rather sanguinary process. I was seven and terrified. Petrified of being swept away in some great flood of bovine issue. My father insisted.”

“Did that inspire you to become a doctor?”

“Oh, no,” said Arthur. “If anything, quite the opposite.”

“How so?”

Arthur half turned, smiling. “The cow did it all by herself, son. I was made to feel quite redundant.”

“But you became a physician anyway.”

Arthur nodded. “Just a few more blocks.”

Smells of fish, fuel, rust, and creosote told Jeremy the docks weren’t far. But no water in sight, just rows of stout windowless buildings, stripped of architectural fancy.

Arthur Chess had driven to an oppressively narrow street lined with what appeared to be warehouses. The rain turned the pavement to gelatin; the Lincoln’s headlights were pathetic amber smears that died before they hit the asphalt. No stars, no moon, nothing to use as a navigational tool; the force of the storm induced myopia.

The Lincoln turned onto another unlit strip and reduced its speed. Jeremy saw no blocks, no sidewalks, just one plain-faced building after another.

A sanguinary process.

Predatory bugs. What did he really know about the old man? What had he gotten himself into?

Arthur continued a while longer, glided to a gentle stop, and brought the Lincoln to a rest in front of an unmarked, two-story cube. All Jeremy could make out were slab walls and a narrow door topped by a roll-out awning. Under the awning a bulb in a frosted glass case cast a fan of light. The illumination was of a hue Jeremy had never seen before- pale blue, purple-tinged, clinical.

The moment Arthur switched off the engine, the door opened, and a small man stepped under the awning. The blue light reached his waistline; below that, he was dark, nearly invisible. The illusion was that of truncation.

The half man’s arm extended, an umbrella snapped open, and he hurried to the rear of the Lincoln. Arthur pushed a button, the trunk popped, and when the small man circled back to the driver’s door he held a pair of umbrellas.

He held the door open for Arthur, stood on tiptoes to shield the much taller pathologist, and got wet doing so. After handing Arthur an umbrella, he came around and opened Jeremy’s door.

Up close Jeremy saw that the man was closer to Arthur’s age than his own, and no taller than five-five. Thin dark hair, parted and slicked, topped a round, puckered capuchin face of a type seen on some types of dwarfs. Bright black eyes picked up light from somewhere and sparked back at Jeremy.

Under the eyes, a lipless smile.

The man wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Once again, he stepped out into the downpour so that Jeremy could benefit from his umbrella. Jeremy moved closer, wanting to share, but the little man stayed out of reach as they ran for the door.

When Jeremy stepped into the pale blue light, his eyes were assaulted by pupil-popping fluorescence.

A tall figure filled the doorway. Arthur was already inside.

The monkey-faced little man waited until he’d passed. Soaked, but still smiling. The three of them stood in a small, white anteroom backed by a white door. The ceiling was acoustical tile. The bright light spewed from an industrial fixture that resembled an elongated waffle. No furniture, no odors, no chill. But for specks, splotches, and pools of gritty water dispersed on the black linoleum floor, a thoroughly inorganic place.

“Laurent,” said Arthur. “Thank you for providing shelter.”