David Morrell - Double Image

“And no one else ever occupied it?”

“That’s correct, which explains its superb condition. Since no one was here to wear it down, it didn’t require much repair. With the exception of the installation of the vault and the darkroom, the house remains the same as when it was built in the thirties.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m buying it.”

IN PHOTOGRAPHY, when unfocused rays of light reflect off an object and strike a negative, they create overlapping blurs known as “circles of confusion.” That was how Coltrane felt, trapped in circles of confusion. What are you doing? he asked himself. As he drove through frustratingly dense traffic toward the police administration building in downtown L.A., his mind – no matter how weary – wouldn’t let him have any peace. Do you think that if you put yourself in a time frame that goes back far enough, you’ll be able to feel as if nobody you love has died?

He thought of the most important object in his life – the photograph of his mother pushing him in the swing at the trailer park. It was impossible to count the hours that he had spent, both as a child and an adult, staring at that photograph, projecting himself into it, imagining that he was there. Always, the effort had been frustrating, because the woman and the boy in that picture remained frozen in time, whereas he continued to get older. He wasn’t a participant. He was an observer. He and that boy were no longer the same. And yet the woman was always his mother.

Do you think that if you live in Packard’s house the way it was in the thirties, you’ll trick yourself into feeling remote from the present, less traumatized by what Ilkovic did to your grandparents and Daniel and Greg? Your problems won’t go away. They’ll be the same in the past as the present. But the past will raise different problems, intruding on the present.

“HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW I CAN FIND INFORMATION ABOUT A woman who lived in Los Angeles in the thirties?” Coltrane asked.

Nolan wasn’t prepared for a change in topic.

“She owned the house I’m buying,” Coltrane explained. “I’m trying to find out some history about the property.”

“Haven’t you been listening to me?” Nolan asked. “You’re barely going to scrape through this and stay out of prison. If I were you, I’d keep my mind on what to tell the grand jury.”

“If I keep thinking about Ilkovic, I’ll go crazy.”

“Well, you’re not going to get much of a break from talking about him. The state police want you to drive back up there. They want another heart-to-heart. At six-thirty.” Nolan glanced at his watch. “Which gives you ninety minutes.”

“They’re working late.”

“You’re a popular guy.”

Coltrane rubbed his raw eyes and stood.

“The library has city directories,” Nolan said.

“What?”

“For the thirties. She owned the house how long?”

“From ’33 until ’35.”

“Follow her through the directories. Where did she move after she left the house you’re buying? See if she’s in the ’36 listing. Same thing with the phone book. Eventually she’ll disappear from the listings – either because she moved to another city or she died. If she died, there’ll most likely be an obituary in the L.A. Times . Of course, it’ll take awhile for you to check all the copies of the newspaper for the year when she no longer appears in the listings, but if it’s important to you…”

“The house has a colorful past. I’d like to know more about it,” Coltrane said.

“With all the problems you have-”

“It’s better than thinking about the last few days.”

“Can’t argue there. What you need is a private investigator.” Nolan pulled a business card from a drawer. “Try this guy. He’ll need whatever you’ve got on her, including a photograph.”

“I don’t have one,” Coltrane lied.

RETURNING TO PACKARD’S HOUSE NEAR MIDNIGHT, he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. A glance in his rearview mirror showed him that his second lengthy conversation with the state police had etched deep fatigue lines into his face, as had his insistence that if they had more questions, they were going to have to wait: He was leaving the next day to go to Connecticut for his grandparents’ funeral.

He put the car in the garage, locked the house’s front door behind him, and finally took halting, weary steps into the living room. There, he accomplished the monumental task of removing the gray slacks and navy blazer that he had worn to Daniel’s funeral so long ago this morning. Tired to the point of dizziness, he sank onto his sleeping bag.

But his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Half-formed nightmares made him twitch. The mangled hands of Ilkovic’s headless corpse seemed to reach up to choke him. Jerking awake, he strained to see the luminous dial on his watch and exhaled in despair when he discovered that the time was only twenty-five after three. Just keep lying here, he told himself. Close your eyes. You’ll soon be asleep again. But his ravaged nervous system refused to obey. Before he left for New Haven, he had to make plane reservations and contact his lawyer about the documents that Duncan had given him. He had to arrange for his accountant to send escrow checks. He had to -

He got up and proceeded through darkness into the dining room and then the kitchen. After turning on a light beneath one of the counters, he found the documents where he had set them next to the stove. He read them and felt that they were straightforward. Had it not been that he wanted to be certain of gaining unquestioned title to the property, he would have signed them right away, without bothering to wait for his lawyer’s opinion. Negotiation wasn’t an issue. At all costs, he intended to gain possession of this house.

Next to the refrigerator, a blinking red light caught his attention: the combination telephone/answering machine Duncan had given him. Coltrane hoped that it was Jennifer who had called. He regretted the way their conversation had ended at the funeral. He wanted to settle their differences. But then he realized that Jennifer couldn’t possibly know the phone number here. It wasn’t listed. He himself hadn’t known until Duncan gave it to him at the end of today’s conversation.

Coltrane pressed the play button. For a moment, he had the irrational fear that Verdi’s Requiem would start playing, that Ilkovic’s guttural voice would again threaten him, that last night hadn’t happened, that his waking nightmare hadn’t really ended. But what he heard instead was almost as troubling.

No message at all. Just silence. Then a click.

Only a wrong number, he told himself.

Sure.

He poured water into a glass, but instead of drinking it, he found himself leaving the kitchen. That was how he perceived his action. He didn’t choose to leave so much as he discovered that he was doing so. The moment he started, however, he knew where he was going.

It took him no time at all to unlock the vault, pull out the section of shelves, and enter the hidden chamber. After Duncan’s visit, he had been careful to put the photographs back and close the wall, lest Duncan – perhaps wondering about what Coltrane had been doing in the vault – might come back to satisfy his curiosity. Again, Coltrane removed the box and took out photograph after photograph, arranging them on shelves, admiring the woman.

When he finally put them away and left the vault, he was surprised to find that the sun had been up for several hours.

NEW HAVEN WAS A FOOT OF SNOW, a bitingly cold wind, and a funeral to which almost no one came because most of Coltrane’s grandparents’ friends had died before them. After listening to the minister’s final prayers, he put his gloved hands on each of the coffins and whispered, “Good-bye.”