Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

The car slowed as it turned in to the Mortlach driveway. Pendergast turned to Perelman. “I wonder if you might satisfy my curiosity on one small point.”

“Of course,” the chief replied.

“What does ‘P.B.’ stand for?”

There was an awkward pause. Perelman turned to Towne. “Lewis, would you mind waiting for us in front of the house?”

Perelman waited until Towne had exited the vehicle, then waited some more. He turned to Pendergast. “Percy Bysshe.”

“Marvelous! You must have had literary parents.”

“ Not marvelous. Bloody awful. Especially to a thirteen-year-old kid.”

“It seems to have done you no harm in later life.”

“That’s because nobody knows about it. And I hope to hell you can keep my secret.” Perelman opened his door, getting out with difficulty, Pendergast handing him his crutches.

Coldmoon followed the others up the steps and into the Mortlach House. The old boards creaked under their feet. This was immediately followed by a muffled sound coming from the bowels of the house — sounding like a drawn out wail.

Perelman halted in surprise. “What fresh hell is that?”

“That,” Constance said, “is the Mortlach ghost.”

Coldmoon stared, aghast, as another sound, a sort of groan, came through the floorboards.

“If you’d care to follow me into the basement, gentlemen, I’ll be happy to introduce you.” She led the way through the house to the basement door, opened it, turned on the lights, and descended the stairs. Coldmoon followed the others. He’d only been down in the basement once before, and it was as close and stuffy as he remembered it.

There was, however, one major change. A hole had been broken through a far section of the exterior wall, bricks and dirt scattered over the floor. And at the sound of their voices, another howl of protest issued from a dark corner, a sound so full of misery that Coldmoon felt his hair prickle.

Constance walked over and, removing a skeleton key from her pocket, opened a heavy wooden door in the alcove, revealing a tiny, windowless room. A man stumbled out into the light, dressed in muddy clothes, with wild hair and a massive dirty beard. He looked around at them with confused, pleading eyes.

“Wait — I think I know this man,” Perelman said. “He’s that old fellow who’s been hanging around Silver Key Beach.” He stared at Constance. “Who is he and what’s he doing here?”

“His name is Randall Wilkinson.”

“Randall Wilkinson,” Perelman repeated, balancing on his crutches. “But that’s... that’s impossible! Wilkinson was the murder victim who...” His voice trailed off.

“That’s right,” Constance continued for him. “The victim himself, murdered in this house ten years ago, his body never found. That’s what everyone was supposed to believe. But it’s a little more complicated than that — isn’t it, Mr. Wilkinson? Would you care to tell everyone what you told me yesterday?”

The man said nothing.

“Then, if you’ll forgive the liberty, I will.” She turned back to the three. “Mr. Wilkinson once worked as a chemical engineer and did quite well for himself — well enough to buy this house. But then he was involved in an industrial accident that kept him from doing full-time work. His employer claimed the accident was his fault and refused to pay more than a marginal disability benefit — and then fired him. Over the next few years he accrued heavy debts, and it looked like he might lose the house. Finally, in desperation, he turned to his widowed sister, a former nurse who had become a forensic artist. Together, they devised a plan. Mr. Wilkinson took out a large life insurance policy on himself, with his sister as beneficiary. He knew that, if the life insurance was to be paid out, his death would have to be incontestable — even without a body. And so, over a span of many months, he withdrew pints of his own blood, until at last he had roughly six quarts: the amount normally present in the human body. His sister, who lived in Massachusetts, came down to assist from time to time. It was all done in this basement, in secret. In between blood draws, he would conceal the medical apparatus in a hollow pillar.”

She turned to the man. “Correct so far?”

When he didn’t respond, she continued. “One night, when they had finally collected enough blood, they went to work. His sister knew about blood spatter and crime scene analysis, and so she was able to make everything look very credible. She artfully created spatter patterns on the walls and furniture, then poured the rest across the floor — in such profusion that it would have to be considered fatal. Mr. Wilkinson carved a small piece from his scalp; embedded it into a chair back with the blow of an ax; then broke up some furniture to ensure it appeared as if a struggle had occurred. Using blood soaked into his own clothes, they made smear marks to the back door, down the steps, and into a pickup truck. Then they drove away, split up a few days later, and Mr. Wilkinson established a new identity. He lay low for several years in a remote part of Utah — although I suppose ‘a remote part of Utah’ is redundant. In any case, the insurance company, after some initial resistance, eventually paid the sister, who split the money with Mr. Wilkinson. And she, of course, inherited the house. She never lived there, perhaps for obvious reasons, and later died of cancer. Her estate sold the place, and that should have been the end of the story. But it wasn’t.”

She glanced at the man again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to take over the story?”

He hung his head.

“Everything had worked out beautifully. Mr. Wilkinson had a new identity and enough money to live without working. But things gradually went awry. After Mr. Wilkinson’s sister died and the house was put up for sale, he began to brood. He couldn’t stop thinking about that hollow pillar and the blood donor equipment hidden inside, contaminated with his own blood. In the frenzy of preparing his own death, he hadn’t thought to remove it. If that were ever found, it might expose his entire scheme. The insurance company had been reluctant to pay and the adjuster had been a barracuda. Although he tried to push those worries aside, the concerns only got worse. Not unlike in Poe’s short story ‘The Tell-Tale Heart,’ his fears grew into a full-blown obsession. That obsession grew worse when he learned the wealthy New Yorker who’d bought the house planned to renovate it. Now Mr. Wilkinson’s obsessive fears suddenly became grounded in reality. He decided there was only one solution: to break in and remove the instrumenta sceleris from the hollow pillar. And so one night he returned to Captiva, with all the equipment he would need to remove the evidence. But being back in town proved mentally distressing. Even though he’d aged and changed his appearance and dress to that of a vagabond, he became paranoid that he’d be recognized. Worse, when he actually tried to break into the house, he disturbed a couple of squatters. He escaped the island, traumatized, while the squatters circulated a story of ghosts, knocking noises, and chains.”

“Ah, the source of the ghostly rumors,” Perelman said.

“My thinking exactly. In any case, the renovation took place but the hidden equipment was not exposed. This was of course a huge relief to Mr. Wilkinson — until a few years later, when the New Yorker couldn’t make a go of the inn he’d dreamed of opening and received a very attractive offer from a developer. After a long fight with the historical society, the house was scheduled for demolition. All of Wilkinson’s fears roared back in force — now his blood kit was sure to be found. He had no choice but to return and try again to get it.”