Marisha Pessl - Night Film

“And what’s that?”

“ Darkness. I know it’s hard to fathom today, but a true artist needs darkness in order to create. It gives him his power. His invisibility. The less the world knows about him, his whereabouts, his origins and secret methods, the more strength he has. The more inanities about him the world eats, the smaller and drier his art until it shrinks and shrivels into a Lucky Charms marshmallow to be consumed in a little bowl with milk for breakfast. Did you really think he’d ever let that happen ?”

As she said this, her still-very-much-alive reverence for Cordova took up in her voice, tossed it high into the air, made it swoop in figure-eights, trailing wild red ribbons — a voice otherwise limp, lying in a dull heap on the ground. I’d also noticed that during the entire conversation Inez Gallo hadn’t actually said the word Cordova, not a single time — referring to him only as he or Ashley’s father.

It had to be her private superstition or she didn’t like cavalierly intoning the word, as if it were akin to God.

As she stood up, stalking over to the bar and returning with the whiskey bottle, hastily splashing it into our glasses, I considered what she said. If there was no devil’s curse, there could be no reason for Cordova to obsess over an exchange, no reason to visit those schools at night, no pit filled with children’s belongings. Had I been hallucinating after all, thanks to the Mad Seeds?

“To comprehend the force that was Ashley,” Gallo said, sitting back against the couch, clutching her drink, “you must understand, she was her father’s daughter. The family’s favorite fairy tale was Rumpelstiltskin. That’s what they did, what they were, fantastical creatures spinning the ordinary, dreary straw around them into gold. They won’t stop until they’re dead. And so Ashley reconceived her illness to be a devil’s curse.”

“But it wasn’t just Ashley who believed it. Marlowe Hughes and Hugo Villarde were also pretty convinced.”

She scoffed. “Marlowe Hughes is a drug addict. She’d believe the sky was hot-pink polka dots if you told it to her. Especially if you wrote it in a fan letter. She spent time with Ashley. Became swept up in her tales. And Villarde, after what Ashley did to him ? The man went out of his mind. He believed her to be the devil’s queen, trembling at the sight of a flea.”

I suddenly recalled how Villarde had described, without shame, crawling on his hands and knees across his shop to hide from Ashley, cowering in a wardrobe like a terrified child.

“What about how Cordova worked?” I asked. “The horrors on the screen — they were real, weren’t they? The actors aren’t acting.”

She looked me over, her stare challenging. “It was nothing they didn’t ask for.”

“I’ve heard serial killers say the same thing.”

“Everyone who stayed at The Peak knew full well what they were getting into. They were dying to work with him. But if you’re asking me if he ever crossed the line into pure insanity, if he jumped headfirst into hell, he didn’t. He knew his limits.”

“What are they, exactly?”

She narrowed her eyes. “He was never a murderer. He loves life. But believe what you want. You’ll never find any evidence.”

You’ll never find any evidence. It was an odd thing to say. It sounded almost like an admission— almost. I thought back to the boy’s tiny shriveled shirt, caked not in blood but corn syrup, according to Falcone. What Gallo was saying certainly backed up the results Sharon had given me, whether I wanted to accept it or not.

“Why has everyone I’ve talked to about Ashley disappeared?”

“I took care of them,” Inez said with a hint of pride.

“What does that mean? They’re all lying in an unmarked grave?”

She ignored this, sitting up stiffly. “I also took care of the coroner’s photos of Ashley’s body, and then the body itself — before she was cut open in front of strangers like a lab rat. I’ve paid everyone off handsomely and sent them on their merry way.”

“How did you know who I talked to?”

She looked surprised. “Why, your own notes, Mr. McGrath. Surely you remember the break-in at your apartment. They were very helpful for tying up loose ends.”

Of course: the break-in.

“We were desperate, ” she went on. “We didn’t know where Ashley had gone, what had happened to her in the time she’d vanished from Briarwood and ended up in that warehouse dead. The only thing we did know was that she came here one night, broke in, took money from a safe. I suspected you’d know more. Briarwood, after all, informed us that you’d showed up there, snooping. We broke in to find out what you knew.”

“Any chance I can have my laptop back?”

“It’s been a costly enterprise, in the wake of her death, getting rid of each witness. But it’s all in keeping our promise to her, never letting anyone know the truth. It’s what he wanted. Ashley’s history will now forever remain where she wished it, where she believed in her heart it always was — beyond reason, between heaven and earth, land and sky, suspended much closer to legend than ordinary life — ordinary life where the rest of us, including you, Mr. McGrath, must remain.”

“Where the mermaids sing,” I added quietly, reminded of the Prufrock poem. As Hopper had explained it, the mermaids were the one thing the family was always seeking out, always fighting for — life’s most stunning and precarious razor edge. Where there was danger and beauty and light. Only the now. Ashley said it was the only way to live.

Inez Gallo, I noticed, was staring at me, her mouth open in shock — seemingly surprised I knew such an intimate detail about the family. She decided not to delve further into it, however, taking a long sip of her drink.

“Marlowe Hughes suffered an overdose,” I said. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

“I asked her drug dealer to scare her a little. I didn’t expect him to nearly bump her off.”

“Your compassion is very moving.”

She glared at me. “It was the best thing that could happen. It got her out of that apartment. Right now she’s sitting in an oceanview suite at Promises in Malibu, climbing up onto that first, very high, very worn-out step of all twelve-step sobriety programs.”

“And what did you say to Olivia Endicott?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. She’s out of the country. But I did speak to her secretary. I paid the girl a small fortune to avoid you like the plague and not to pass along any of your messages to her employer.”

“And Morgan Devold? Why did his house burn down?”

“He needed the insurance money. He was in dire financial straits, two kids, no job. When I explained who I was, that I was there to offer a helping hand, he was quite receptive. If you ever approach him again, he’ll swear he’s never seen you or Ashley before in his life.” She lifted her chin, satisfied. “Everyone in this world has a price, Mr. McGrath. Even you. ”

“You’re wrong. Some of us aren’t for sale. Who set the house on fire?”

“Theo and Boris. Boris is a longtime friend of the family.”

“Who smokes Murad cigarettes?”

She was visibly irritated by the question. “Theo. It was his father’s favorite brand.”

Again, she deliberately said his father, rather than simply Cordova. She was taking the long way to avoid a certain hazardous stretch of road.