Ronald Malfi - Floating Staircase

I thought of Elijah telling Althea Coulter that he had gone away.

I thought of Veronica in the interrogation room saying, When I came back . . . gone . . .

Bending over, I shoved the lamp into the cubbyhole and peeked inside.

It was just a tiny square box, a space for storage, with wooden struts and pink insulation for walls. The frayed baseball was still inside. So were the Matchbox cars and the Scrooge McDuck comic book. A child’s secret hiding place. I thought about the time Adam and I treaded water beneath the double dock, hiding from the rifle-toting lunatic marching on the boards above us. Hiding, I thought. Children hide.

When I came back . . . gone . . .

But of course, there was nothing here. The cubbyhole was empty. I’d known that—I’d known it since that first day I’d opened the door and found the shoe box full of dead birds. Just what had I expected to find?

And then I smelled it.

Sickeningly sweet, like day-old chamomile tea. Borne on the cold air, it grew more and more pungent with each inhalation. I craned the neck of the lamp farther into the cubbyhole and squeezed my head and shoulders inside. By no means am I a big man, but the opening was too tight for me to slip in past my chest. I recalled my nightmares from so many weeks ago—being squeezed to death in a constricting wall. Sweat suddenly sprung out along my brow.

Sometimes we go in; sometimes we go out.

In, I thought. He went in.

I reached out and fingered a curled bit of insulation paper. The Pink Panther’s face smiled slyly at me. Slowly, I peeled the curl of paper away from the wooden struts. I expected to find Sheetrock behind there, the back of the office closet. But what the light from the gooseneck lamp brought into view was a narrow cavern between the eaves and the back of the closet, a slender vertical cut behind the wall. This wasn’t just a cubbyhole; this was a crawl space.

Bringing the lamp closer to the narrow sliver of darkness, I held my breath and felt the sweat run down my face.

Sometimes we go in, I thought.

Holding my breath.

I saw him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Unseasonably cold weather had practically preserved it, keeping the body from stinking up the whole house. This was the medical examiner’s inference, anyway. It was also the opinion of the police officers who for several hours occupied the rooms and hallways (and walls) of 111 Waterview Court.

I stood on the front lawn as they removed Elijah Dentman from the house. It required only two officers to carry the body to the ambulance, although I estimated one could have done it without breaking a sweat. They carried him on a flat wooden board with handles on either side. A white sheet covered his emaciated frame. His profile looked like a distant mountain range. Some neighborhood dogs came sniffing around, and it took another officer to chase them away.

By this time, a crowd had formed in the cul-de-sac, and the more brazen onlookers stepped on the front lawn and even pooled around the side of the house. They all watched in horror as the body was exhumed and taken away in the ambulance. When the ambulance departed, it did so with its lights and siren off.

Upstairs, I stood in the doorway to the study. I was instructed not to touch anything in the room. My impression of crime scenes (admittedly acquired from too much television) was that they were always sterile, sober environments, and the officers were always stern and emotionless and wearing ties tucked into their buttoned dress shirts.

Here, though, everyone kept the atmosphere as casual as possible, even at its most somber moment when the body was extricated from the crawl space via a fresh opening cut into the hallway wall. There was no yellow police tape anywhere. The cops wore uniforms. They did not look like they had everything under control nor all the answers, though nothing ever got out of hand. They looked so young and seemed to be learning as they went along, much as I was. These officers were not all-knowing, all-powerful beings; they were regular guys doing their job and they wore their emotions on their sleeves. It was as real as it could get.

All these years, I thought, I’ve been writing crime scenes wrong.

Adam appeared beside me. “You look green,” he said.

“Yeah? So do you.”

“I feel it.” He surveyed the room.

Two officers took photographs of the carpet and the enlarged opening the cops had cut into the wall in order to access the crawl space.

A third officer’s black boots poked out of the mouth of the cubbyhole as he backed out. “It’s a tight fit in there,” he said, sweat causing him to glisten like an eel. “Goes all the way through the wall and behind the stairs. There’s a bunch of junk, too. Kid must have used it as a clubhouse or something.”

No, I thought. Not a clubhouse. That’s where he hid when he was afraid. Or when he was hurt.

Adam put a hand on my shoulder. “You were right, you know.”

“Maybe,” I said. “About some things.”

“No,” Adam insisted. “You were right all along. You said it yourself—that the proof was in the staircase. Well, this crawl space goes behind the wall, behind the staircase in the hallway. That day on the lake, you just had the wrong staircase.”

Driven by some imprecise loyalty, I telephoned Earl and told him to bring his camera and best writing pad. When he arrived at the scene, he snapped photos of the spot where police busted through the upstairs wall and even took snapshots of the passage between the interior walls and the outer shell of the house, where Elijah’s body had been hidden.

Before Earl left, he hugged me with a surprising amount of emotion behind it, then held me at arm’s length while he grinned. “You’ll be leaving after this,” he said.

“We can’t stay.”

“Thank you for giving this to me.”

“You helped make it happen,” I told him.

It looked like Earl wanted to say something heartfelt and poignant. Maybe if we’d had more time to get to know each other, he would have. But as it was, we were pretty much strangers, and in the end he settled for shaking my hand firmly and nodded. “You keep hold of my phone number,” he told me. “Stay in touch, now.”

I promised that I would. “Take care,” I said, watching him trudge through the thinning snow to his Oldsmobile.

(His news story would get picked up by papers throughout the state, landing him his first and only syndication. And I did keep in touch with him . . . until a massive stroke took him in the night some eighteen months later.)

When he left, I felt empty.

Adam arrived home sometime around midnight. The rest of the house was asleep, including Jodie on the pullout couch in the living room. I was propped up in a chair in Adam’s kitchen, the lights off, the small television set flickering in the darkness, the volume low.

“Hey. You weren’t waiting up, were you?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Jodie?”

“On the couch. She’s all right.”

“How about you?”

I held up one hand to show him how badly it shook. “Ready to perform surgery.”

Adam flipped on the light above the kitchen sink and turned on the water. He scrubbed his hands with dishwashing detergent.

“You hungry?” I asked. “I’ll throw together some sandwiches.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. Thanks.”

I went to the refrigerator and produced some sliced turkey, mayonnaise, half a head of lettuce, and two cans of Diet Pepsi. There was a loaf of French bread on the counter. I sawed off two sizeable pieces, then cut them both down the middle. I asked Adam if he was a lot hungry or a little hungry.