Edward Lee - Ghouls

“Nancy…King,” Greene said, after a meditative pause. “Nancy King. Real fun to look at. She married a guy named Willard, if I remember right.”

“And you knew her?”

“I knew of her is about all. The name rings a bell only because I remember reading a couple of papers she wrote. But I didn’t really know her. I worked in microbiology, never had much chance to talk to her.”

“What department did she work in?”

Greene’s brow lifted in a very competent imitation of Mr. Spock. “Neurotoxicology,” he said.

««—»»

Bewilderment infected him now so emphatically that he could barely clear his head enough to drive. Heading back toward town, Kurt speculated that all of his recent revelations could be, and probably were, meaningless. There was no basis for the thoughts which now ate at him; he just couldn’t let it go. Information he thought of as vital dangled before him like bait on hooks, yet all the lures seemed to hang from Belleau Wood.

He left the lab report on Bard’s desk (the chief was gone, probably buying out the doughnut rack at the Jiffy-Stop) and next found himself back on 154, heading north. The radio squawked at him unintelligibly. Cars passed, but he didn’t see them. His most rudimentary impulses had taken over; he supposed he’d known all along where he was going.

Willard’s Chrysler was parked askew in the cul-de-sac, as if abandoned. The security truck sat begrudgingly off to the side of the separate garage.

Kurt’s knock was answered almost at once.

“Hope I’m not interrupting—”

“Good that you stopped by,” Willard cut in. His face was unaccountably grave. “I’ve been wanting to call you, the police, that is. But I was afraid of being premature.”

“I don’t follow,” Kurt said.

Willard let him in, leading through the darkened hall to the kitchen. “My wife seems to have vanished,” he said. “I mean, I’m not quite sure how to interpret it. She didn’t inform me that she’d be going anywhere for any length of time. I’m worried.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“She left early last evening, about six. I haven’t seen her since then.”

On her way to McGuffy’s? Kurt wondered. If so, then why hadn’t she shown?

“She’s never done anything like this before,” Willard said, opening curtains over the kitchen window. Daylight blazed in, and Willard’s face seemed to wither. “She’s been known to take in an occasional late movie by herself, since I don’t go to them. But she’s always back before midnight.”

“Maybe she went to see relatives or something.”

Willard shook his head. He filled a glass with cubes from an ice-maker built into the refrigerator. “Care for something?”

“That lemonade looks good,” Kurt remarked, spying the pitcher on the counter.

“It’s been sitting out for days,” Willard said. He smiled briefly beneath his beard, and dumped the pitcher out into the sink. “I’ll make some fresh.”

Can`t be any worse than Bard’s coffee. “Don’t bother. I’ll just have what you’re having.”

Willard iced another glass, took Kurt back through the hall into a study right of the foyer, then filled both glasses with Scotch from a lead-cut decanter recessed into one of the bookshelves. “No, she hasn’t got any relatives,” he got back to saying. “I can’t begin to guess where she’s gone.”

The paneling here looked very old, and the furniture queer and older, salvaged antique junk. Must buy his furniture from Uncle Roy, Kurt thought, trusting the shadows to conceal his grin. Either that or he’s got Captain Nemo for an interior decorator. Bookshelves of conflicting design stood tall as the ceiling, and several of the carpet tiles had begun to come loose, showing gaps. Kurt jiggled his glass to watch the pretty liquid twirl over the ice. “None of my business, but is it possible that you and your wife might be having some problems, in the domestic sense?”

Willard sat down at his desk, sighing. He pursed his lips dejectedly. “In truth, our marriage has been more awkward than harmonious. We’ve never fought, really. We’ve always treated each other with the highest respect, which I’d always deemed as vital—but perhaps it was that same respect that eventually twisted our relationship into stiffness. I fear Nancy viewed the routine of our marriage as drudgery before long; she grew bored with what I took for a very content style of life. Who was the great avant-garde musician who said ‘Variety is the spice of life, but monotony is the sauce’? If that creative hypothesis is accurate, then I must be a veritable tub of sauce.”

Tub of hard sauce, you mean, Kurt amended. He tasted his Scotch and wondered if Willard might’ve inadvertently filled the decanter with gasoline. It burned down his throat like acid, cutting a line of wild, unpleasant heat.

“I’m certain my wife’s having an affair,” Willard said.

Kurt acted as though this were news. “Sorry to hear. Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Perhaps, but not likely. I’ve always been a man of complacency, hardly a candidate for the traditional role of husband. Originally I’d thought that our mutual scientific interests might hold us together, lay the ground for a strong foundation of compatibility, but I was really just fooling myself. What could I expect? Nancy’s twenty years younger than me, and I may have failed in fulfilling certain aspects of her needs, if you receive my meaning.” Willard grinned, unabashed. “It seems she’s romantically involved with my very own security guard—good help is hard to find, as they say. He’s an acquaintance of yours, correct?”

“Yes, but Glen’s never been one to keep me up on his private life. If this is true, though, do you think it’s possible—”

“That my wife would consider running off with him?” Willard filled in. “Yes, I think so. They may have already, in fact. I’ve been ringing Glen all day.”

“He’s been in Forestville since early this morning. Police business.”

Willard’s mouth opened, shut. He looked back nebulously. “You’re sure of this?”

“Yeah, but I doubt he’ll be there long.”

“Just what kind of police business do you mean?”

“Routine questioning.”

Willard’s hand skimmed nervously over his beard. “So. If my wife’s not with him, then where is she?”

Kurt had no answer to offer. He remained standing, nipping the potent liquor, and it was then that he noticed another door on the far wall which could barely be seen for the room’s dimness. Three identical deadbolts had been set in a straight line above the doorknob. And mounted on the ceiling, just above the door itself, was another motion detector. Kurt eyed the device, mystified.

“I guess it was all a mistake,” Willard said.

“What’s that?”

“Marrying Nancy. Marrying anyone, for that matter. I would think that I’d know myself enough to realize that this would have happened eventually. I must’ve been crazy to hope that a woman as vigorous and attractive as Nancy would be content with a slothing duffer like me.”

Willard’s bid for the blues sounded pointless, ineffective. Somehow, Kurt sensed it was more an act than anything, an affectation from Willard to seem more human than he was. Kurt cleared his throat, unsure how to begin. It bothered him, but he knew he had no choice now but to betray Nancy Willard’s confidence. “The reason I came over,” Kurt started, “is, well…won’t do me much good now, I guess. What I mean is, I came to see your wife. She called me yesterday, said she wanted to tell me something. But I never got around to catching up with her.”