Sorrow's crown

NINE

Panecraft continued to rise into the darkening sky, silhouetted in the lustrous moon as black and silver clouds roiled onwards. Not even five o'clock yet and already the day had drifted into a deepening night with the approach of another storm.

Looking up at the hospital, it didn't take a great leap of imagination to believe every rumor about this place was true, and that even greater secrets prowled within that had never even been whispered about.

Yesterday Lowell had made calls. To whom I didn't know, and had no clue how effectual they might actually be. The institute had a black-and-white striped semaphore arm at the front gate checkpoint. When I told the guard my name he made a big show of flipping page after page of lists on his Lucite clipboard and not finding me anywhere. He said, "Wait right here. Turn off the engine," and picked up a red phone in his little booth. He muttered unhappily for a while before finally palming a button that opened the gate.

He dismissed me without a word or gesture, pulled out a men's magazine called Gozangas and turned back to the centerfold he'd been staring at before I'd disturbed him. I drove through thinking of every low-budget horror movie I'd ever seen where madmen in asylums leaped onto the hoods of visiting cars and giggled maniacally, their insane faces splashed against the windshield.

I found the parking lot and got out. There were a great many people walking the grounds, some accompanied by nurses or guards, others alone or with visiting friends and family. Regardless of the dusk, several patients still read beneath trees, and a couple of guys threw a football. At the main doors there was another checkpoint where two guards looked over my identification. I was frisked and told to turn out my pockets; they nabbed my cell phone and went through more pages on other clipboards.

I looked up and down the long, well-lit corridors: they were completely empty. I wondered where all the other people listed on the clipboards might be. The guards pointed at a bench and told me to sit. I waited and they made a couple more phone calls, first on a red phone and then on a yellow phone.

Eventually one of them said, "Dr. Brent will allow you access to non-restricted areas B and C. Your visit will be limited to Sector Seven."

I nodded because it seemed the thing to do.

I was escorted to the elevators and up to the sixth floor to a sterile-looking white office so bright that I had to shield my eyes until I got used to it. The ceiling buzzed loudly with fluorescent lighting. There was nothing on the burnished white walls, not even a calendar with the days neatly X-ed out or a poster of Freud. Three clean white chairs formed a half-circle around a clean white desk. The clean white floor didn't have so much as a shoe scuff. Maybe the room was supposed to make the patients feel comfortable, passive, secure and con-tented as if they were back in the womb, or ascending toward heaven. I thought that sitting in here for any length of time would drive me to scrawling all over the place with Dayglo paint, just before I broke out and hung onto the hood of a visiting car, giggling maniacally with my insane face splashed on the windshield.

Dr. Brent sat at his desk smoking a pipe despite there being two No Smoking paperweights in front of him. He said to the guard, "Thank you, Philip. Proceed with your rounds." Philip spun on his heel with the well-practiced maneuver of a country music line-dancer and slipped down the hall.

Dr. Brent's first name turned out to be Brennan. He had a large badge on his white button-up sweater with his name printed evenly in big block letters. Maybe I'd just missed orientation at the asylum, or somebody was having a party on another floor. Maybe that's where all the other folks listed on the sheets were, everybody off having a bash on the ninth floor. Hi! Welcome to Panecraft! My name is Brent! What's yours?

He stood five foot five or thereabouts and wasn't sure whether he felt more empowered standing behind his desk or sitting there. He sucked his pipe loudly, leaned forward, fell back in his chair, stood in a half-crouch, and went through the motions again. When I sat he abruptly followed suit and dropped heavily into his seat. He was sweating and couldn't quite meet my eyes. A mustache like an unhappy insect skittered beneath his nose, his top lip wriggling as if he had an itch in the middle of his head. He didn't have Tourette's Syndrome and wasn't exhibiting any other signs of psychosis.

He was just very nervous.

"I'll have you know this is highly improper, Mr. Kendrick."

"I understand."

"You are not a peace officer?"

"No, I'm not."

"Then I'm afraid I must object."

"You must?"

"Yes."

"Why must you?"

That threw him, and he frowned uncertainly. "Why? Because I don't see the value in your visiting at this time. It is severely disruptive to the nature of the situation at hand, grim as it is."

Doug Hobbes, Lisa's husband, had visited her every day for the week-long period it took the doctors to conclude that she could be tried for the murder of her best friend Karen Bolan. Willie Bolan, Karen's husband, had come to see Lisa as well, before he'd moved out of town.

"Your duty is to determine if Crummler is legally competent to stand trial for murder, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"But he is considered innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Isn't he allowed visitors?"

"Technically, yes, but these circumstances are exceedingly unusual. Though Zebediah Crummler has held a position of some . . . uhm, trust and respect in the community, his inability to clearly articulate the day in question and circumstances thereof have left many unanswered questions. Questions not only pertaining to the crime itself and such events occurring before, during, and directly following the homicide, but also to his state of mind at this same time."

I got the sinking feeling that Dr. Brennan Brent was seriously trying to snow me.

"I'd like to see him," I said.

"For what purpose?"

"Because I'm his friend."

The mustache kept crawling until I thought it would scurry right out of the clean white room. "I'm afraid I don't understand." The pipe had gone out but he continued to gnash it, teeth clicking repeatedly.

"What's to understand? I'm his friend. I'd like to see him.”

“But he … that is, Mr. Crummler …" The words trailed off, but I could see he wanted to say Crummler has no friends.

"You appear nervous, Doctor."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Is Crummler all right?"

"Certainly. What kind of a foolish question is that to ask? What are you implying? How dare you make such an insinuation."

I stood and said, "Take me to him, please."

"And in what capacity are you working on this investigation with the police?"

"In no capacity."

He smiled, and showed that the teeth on one side of his mouth were little more than stubs from all the pipe chewing he'd done in his life. He had a presumptuous sneer hiding beneath the skittering bug. "You speak with a fraudulent authority, Mr. Kendrick. You have none here."

"I never said I did."

"Well, then . . ."

"If you deny my request to see Mr. Crummler I can assure you I'll notify the National Board of Psychiatry, the American Medical Association, the American Academy of Psychiatry, and the respective staffs of the Journal of Research in Personality, Psychology Today, and Mental Health magazines."

"See here, now, if you're attempting to discredit. . ."

"I'm not finished." I didn't know what the hell I was talking about but it sounded plausible enough. Lowell had told me to fake it, so if we were sending protocol to hell on the bullet train, I might as well be the engineer and ride that sucker all the way down the line. "I'm personal friends with Dr. Asa Hutchings of Channel Three News, and he's been considering a four-part series on the history of Panecraft Hospital and its current standing. There are quite a number of questions surrounding procedure at this facility."

"This is simply outrageous."

"Will you let me see Crummler?"

I thought of Lisa Hobbes in here, being asked questions about her miscarriages and her desperate want for a child. They'd go round and round about when and how her husband's affair had been discovered, and exactly what had brought up the rage that carried her to murder her friend and dump the body on my grandmother's lawn. I also wondered how she'd fared in the clean chair beneath these boiling white lights, and what she'd felt when faced with this kind of over-whelming arrogance, finding her name at the top of the list of the first page of every clipboard in the place.

Dr. Brennan Brent kept staring at me and sweating. He champed the pipe a few more times and finally assented. "All right."

~ * ~

I followed him back into the normally lit world, down the hall to the elevators. We passed a huge room where someone had just finished reading bad poetry aloud and others were commenting on how powerful the imagery of smashed frogs had been. Beautiful murals of cliffs and cloudscapes covered the walls, designed to take the patients' focus off the bars on the windows. I was surprised to see so many young people seated in a semi-circle among other, older, more harried and plagued faces.

Brent said, "Volunteers working with our non-violent patients. Mostly church-affiliated, though sometimes we get high school students or college freshman hoping to earn credit before formally applying to the psychology department."

We went up to what I suspected were non-restricted areas B and C of Sector Seven. It was also the twelfth floor. Two more guards met us there, and I was frisked again. We were led down a series of corridors to a cell that looked like little more than the drunk tank in the jail where I'd visited my dad. There was a small plastic window and a slot in the door. I didn't know what I expected, but I didn't expect such overbearing silence. The lights were tapered so that one corner proved to be a bit darker than the rest of the room. I didn't see Crummler anywhere. A guard unlocked the door and ushered us in.

Brent gave a cheerful greeting that sounded excessively loud as it rang around the cell. "Good evening, Zebediah, you have a visitor!" He started to chortle but gulped it down at the last second. "Zebediah? Would you like to see your visitor? Are you awake? Did you enjoy your dinner?"

A thick brown blanket rustled on the bed and a figure slowly began to unfurl like an animal awakening from its lair.

The blanket slid back to reveal, inch-by-inch, the pale shape of a baby's face, eyes wide with confusion and tears. Two streams dripped down the cherubic cheeks to land on the quivering bottom lip, hanging there before dropping off. A tiny gurgle escaped, and another, and another, until they became sounds that were almost words, but I didn't know what those words might be. The blanket clung like a robe as he got to his feet and took a few halting steps forward.

They'd shorn him.

"Oh, good Christ," I whispered. I swallowed repeatedly but my mouth had gone desert dry.

Crummler shuffled almost into my arms but didn't seem to recognize me. The happiness and the fire, his ecstatic energy and fervor, all of it gone, and nothing remained but unbridled terror.

His, and now mine.

I spun on Brent and could feel every muscle locking up one by one, even my elbows popping as I began to shake. "What have you done to him?"

The guard moved in as well, one hand resting on a billy club and the other on something I'm sure I didn't want to get sprayed with in the face. Brent's self-assurance grew here, surrounded by his men. "Do not take that tone with me, sir. Shaving is a requirement of this facility. He proved to be quite wild when placed in confinement and physical restraints originally proved to be necessary. Remember, he is charged with murder."

"You keep leaving out the important part," I said. "Innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, Doctor. A court, Brent, and this facility isn't one."

Crummler kept staggering forward, sobbing and muttering harshly now, and rested his face against my chest.

I'd have given anything in the world at that instant to have been Lowell Tully. Lowell would have known what to do, how to play this round, how to lash out or bide his time waiting, and he wouldn't have tipped his hand. I took the blanket and wrapped it around Crummler's shoulders like a shawl and walked him back to the bed. A barred window showed rain pulsing against the glass.

I said, "I want to talk with him alone."

Brent saw the value in not pushing this scene for more than it was worth. He champed his pipe once more and followed the guard out of the cell. The lock latched with an unbelievably loud clack that sounded like a bear trap snapping shut.

I checked Crummler thoroughly for bruises and welts, under the arms and on his thighs and lower back where someone might think they could get away with pounding him. In a little while he stopped weeping and just sat there staring out the window. All I found was a slight discoloration on the point of his chin, where I'd punched him.

A slab of ice collapsed within me as I looked at the man child, his mouth open and stunned face so much like a toddler's.

"I've seen your brother," I told him.

Crummler's voice flattened and hardened, and became serious and full of understanding. It scared the hell out of me. "Nick? You've seen my brother Nick?"

"Yes."

"He shouldn't be in town. Tell him to stay away. If they catch him they'll put him in here. They'll put him back in here."

"He'll stay away," I said. "It's all right. We're both going to help you."

"I am cold."

"I'll tell them to give you more blankets."

"They won't listen. They don't listen. They never listen to anyone, and never have, and never will. I don't want more blankets, I want to go home. I want to go home, Jon."

"Crummler …"

"Please, Jon, make them let me out." Tears welled in his eyes again and I felt a furious animal scratching inside my chest trying to scrabble its way out.

"I'm going to try. Tell me what happened that day in the cemetery."

"I like it there, Jon. I want to go back to the cemetery.”

“You will, I promise. Crummler, tell me what happened. Do you remember that day?"

"An errant night fallen before the dragon."

"How did you get covered in blood?"

"He was coughing."

"Teddy?" I asked. "Do you mean Teddy was coughing up blood?"

"The knight."

"Teddy was coughing?"

"The dragon kissed and bit him to death."

"The dragon coughed? How did you get covered in blood? Did you hold him? Did you cradle him?"

"He was coughing."

Part of me wanted to shake him into answering me, and the rest of me realized that if I hadn't been so quick on the draw in the first place all of this might have been avoided. "Did you know Teddy Harnes? Was it him? Had you met him before?" He continued to look out the window and tsked with a groan, as if hoping the rain and wind wouldn't mess the cemetery much in his absence. I thought he might recognize a headstone more easily than a living person. "He was visiting his mother, Marie Harnes. You take care of her grave."

"I take care of all the graves. I do a good job. I want to go back to the cemetery, Jon, please."

I could feel what span of attention he'd had to give quickly dwindling away, so I started throwing everything at him, hoping something would connect and make an impact. "Was another man there? A big man named Frost? A girl? Do you know Alice Conway? She says she was Teddy's girlfriend."

"He kept coughing."

"Who killed him?"

"The dragon's bite."

I sighed and sat back on the bed and saw motion outside the cell door. They'd be coming in to tell me that my time was up any second now. "Tell me about Maggie."

"Maggie?" Crummler said. He snapped up straight as if I'd passed a torch over his back. "Aunt Maggie?"

"Yes. What happened there?"

"Oh no. No, oh no."

"Tell me, Crummler, I need to know."

"I was. . . ." The muscles of his face tugged in every direction at once and his eyes filled with the fragments of his lifetime. His breathing sped and faltered. A mass of emotions slithered and scaled. Twin veins in his forehead bulged in a V pattern. I'd never seen his ears before: they were large and almost pointed. They turned crimson until I thought they might bleed. The corners of his mouth lifted and drooped as if fishhooks tugged repeatedly at his lips. He sat frozen, trapped by his own dead smile. "I was happy there. I was so happy there!"

Crummler bent forward and dropped to his knees, and crawled into a ball in the corner of the room sobbing wildly.

I knocked on the door and no one came. I knocked again, and played another scene in my mind, imagining them outside planning their strategy and filling out forms and giving me a new identity, never letting me go. I saw myself bald and in rags, ancient and mad, clambering in the shiny white rooms and subsisting on spiders and flies. I pounded harder. They could do what they want, claim I never arrived, drive the van into a lake.

In a near-panic, I hammered some more and the door opened slowly. Brent whirled past and a guard stepped into view.

It was Sparky.

"You," I said. "You did this to him."

"You know what the beauty of this moment is?" Sparky asked. He smiled, and the etched lines around his mouth and eyes continued to bend and twist-his upper lip dipped toward me at that strange and ugly angle. "Seeing that look on your face. Christ, I wish I had my camera. Hey, I'm just doing my job, now ain't that right, Doc?"

"Please, Mr. Shanks," Dr. Brennan Brent said.

I thought about that for a minute, how the head of the hospital would call a guard "mister." Shanks. The name fit.

With an intense clarity I realized Theodore Harnes had bought them both, and that Panecraft was his to use as he needed. But was it to torture Crummler or to kill him and hide the truth of what happened that day in Felicity Grave?

"Hey, Doc, call me Freddy. Everybody does, except this asshole here, he likes to call me Sparky. Doc, you got a Polaroid around here anyplace? Look at his nostrils, I think they're quivering like a bunny's."

"So," I said. "Harnes has the hospital in his pocket."

"Sure," Shanks told me, more gleeful than anybody over the age of five ought to be. "He put three wings on this place. Mr. Theodore Harnes is a gen-you-ine philanthropist." He stopped and tried to appear thoughtful. "You know how much money this institution earns for this town? This county? How many employment opportunities that comes out to be? Nurses, doctors, pharmacists, custodians, security officers?"

"Patients," I said.

He smiled with that ripped mouth and said, "Oh yeah, lots of patients. Well hell, wouldn't be a hospital without them.”

“No, I suppose not."

I kept looking back and forth from him to Brent, thinking about how much time there was before something awful happened to Crummler. Shanks let a little of the ferocity ease though, jabbing like his namesake.

We drew a bead on each other and he said, "Hey, asshole, I told you once already, quit staring at me."

"With pleasure. Where do you keep the violently insane?"

Brent knew his place and kept silent. He'd been given his tasks and orders over the last few days. Maybe debts had been owed, and were now being paid. I didn't even guess at how many of them had been collected over the years. Who else had Harms hidden away here? Pregnant girls, irritating partners, mistresses, his ex-wives … Teddy?

"The fifth floor, actually," Shanks said. "Always been partial to it myself. They got this water therapy tub down there, a big basin with one of them massagers, you know?" He put his hands on his lower back and stretched. His spine popped like pulling up a bath mat. "I get twinges on occasion, ain't young anymore." His white crew cut and corrupt persona didn't make me think of him as old and infirmed. "Me and this little nurse I know, we sometimes get together and we get to washing each other's backs and such. Better than a hot tub, I'm telling you. Next door, there's this cell, rubber all over, you get my drift?"

"Tell me later," I said.

"Anyway, it's the fifth. Why'd you ask that?"

I could picture him cutting off somebody's face, starting at the upper lip and carving outward from there, peeling back flesh as he unwound a boy's good looks. "I just wanted to make sure I knew where to visit when they lock you up in here." I turned and we stared at each other, and I thought about how much more of his lip I could ruin with my fists when the proper time came. "See you at the party tonight, Sparky? Or are you working late?"

Rain spattered down as heavily as syrup, smearing angry shadows across the streets. Despite a relatively cold night, lightning still occasionally speared the riled, cresting sky.

The bloated moon, fiery and flickering, bobbed in the clouds like a luminous buoy set adrift in the rolling ocean.

I expected an even more abundant security force at the Harnes estate than there'd been at Panecraft, but only two life-size stone lions rising to roar in the wind greeted me as I drove down the private road. The imposing electric gate had been left open just wide enough for the van to squeak through, as if daring me to enter. The name HARNES arced above, each letter an intricate piece of ironwork art. I continued on the road for a couple hundred yards more, the moon sliding down the wet trees and appearing in the sheen of windows haphazardly glinting through the woods. Backlit by lightning, the mansion loomed: four floors, perhaps thirty or thirty-five rooms, and yet hardly any lights on at all.

Oscar's truck sat parked out front in the impressive brick drive, along with several luxury vehicles, limousines, and Sheriff Broghin's police car. I noticed Alice Conway's mauled '68 Mustang directly across from a new Ferrari with so much wax on it that the rain beaded into thick pools gliding like mercury over the hood.

Quite a dinner party.

Dormers and colonnades filled the roof like a dark playground where glaring gargoyles could cavort and hide. The streaming panes of glass gawked like hundreds of bleary eyes gauging my approach.

I pressed the doorbell and the first several notes of Bach's "Air on the G String" played distantly within. There was no overhang at the front door. I waited and continued to get rained on. The six Burmese servants didn't scurry to let me in. I pressed the doorbell again and another classical piece seemed to play; it sounded like Mendelssohn. I'd never heard of a doorbell that switched tunes, but if such a thing existed I thought Theodore Harnes would be the man to have it. Then again, I was completely soaked, my ears were filling with water, and everything was beginning to sound like rain and my own breathing.

I tried the door, opened it, and walked inside.

Jocelyn stood directly in front of me.

She took a station at the foot of a magnificent staircase that wound to a landing filled with a line of sculptures. The statues receded into the murkiness like escaped convicts making a break. A chandelier burned dimly overhead, and most of the light seemed to drop down onto her like columns pitching forward. Her incredibly long, straight, shining hair continued to fall in a perfect crest. The dead gaze also hadn't altered.

Wearing a tight black dress and with her intensely black hair framing her pale face, she appeared cut from the fabric of darkness. She said nothing as I dripped on the marble floor. I realized immediately that she was actually a Ninja warrior, and in half a second my chest would be stuck with nineteen throwing stars that had earlier been dipped in poison.

"Your invitation?" she asked.

"Surely lost in the mail," I said. "Wouldn't Mr. Harnes have invited the man who captured his son's killer? Or should I consider the ride to the airport to be thanks enough?"

"You have extremely poor manners, Mr. Kendrick."

I simply nodded. "Not always, but tonight that happens to be the case. I apologize."

"Leave."

“No.”

"I can have you arrested."

"Just try to interrupt Broghin during the main course. He'd arrest you for bothering him."

She remained completely expressionless, showing no anger, no warmth, no clemency. I speculated again about what kind of childhood she might have had. Had Harnes bought her for table scraps from her starving family? I wondered where she fit into this game, and whether she was another of Harnes' lovers or just a captive like all the kids in Thailand and Nicaragua working themselves to death for him.

She took a step toward me and I could feel the welling of her presence, as though a crowd of people moved with her. I was amazed by the sudden shift in atmosphere and waited for her to take another step, but she didn't.

We stared at each other for a while longer and thunder growled as the wind tore at the door behind me. Finally Jocelyn took another step, and whatever ghosts had flocked around us receded into the gloom of the foyer. I reached and found some switches on the wall and hit them. The chandelier blazed. She lifted her chin as if to give me a clearer view of her face, displaying those exotic features and mysterious chemistry that comprised her being.

"I'd like to see my grandmother."

"Mr. Hames and his invited quests are currently enjoying their dinner, and you shall not disturb them." A Chinese empress couldn't have said anything that sounded more detached and indifferent, yet abiding no opposition. "However, they will be taking drinks in the library shortly, and I shall announce you then."

"Thank you."

We stared at each other some more. The discord running between us grew even heavier. In a romantic comedy we would be adversaries who would now begin slapping each other and then break down into frantic groping; the camera would cut to the two of us entwined in bed with the covers drawn up to our armpits, fondling happily, and the audience would get a laugh. I did not foresee such a scene occurring for us anytime in the near future. Though nothing registered in her face, I thought I noticed a slight uncertainty in her eyes, as if she did not know what I was, or what to do, or which can of spray to use on me.

Where were the Burmese servants who cleaned the mansion daily? Who knew what happened at night? Jocelyn's duties, whatever they might be, would not include the taking of guests' coats.

I said, "I guess we have some time on our hands.”

“What do you want here, Mr. Kendrick?"

"To find out more about Teddy."

"For what purpose?"

"To find out who killed him."

"You captured the man yourself."

"No," I said. "I made a mistake."

"I see."

I noticed that she hardly ever blinked, her black eyes filling with jagged incisiveness and emptying again. Her face was completely unmarred by lines of any kind, as if she were incapable of smiling, frowning, or showing a hint of what went on inside. In that moment I would have paid ten grand for a joke that would have made her giggle.

"I see," she repeated. "You feel guilty about the fate of your friend, the gravekeeper, and now you seek to incriminate someone else."

"I like the sound of ‘to cast aspersions' a little better.”

“Do you?"

"But you're wrong. I want to find out who killed Teddy, and why."

We continued our standoff and the wind continued its mad caterwauling. Thunder provided a nice contrapuntal cadence, as rhythmic as a backbeat. Jocelyn had much more patience than me and would undoubtedly win our staring match unless she forfeited by falling over dead from boredom.

"What nationality are you?" I asked.

"I was born in Hong Kong."

"I'd like to see Teddy's room."

Without hesitation she said, "All right."

That was too easy, and I wondered why.

She dimmed the lights once more and led me to the staircase. Again she faded into the shadows, reappearing only when she turned her head enough so that I could catch a glimpse of the pale angle of her cheek. She glided so smoothly up the steps that she appeared to be floating.

Maybe it was the darkness, the company, or the leftover edginess from Panecraft, but threads of cold sweat trickled down my chest.

I strained my ears hoping to hear Anna's voice or the clatter of silverware, but there was only silence.

"How long have you been with Harnes?" I asked.

"Quite some time."

"Did you know Teddy well?"

"No, not especially. No one did. Teddy was quite reclusive. He preferred to remain remote. Solitary. He found solace in philosophy. Theology. Other more cerebral pursuits. He recently took up painting."

"Did he care about his father's business affairs? The factories? After all, eventually he would have inherited it all.”

“Teddy did not care much for possessions and finances.”

“How did his father feel about that?"

"It made no difference whatsoever."

"A multi-millionaire didn't mind that his son followed more aesthetic pursuits and had no interest in taking over a vast family fortune?"

"Not at all. He cherished Teddy and put the highest value on his son's happiness."

She stopped in the darkness and I brushed against her back. A switch clicked and a portion of the second floor ignited as though lightning had struck nearby. On the walls were several Oriental tapestries and paintings, representations of myths and seascapes mixed side by side with family portraits. A number of beautiful women gaped down at us, some poised, and others who looked highly uncomfortable and even angry.

"Which is Marie Harnes?"

"I don't know."

To the side, separated from the others and at eye level, a much smaller painting showed the face of Diane Cruthers; her shiny luscious lips were turned into an honest but not so pretty smile, gazing out across a mansion she hadn't lived long enough to step foot inside. Her face was slightly turned, like she might be on the verge of laughter, exactly the same way as in the photo in Anna's album. A character trait, then. Her hair was much shorter.

What pregnant woman commits suicide?

We continued down the corridor to Teddy's room.

It hardly looked any different from Crummler's shack. Entirely bare except for a bed, dresser, desk, and a small bookshelf with a dozen or so books lying on their sides in stacks. Lowell had been right, if felt like a monk's cell. The stink of polish was overpowering; every surface sparkled. I drew my finger along the shelf and found it totally dust free.

Since we'd already established that I was completely rude, I decided to open a dresser drawer. It slid back too easily on its rollers and slapped me in the knees. There were only two shirts within.

Jocelyn's hand wrapped around my wrist and she squeezed until the tiny bones in my fist started to grind together. It took all my effort not to yelp. I let go of the drawer handle and she let go of me.

"Why do you insist on this type of behavior, Mr. Kendrick? I allowed you access to this room because I don't want you pestering Mr. Harnes with these ridiculous antics."

On Teddy's shelf were three books lying on their sides with severely cracked spines, as if he'd taken them down and reread them many times. On top, with a few dust jacket chips, lay Lao-Tzu Te-Tao Ching: A new translation based on the recently discovered Ma-Wang-Tui texts by Robert G. Hendricks. Below rested Kwo Da-Wei's Chinese Brushwork: Its History, Aesthetics, and Techniques, and an older copy of Ta T'Ung Shu's The One-World Philosophy of K'ang Yu-Wei, published in London by George Allen amp; Unwin in 1958.

I flipped through them and spotted extensive handwritten notes in tiny, clear print on the subject of painting. Beneath the back flap of the Brushwork dust jacket I found several neatly folded papers. I opened a few and saw they were ink drawings of women. He'd even drawn on the end pages and on the inside back cover with pencil: fruit, junk boats, seascapes, and more women.

I recognized the books as fairly uncommon titles. My former assistant Debi Kiko Mashima used to handle a great deal of my foreign first editions and their translations, and took to stocking volumes on Japanese culture and society, as well as other books on Asian thought, craft, and history. Just inside each front cover a cardboard strip poked out: bookmarks. I checked and saw the store stamp.

It was my store.

I would have remembered an online order if I'd mailed it to my home county. There hadn't been any. That meant Teddy had come into my shop sometime in the last few months.

I'd met him and hadn't even known it.

"You look disturbed," Jocelyn said.

“No."

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Put those down." She didn't wear a watch and there were no clocks in the room, but as though some silent alarm had gone off Jocelyn stiffened and lifted her chin. "They will be taking desert and drinks in the library soon. Follow if you must."

I looked out the window and saw a figure lurking in the darkness. I took a step closer, peered down, and watched Nick Crummler standing on the front lawn in the rain, staring back up at me.