Games to Keep the Dark Away Page 11

  He looked up quickly. “No, I’ll do it.” This time his steps were unsteady as he walked towards the companionway.

  I waited until his head disappeared, then got up, and looked down there. I could see a small, compact galley, but that was all. I glanced down at the telephone at my feet and made a note of its number. By the time Keller returned, I was back in my deck chair.

  “About that research of Jane’s...” I opened my beer and took a swallow.

  Keller’s angry expression returned. “If you don’t want to get pitched over the side, drop it. I don’t even know why I’m letting you stay aboard.”

  But I could guess; Keller wasn’t a man who could bear loneliness in the face of his loss. To prove it, he began to talk, his words slurring as they spilled out.

  “But, then, I don’t know anything anymore. How do you know when your life gets out of control? There was a time when I thought I had it all and now I can’t even remember when that was. I was a doctor, a good doctor, and I was going to ease pain. I’d been to England, seen the work they were doing in the hospices there, and I’d inherited enough capital to start my own here. The Tidepools. Ease pain. Jesus.”

  “But you do good work there.”

  “Sure. Good work. And we take their money. Sometimes we even...Jesus.” He poured a full glass of gin and began in on it. “You know, it probably got out of control up there when I brought Ann in. She had a lot of ideas about making a profit and they sounded good, but what they did was bastardize the original concept. But the reason I brought her in and went for those ideas was because it had gotten out of control with me first. You know what I mean?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Cars. Country club. A house in the hills. This boat. The kind of women I chose. The things they wanted—Oriental carpets, sheets, towels, sterling silver. And each time one of them turned out that way, I’d choose another. Another with the same wants and needs. And me with mine, always looking to another woman for the solution. And then Janie.”

  “Was she different?”

  “Yes. She was different. She was willing to work for it all. When everything went to hell and it looked like I was going to lose the house and the cars and maybe even The Tidepools, she didn’t worry. She just went to San Francisco, said she’d find a way to buy us out of the trouble.”

  “With a social worker’s salary?”

  It was a mistake to have asked it. He frowned and set down his glass. “I’m talking too much. I always do when I drink. For that matter, I’m drinking too much. You’d better go.”

  “No, what you’ve said is very interesting. It’s a real commentary on contemporary values—”

  Keller stood up. “Like I said, you’d better go.”

  I went. But at the other end of the parking lot, I stopped at the marina office. It was locked, and a sign indicated someone would be back at one-thirty. That might help me, if my plan worked at all. There was a phone booth outside the office, and I stepped in there, dug out a dime, and called the number of the phone on Keller’s boat. When he answered, I pitched my voice higher than usual and said, “Dr. Keller, this is Beth at the office.”

  “Who?”

  “Beth. You probably don’t know me; I’m new. Anyway, I wonder if you could come up here for a few minutes.”

  There was a sigh. “Why?”

  “It’s about those things the woman who was staying on your boat lost last week.”

  “What things?” His tone was suddenly more alert.

  “Oh, didn’t she tell you? She lost a key ring and a checkbook. One of the other slip holders turned them up. We have them here if you’d like to—”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  It had been a guess, but it had turned out right on target. Now I’d have to move fast. I ran across the graveled parking lot, back along the slips, and along one of the side floats. In a couple of minutes, Keller hurried along the dock toward the office. I waited until he was past, then sprinted for his slip and climbed on board the cruiser. As I’d hoped, he hadn’t locked the door to the companionway. I went down there, almost slipping on the ladder.

  The galley was straight ahead, but that didn’t interest me. I went aft, where there were sleeping quarters. The teak-paneled cabin had two built-in bunks with a dresser between them. On the dresser was a small tan suitcase with the initials JMA. Irrelevantly, I wondered what Jane Anthony’s middle name had been.

  The case was full of cosmetics, underwear, jeans, and tops—all thrown in together. Fastidious Jane had never packed—or repacked—these things. I looked through them, found nothing unusual, then turned my attention to the rest of the cabin. One bunk was rumpled, its covers turned back. The other was smooth and on it sat a cardboard box. I went over and saw it was full of file folders.

  As I reached for the box, I heard a thump on the deck above. I froze, listening. Footsteps went toward the companionway and down the ladder, and then Keller appeared, his back to me, heading for the galley.

  He was back much sooner than I’d anticipated. Had he realized the call was a fake? Would he search the boat? I flattened against the wall of the cabin, wishing the box of folders was still within reach.

  There was the sound of an icetray being emptied and then the crack of a seal, probably on a fresh bottle of gin. Keller’s voice said wearily, “Let them keep the stuff. It’s of no use to me. Or to Janie anymore.” Next I heard breaking glass. “Jesus Christ,” Keller said. There was a long silence and then he added, “You’ve had enough, fellow.”

  Keller’s footsteps left the galley and I held my breath, hoping he would go up on deck and leave the boat without the files. The footsteps came on, however, toward the cabin. I got ready and, as he stepped through the door, rushed past him, heading for the ladder.

  Keller whirled. “Hey!”

  I banged my knee on one of the rungs but scrambled up.

  “Come back here, dammit!” Keller was right below me, grabbing for my ankle. He got a good hold on it, and I fell to the deck, then started crawling for the rail when he let go. He lurched up the ladder and grabbed me by my hair, yanking me backward. I screamed. He bent my arm behind me and glowered down, breathing gin into my face.

  “That call was one of your cute tricks, eh?”

  I tried to wrench free, but he held me firmly.

  “So you know Jane stayed here,” he said. “So what?”

  “The police will be interested.”

  “Not when they find there’s no evidence of her presence. Who are they going to believe—you or me?”

  I didn’t want to debate our relative credibility. I struggled harder, but he pinned both my arms behind my back and dragged me to my feet.

  “You’re trespassing, you know,” he said. “Why don’t I call the police and let them handle you?”

  “Why don’t you? When they arrive we can discuss what the personnel files from The Tidepools are doing below.”

  “Why shouldn’t they be there? I was going over them, working here because it’s quieter than my office.”

  “Sure you were.”

  “Like I said, who are they going to believe?”

  He was right; they were his files and the police would believe him, particularly when he got Ann Bates to back him up, as I was sure he could. Still, I decided to call his bluff. “So pick up the phone and call Lieutenant Barrow.”

  He was silent for a moment, breathing hard. Then he chuckled. “No, I’ve got better plans for you.”

  “Such as?”

  He twisted my body sideways, and one of his arms went under my knees, the other around my shoulders. I pushed out at him with my freed hands, but he lifted me and stepped over to the rail.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said.

  In seconds, I was flying through the air, and then I hit the water. I started to yell but closed my mouth just in time before I went under. The water was cold and oil-slicked. When I bobbed up to the top, my hair was plastered to my face, and I had to part it to look
up at the boat. Keller leaned on the rail, laughing uproariously.

  “That’ll teach you to be so goddamn nosy!”

  “Fuck you!” It was one of the few times in my life I’d ever said that.

  It only made Keller laugh harder.

  I began to swim in the opposite direction, toward the main dock, Keller’s laughter following me. I’d lost both shoes sometime during the struggle, but my skirt—the grown-up-person skirt I’d worn to impress Ann Bates—greatly impeded by progress. I wanted to appear dignified, but it was impossible while attempting the Australian crawl, fully clothed, in six feet of dirty water. I could still hear Keller’s laughter when I hauled myself up on the dock and sloshed off toward my car.

  I’ll get even, I told myself. I will get even. By the time I’m through with this case Allen Keller won’t be laughing at anything.

  Chapter 14

  I called Lieutenant Barrow as soon as I got back to the motel and told him what I’d found out at the Princess Jane—omitting the part about my impromptu swim. He said they’d already talked to Keller—who had claimed not to know where Jane had been during the week before her death—but promised to go out and talk to him again. I said I would check with Barrow later, and then hung up and took a long, hot shower. By the time I’d finished dressing and drying my hair it was after four.

  One thing was certain: I was never going to get a look at The Tidepools’ files now. I sat down and considered the problem, then decided to approach it from another angle.

  At the public library, I requested the microfilms for the week of Barbara Smith’s death once again. I read through them slowly, looking for any facts I might have skipped over before, then checked her obituary. It listed a sister, Mrs. Susan Tellenberg of Port San Marco, as one of the survivors. I looked her up in the directory, found a number and address, and called her. The phone rang ten times with no answer.

  When I left the library, it was nearly dusk. I wanted to go to Salmon Bay, to talk with both Mrs. Anthony and John Cala, but I decided to stop by the police station first and see what Barrow had gotten out of Allen Keller. The desk sergeant told me the lieutenant was out of the office but due back any minute. I waited on a bench in the lobby, watching uniformed cops and plainclothesmen come and god. What business there was that evening was strictly routine: a father picking up a lost child, a wife filing a missing person report on her husband, a tourist reporting a stolen camera. After an hour it became apparent that Barrow either had been delayed or wasn’t coming back, so I left a message that I’d stop by again and went out to my car.

  I drove north to Salmon Bay along the now-familiar coastal highway and parked in front of Sylvia Anthony’s house. It was dark and closed up, just like last time. Maybe Jane’s mother had gone to stay with friends or relatives.

  I looked over at Cala’s junk-cluttered yard and saw a porch light on. At least I would get to talk to the fisherman. I took my keys from the ignition, but before I could get out of the car, Cala came through his front door. He was pulling on a windbreaker as he hurried down the walk toward a beat-up pickup truck. As soon as he jumped in, the truck’s lights flashed on and its engine roared. I started my own car as the truck pulled away.

  Cala drove fast through rutted lanes to the coastal highway, then headed south. The truck had a distinctive broken taillight and was easy to keep in sight. Once on the main road, I dropped back and let a small car ease in between us. I followed Cala into Port San Marco and through the tourist area to the lower part of town near the boarded-up amusement park. He left the truck at the curb by the public beach and went to stand on the seawall.

  I stopped a few yards down the street and watched as Cala checked his watch. Beyond the seawall the ocean was placid, its waves barely disturbing the image that the newly risen moon reflected on it. Cala stood on the wall for a few minutes, as if admiring the scene, then stepped onto the beach.

  Leaving the MG where it was, I strolled slowly down the sidewalk, scanning the beach for Cala’s figure. There were no other pedestrians, and the area had a desolate rundown feeling. It even seemed colder here than in the brightly lit tourist section to the north, and I couldn’t help contrasting it with the kaleidoscope of color and sound and smells I’d known as a child, before the amusement park died.

  Cala was walking diagonally across the wide beach, toward the water but also toward the high board fence of the park. The fence was posted with NO TRESPASSING signs and colorful posters proclaiming it the future site of the Port San Marco Performing Arts Center. Above the fence, on the far seaward side, the old roller coaster towered, its girders dark against the evening sky.

  Cala continued across the sloping beach to where the park was built up on pilings. As I watched from the seawall, Cala ducked down and disappeared among them.

  I went along the seawall to the perimeter of the park, then crossed the beach, keeping in the shadows. When I reached the pilings, I slipped under there as Cala had and crept forwards, searching for him. I spotted him finally, going up a set of steps that led into the park above. It was a well-hidden entrance that could be seen only from directly under the roller coaster—or from the water, if you happened to be out there in a boat. That was probably how Cala knew about it.

  But what was he doing here at the deserted amusement park? He had left his house in a hurry and had waited on the seawall after checking his watch. Was he meeting someone? If so, who? And why here, of all places?”

  From the direction of the steps I heard a door close. Cala might be inside the park. I followed, my footsteps muffled on the damp sand, and looked up the steps. The door at their top had once been padlocked, but the hasp hung on splintered wood. Vandals must have been at work here, or just kids looking for a place to drink and neck. I climbed the steps and touched the door. It swung open quietly.

  It took a moment for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Then I made out a wide expanse of boardwalk and the outlines of abandoned booth. They were mere shells, but their signs—the signs of my youth—remained: COTTON CANDY, CORN DOGS, THREE-RING TOSSES FOR A QUARTER....TEST YOUR STRENGTH, IMPRESS YOUR LADY FRIEND, WIN A GIANT PANDA.

  I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me, and stood pressed against the wall. A clammy, salt-tanged breeze was blowing up through the cracks in the boardwalk and nearby something that sounded like old newspaper rustled, but otherwise I heard nothing. Cala was nowhere in sight.

  To my left were more booths and the merry-go-round with its domed top. It had been stripped of its horses and, without them, the top looked like a flying saucer hovering ten feet above the platform. To the right were the Penny Arcade, the Fun House, and the Tunnel of Love. I went off that way, since the overhang of the buildings provided greater cover.

  The park was so silent that, had I not seen Cala go in there, I would not have believed there was another soul within miles. I looked into the Penny Arcade and saw nothing but empty space and a row of skee-ball alleys. The mouth of the Tunnel of Love gaped at me, and I went over and glanced down into the trench that had once held the boats. It was dry now, full of beer cans and other trash. Moving along, I mounted the steps to the Fun House.

  As I entered, a sudden motion startled me. I shrank back, my heart pounding. Then I realized that what I had seen was myself, reflected over and over in ripply shards of glass. The mirror—the one that made you short and fat, tall and skinny—had been smashed but still hung on the wall. I stared into it, seeing my face distorted into exaggerated lines of alarm. Curbing my urge to giggle with relief, I went on through the little maze of now-empty rooms. Nothing here. Cala must have gone the other way, toward the merry-go-round.

  I had just reentered the room with the mirror when things began to happen.

  First there was a muffled grunt, and then a thump. I froze, listening, trying to place the origin of the noises. Then I heard the sound of running feet. I bounded out of the Fun House in time to see a dark figure come down the steps from the Tunnel of Love’s boarding platform and s
print toward the door to the beach. It wasn’t Cala; the person was too short and much thinner.

  The figure saw me and whirled, then darted to the side as I ran toward it. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound. A three-foot-high boxy shape came at me and caught me squarely in the stomach. I fell forward over it, and it continued rolling, slamming me against the counter of the cotton candy booth. Pain exploded in the small of my back. I slid off the thing that had hit me and fell to the ground.

  I tried to get up, but I was pinned between the bulky object and the booth. As I flailed around, the door to the beach slammed and I heard footsteps run down the stairs.

  I kicked out and freed myself. The clumsy object was one of those chairs on wheels that porters used to roll along the boardwalk, charging patrons a small fee for the privilege of riding in old-fashioned style. Giving it a vicious shove, I got to my feet and ran to the door and down the steps. I couldn’t see anyone among the dark pilings.

  I ran through them and looked up the beach. There was no fleeing figure, no one scaling the seawall, no car roaring away from the curb. My MG and Cala’s truck were still parked where we had left them. Whoever had fled must have run south down the beach. I scurried through the pilings and peered into the darkness. In the distance, I thought I could make out a shape, but just barely. There was no possibility of overtaking him now.

  But what about Cala? His truck was here, which meant he must still be inside the park. I climbed the steps again, rubbing my back where it hurt, and looked around. It was as quiet in there as before. I waited in the darkness for a minute, then took out my small flashlight and went toward the Tunnel of Love.

  I shone the flash around the mouth of the tunnel, then went up the steps to the platform where you boarded the boats. The tunnel curved away into darkness—the only way to explore the place would be to climb down into the trench. I turned the flash downward. It picked out old newspapers, cans and bottles. Some of the newspapers were splashed with a dark red liquid.