Mr. 8 Read online

  “God, no. There’s so many people at their place on Christmas, they’re thankful for the extra room.”

  “I didn’t know you had a big family.”

  “Lots of cousins. We McGuigan’s are all over these hills.”

  Lorraine was the type of person whom Linda envied: a true local. Someone who wasn’t just raised here, but who also had generations of roots in Bexhill. Denton often wondered whether it was really out of her love of the town or her hatred of still feeling like an outsider after all these years.

  His eyes drifted down to his desk, the last word he had written jumped out at him: “Splendor.” The mountain Agatha had painted. The mountain that didn’t exist. Could it be a name used by the locals and not found on any map? Like Toad Lake, which was often called Drowned Man’s Pond.

  He asked Lorraine if she had ever heard of it.

  “Can’t say as I have. Why?”

  He pulled out his phone and started to try and find the photo he’d taken the other day. Hopefully he had caught one of Agatha’s paintings in frame, when he took the picture of Linda’s.

  “An artist did a series of paintings of it. Agatha Radcliff. Have you heard of her?” He spoke with his eyes sifting through the images.

  “Of course. Although, I can’t say I know much about her, but everyone knows the Radcliffs. They’re practically royalty around here.”

  He held out the phone to her, and she looked down to see a zoomed in, pixilated autumn scene of the mountain in bright reds and golds.

  “Oh, that’s Nazareth,” she said, with the certainty born from seeing the vista a thousand times.

  “What?”

  “From that angle, she must have painted it from their place on Mount Hamon.”

  “What place?”

  “The family has a hunting lodge up there, everybody knows about it. President Hoover went duck hunting there with old Pop Radcliff once.”

  A search of the internet pulled up several articles on the hunting lodge. Matthew “Pop” Radcliff was a logging tycoon and a local character around the time of the First World War. As Lorraine had mentioned, he had entertained Hoover at his lodge, shortly after he had completed his term in office. It was pretty big news for the area, big enough that it got picked up and repeated in several retrospectives of the county. And apparently big enough news that people still talked about it today.

  Denton wondered abstractly whether there was a plaque in the lodge that read: “Herbert Hoover slept here,” similar to those that boasted of other historic guests in the inns throughout the area.

  According to one recent article, the lodge was now owned by a Tabitha O’Donnell née Radcliff. He couldn’t find an address on Tabitha, but he did find out she was born in 1919. If she were still alive, it was unlikely she’d be doing any hunting, or that she’d make her permanent residence in some remote mountain top retreat.

  When he punched the address into his phone’s GPS, it told him it was only a fifty-five minute drive. It would be even shorter, if you were leaving from Federal Road, he thought. More than enough time to get up there and back before the police stopped them.

  The next couple of hours were spent in nervous anticipation for the exams to finish so he could follow up on the lead. It was most likely a wild goose chase, but there was something ominous and tantalizing about it. Perhaps it was because of its proximity to Mt. Nazareth State Forest. Ever since the incident with the cow mutilator and the shack, the place had been a source of dread for him. Even though it was completely irrational, it felt obvious that the Mr. 8 case would lead him back there.

  The drive was long but uneventful, until he reached Angel’s Pass Road and started heading up Mt. Hamon. With each switchback, the mountain drive became more treacherous and the snow in the woods became deeper. By the time he pulled off on the narrow access road to the lodge, the plowed banks at its sides formed a deep trench that he could barely see above. The road was dirt and two frozen ruts kept his tires from straying. Each time he accidentally hit the side of the grooves, the rubber moaned and the car trembled. But he was thankful for those tracks, when he slammed on his brakes and they were the only things that kept him from skidding off the road and crashing into one of the banks.

  A glimpse of midnight blue around the next bend had caused Denton to react without thinking.

  Blood pounded in his ears. The top of the van stood just above the hill of snow.

  Slowly, he started up again and rounded the corner. The van blocked the way, but there was nowhere to go beyond it. In front of it, there was a small red hatchback, and then the road ended, with an impassable three foot snow drift. Only a path of repeated footprints broke the smooth white plane.

  He turned off the engine and got out.

  About a quarter mile further up the mountain was the lodge. It looked smaller than it had online. It may have been impressive in its day, but it was puny compared to some of the elaborated vacation houses that had been built on the lakes and mountains around Bexhill in more recent years. It was a two story log structure nestled amongst the trees. Had it been summer and the leaves were still green, he never would have been able to see it from where he was standing.

  Denton thought it best not to walk straight up the beaten path to the front door and decided to make his own route through the woods hoping to flank it. A route he soon regretted, as he slogged along exhausted and cold, with soaking wet feet.

  By the time he reached the tree line, the sun was starting to set and the branches cast long shadows over the snow. The winter’s solstice was less than a week away and the afternoon was prematurely turning to night.

  He made a dash for the lodge. He hunched over to try and stay out of sight. His jog was awkward and his feet stumbled through the snow. His scarf dangled from his neck, until it broke free and dropped to the ground. He took three quick steps back to retrieve it. The cashmere lent a small amount of warmth to his hand while he stuffed it in his pocket. He reached the side of the building and stayed low, his hands clasping his knees while he fought for breath.

  When he’d recovered from the excursion, he carefully peeked into one of the windows. The vaulting room was empty. A two story fireplace stood across from him. A fire was in its hearth, burnt down to embers. Off on another wall, papers and photos were pinned up, but he couldn’t make out the details. There was only one item he recognized. Barely visible in the dim light was the front page of Saturday’s Bexhill Gazette. If he hadn’t looked at it so often, the picture of Aikmen Field would have just blended in with the rest of the jumble of photos and clippings.

  They must be here. He needed to call Bill. Denton dialed the number and waited, trying to see if he could make sense of any of the other clippings. Could that photo on the left be Maggie Biscamp? Was that one the candlelight vigil?

  After a minute, when the call didn’t connect, he checked the screen and realized he had no signal.

  He’d have to call from the base of the mountain. Denton groaned thinking about the walk back to the car in the rapidly growing dark. It was then that something hard and cold pressed against the back of his neck.

  “One wrong move and you’re dead,” a voice said.

  Chapter 17

  The First Time

  THE FIRST TIME DENTON MET LINDA was at a loft party in Brooklyn.

  His freshman roommate from Cornell had invited him to the housewarming for his new condo. Denton had managed to ignore Richard Blakely’s e-mail, but was unable to say no to him on the phone.

  “C’mon,” he had urged. “It’s only a two hour drive. If you need a place to crash, I’ve always got a couch for you.”

  “It’s just that I have to present my thesis outline next week and I still have a lot of work to do.” Denton had actually met with his advisor about it the week before.

  “It’s one night. Loosen up a bit. I bet you haven’t been to a party all
semester.”

  He hadn’t, but that was hardly the point. Back in Ithaca, Denton had barely tolerated Richard. When Richard pledged a fraternity and moved out of the dorm, Denton had breathed a sigh of relief. But for years afterward, whenever they bumped into each other on campus, Richard always acted as if they were the best of friends. The keyword being: “acted.” He had the smarminess of a practiced politician and exuded artificiality through his pores.

  “It just won’t be the same without the old Dentster.”

  Alone, in his small one room apartment, Denton cringed. He was positive the only reason he was being invited was so Richard could rub his face in his success. While Denton had gone on to pursue his Doctorate at Princeton, Richard had landed a job at a brokerage in Manhattan and was making a killing in the tech boom.

  Denton had hated himself for agreeing to go.

  The rain that had been persistent all day had stopped by the time he arrived at the address on the small, torn scrap of notepaper. The streets were slick and plastered with autumn leaves, even though there were no trees in sight. Outside the old industrial building, a group of people milled around the entrance, smoking cigarettes and feebly trying to hide the drinks in their hands. The instant the car’s engine cut out, he could feel the thumping bass of techno music.

  Like a trail of bread crumbs, Denton followed the scattered guests up the stairs to the third story and down the hall, until he found Richard Blakely’s loft. The door was wide open, and out of it wafted the combined stench of tobacco, marijuana, and sweat. He only had time to briefly wonder why no one had called the cops, when he saw a neighboring door open and a man and a woman came out carrying a bucket of ice and a giant bottle of vodka. Who would complain when they were all invited?

  The couple passed straight by him holding the bottle up as if it were a sacred talisman. The crowd parted before the holy offering. Denton followed, taking advantage of the gap left in their wake.

  As he entered the loft, he was thankful he hadn’t entertained the thought of sleeping there. He didn’t know what couch Richard was talking about on the phone, because there were none in sight. The only furniture he could see was a table that a DJ had setup shop on.

  People filled the entire yawning space of the open room. Most of them stood around screaming in conversation. Some were trying to dance and Denton could see their heads bobbing above the rest of the crowd. Richard hadn’t bought an apartment as much as a disco.

  The room was oven hot, especially after the cold air out on the street. His blocking pair turned towards the center and met up with friends, leaving Denton stranded in the sea of bodies. Barely visible through the veil of people, Richard was by the windows holding court. Denton decided to make his way over to him. Once he made an appearance, he could leave. The misplaced sense of obligation he felt would be paid. Although, he wondered why he had bothered coming at all. Richard would never have known if he had stayed home. There were far too many other guests for him to notice the absence of the Dentster.

  Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, he edged his way through the crowd, avoiding elbows, wild hand gestures, and one woman who drunkenly careened toward the exit.

  Sidestepping the other guests, he found himself no closer to his old roommate. Instead, he had reached one of the speakers positioned on the side wall. The blasting noise created a pocket of empty floor that no one other than Denton was willing to enter. He took a moment to compose himself before venturing into the throng again.

  With his shirt sleeve, he dabbed the sweat off of his forehead. His best bet seemed to be a narrow gap that people had left along the wall. He carefully navigated the distance between him and his host. Halfway there, a small knot of people stood talking, blocking his way. He pressed himself to the wall and moved past.

  He was almost clear of them, when one of the women grabbed him by the sleeve. “Excuse me!” she yelled.

  Denton had no idea what she could want. He stood there staring at the hand on his arm, with his mouth open. He waited for that tremble in his nerve ending that always accompanied the physical contact of strangers. When it didn’t manifest, his gaze followed the arm up to its source.

  She was a small woman with medium brown hair pulled back and tied into a ponytail with a strip of lace. She stared at him with intense blue eyes. Blue like the sky at dusk on a summer’s night. It was only after looking into them for what felt like hours that he recognized the emotion they expressed was anger.

  “What the hell’s your problem?” She turned to the boy beside her and said, “Looks like we have another prick from Lemur Brothers.”

  “Actually, I’m from Princeton,” he said, finding his voice.

  “Well. Lah. Dee. Dah. Do you mind not knocking the art down, mister Ivy League douche-bag?”

  He followed her pointed look to the wall behind him and noticed that it was adorned by three large canvases. Two of which he had pushes askew, as he squeezed by.

  “Sorry.” He started trying to straighten the nearest one, but he only managed to pull the picture off of its mounting. With effort, he tried to hold it upright and to keep it from falling forward into the crowd.

  “Here. Let me do that.” The girl took it from him. Despite her slight frame, she lifted it masterfully and stuck it back on its hooks on the first shot. She then made small, careful adjustments until it was straight before going to see to the other one.

  She wore a burgundy peasant skirt with a paisley pattern and a black concert T-shirt on top. The design on the shirt was of incense sticks blazing with fire, and it read: “The Afghan Whigs, Black Love.” Denton didn’t recognize the band but guessed it was something trendy. But then modified his observation: the band she wore would be something underground and untrendy.

  He followed her. On the back of her upper arm, a smudge of green paint marked a spot just above her elbow. It was dry and beginning to flake off.

  “Are they yours? Did you paint them?” He gestured vaguely at the art.

  Her friends were around her, the place was packed, and the noise was too loud to hear anything below a scream, but whenever he remembered this moment, it was always just the two of them in the big silent, empty loft.

  She turned and looked at him as if he were stupid. After a pause, she said flatly, “Not my style.”

  When he looked at the pictures before, all he saw was the evidence of his clumsiness. With fresh eyes, he noticed they were vaguely abstract, but after examining them for about three seconds, he realized each depicted highly pornographic scenes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again—a blanket apology for all of his failings.

  “So Princeton Boy, what are you doing here?”

  “I have no idea. Want to get out of here and grab a coffee?”

  She smiled at him, a beautiful radiant smile. She opened the door beside her, and taking hold of his hand, she pulled him into a dark room.

  The party raged behind the closed door. He wondered where they were. Had they slipped into the bedroom?

  He sensed her warm body close to him and felt her hot breath on his neck.

  “My name is Denton,” he said, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

  “Shh.” She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a long, slow kiss.

  Linda broke away abruptly, leaving one hand on his chest—a subtle gesture that said, wait.

  A beating noise throbbed around them. It wasn’t the music. Someone was banging on the walls.

  Her voice was lost in the murk and sounded disembodied, “He’s coming.”

  “Who’s coming?” Even as he asked, he struggled against the memory.

  None of this is how it happened.

  “Mister Eight. He’s almost here.”

  The sound of the terror in her voice clamped his heart into a vise.

  No, we stayed at
the party until nearly one.

  It had taken that long for him to work up the courage to ask her to go get a cup of coffee. Although they ended up at a neighborhood joint eating pizza and drinking red wine instead. It had taken two more actual dates before their first kiss.

  Denton felt hot and clammy. He was on the verge of passing out. He felt along the wall, until he found the light switch. The bare bulb illuminated a stark bedroom. A torn mattress lay in the middle of the floor. Black wet stains covered its surface. Water trickled down the plaster of the walls from the rotting ceiling.

  Linda was gone. He was in there all alone.

  The room filled with an electrical buzz and the bulb exploded, throwing him into darkness.

  He yanked the door open and fled back to the party. He tried looking for Linda, as he pushed his way through the bodies in a panic. More people had packed their way into the loft, and the tide of them dragged him along, until he found himself pressed against the back wall. He struggled against the mob that ebbed and flowed as one mass. He felt as if he were drowning or being buried alive. Bile rose to the back of his throat. He needed to get out.

  His hand managed to latch onto a door handle and he used it to pull himself through the crowd. The cold metal against his skin offered hope against the heat and the press of the horde. As the nausea intensified, he hoped the door led to a bathroom. He heaved it opened and was immediately thrown in by the undulating bodies.

  The door slammed shut, and it became deathly quiet. At first, he feared he was back in the bedroom, but gradually his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he realized he wasn’t in the loft anymore.

  Thin rays of twilight filtered through cracks in the walls. He knew this place all too well.

  He was back in that little shack in the woods.

  His foot slipped on something soft and meaty on the floor and he desperately started clawing for the door. But all he could feel beneath his frantic hands was roughhewn boards. The splinters caught under his fingernails. His mouth opened to scream but no noise came out.