Mr. 8 Read online

  They strolled around the square arms linked, casually window shopping. At Caldwell Jewelers, Linda pointing at a necklace covered in sapphires. “You can buy me that for Christmas.”

  “I’ll have to write another book,” he said with a smirk. “What happened to that nice girl with simple tastes I married?”

  “What? Who else did you marry? That sure doesn’t sound like me.”

  They continued on until they reached the big tree by the church. Snow still clung to the branches and covered several of the fairy lights, making their glow soft and magical. It was a scene for a Christmas card. Linda took out her phone and snapped a picture.

  After she put the phone back in her purse, she slipped her hand into Denton’s coat pocket and clasped his. Her skin was chilled from the crisp air.

  “So, didn’t you say something about going home and celebrating?”

  “What are we waiting for?” A broad enthusiastic grin took over his face.

  Back at the car, Denton let the engine warm up for a minute before he put it into gear. Their breath started fogging up the window almost immediately. He switched the vent on and waited a couple of seconds for the glass to clear.

  As he idly stared out at the road, several police cars screamed past on Union Street, sirens full blare. Four cars were heading toward the highway.

  Déjà vu, Denton thought. Aloud, he said, “Must be an accident.”

  Chapter 11

  Out by Route 52

  DENTON’S HAND REACHED OUT to find only cool sheets on Linda’s side of the bed. A squinting look at the alarm clock told him he had slept most of the morning away. The smell of coffee let him know Linda was downstairs.

  He threw on a pair of cords, a T-shirt, and his glasses and headed down to the kitchen. The coffee pot was only slightly more than half full; Linda had been up for a while. He poured himself some and went off in search of her.

  Her studio was in a room that had once been a sun porch at the back of the house. Shortly after buying the place, they had the porch renovated and insulated for four season use. The three walls of windows provided the perfect light for Linda’s art.

  She was standing by the corner staring out at some blue jays that were flying around the old crab-apple tree in the backyard. In the bright morning light, Denton could see her eyes were slightly puffy and red.

  He stepped up beside her and wrapped his free arm around her shoulder, giving her a gentle hug.

  He took a sip from his mug and watched at the birds without interest. There was an eerie quiet to the studio that he hadn’t noticed at first. The radio was off. Linda always had its comforting presence drowning out the silence while she worked.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s awful,” she said. “They found them. They’re dead. They’re all dead, Dent.”

  He didn’t need to ask who she meant.

  She turned and looked up at him. “The radio said it’s a serial killer. How can that happen here?”

  She didn’t cry, but her eyes became indistinct with moisture. Her head slumped down and rested on his chest. Denton held her tight. Her cheek was pressed against his racing heart. He wished he could slow the rhythm down to a beat that would convey love and comfort, instead of the fierce throb that spoke only of fear and horror.

  After some time, she pulled away and went over to her easel. She started cleaning brushes. It was pointless busy work. She would stay and continue to paint for another hour. Weekend mornings were her most productive time.

  While she fussed with rags and turpentine, Denton walked around the small studio. Linda was working on another painting for her show in January. The broad outlines of the Woolworth’s building on Main Street were taking shape on the canvas. It was still too early to be recognizable. If she hadn’t mentioned last week her next project was the landmark department store, he wouldn’t have been able to guess what the random brushstrokes and touches of color were intended to be.

  He stopped in front of the picture of the Gutman House. Linda had finally worked out her problems with the piece, but the finished painting ended up far more realistic than her usual style. She wasn’t sure if she’d use it for the exhibit, since it was so different from the others.

  All of the features of the house were clear and distinct, right down to the delicate lines of each window pane. The red was shaded subtly, reflecting a hundred variances of light and shadow. It reminded Denton of blood.

  He wanted to ask her more about what had been reported, but decided not to say anything. She would dwell on it enough without being forced to talk about it.

  “Can you drive me to the gallery later?” she asked him.

  “Since when do you work Saturdays?”

  “I’m not. Bernadette called. She asked if I could bring by a few pieces to add to their inventory. The walls are looking a bit bare. I thought we could drop them off, then grab some lunch.”

  “Alright, just let me take care of a few things while I have my coffee. Then I’ll jump in the shower.”

  In the den, Denton pulled up the Bexhill Gazette’s website. A giant headline ran across the top of the home page. It read: Tragedy Strikes Home. Beneath it was a photo of a field surrounded by police tape and lit by the headlights of dozens of cars and portable spotlights. Activity was centered on a small area that was draped off with white sheets. With the glow of the lights and the way the photographer shot it, it resembled a box lantern.

  The main article painted a sketchy picture of what had occurred Friday night.

  Around dinner time, sixty-two year old Darien Aikman arrived home to his soy bean farm, fifteen miles north-east of Bexhill. He was returning from a two week visit with relatives in Albany. With him was his twelve-year-old Irish terrier, Templeton. It was an hour after sunset, and he noticed nothing out of the ordinary when he drove past his fields and up to the farmhouse.

  While Darien brought his bag and some groceries inside, he let the dog run loose. Two hours later, Templeton still had not returned for his evening meal. Fearing the old dog had a run afoul of coyotes or wolves, Darien went out to search for him with a flashlight and his .38 revolver.

  The snow wasn’t deep, but Darien had trouble crossing the uneven frozen terrain of the winter fields. It was while he was searching the pasture out by Route 52, he first noticed something wrong. In September the cover crop of buckwheat had been plowed, and the only things disrupting the blanket of white were a few random stocks poking out and a mysterious dark mound. At first, he thought it was a pile of earth. Perhaps something had been dug up, he speculated. Whatever it was, it had not been there when he had left for Albany.

  As he headed toward it, he heard the telltale rattle of the dog’s collar and tags, but couldn’t make out any movement. He called out for his old friend, but the usually obedient canine didn’t come. The only response was a plaintive yelp. Fearing that he was hurt or trapped, the farmer charged off after the sound, stumbling through the dark.

  When he was within a few yards of the mound, the wire haired dog ran to greet him, his tail wagging in excitement. Templeton was unharmed, but he had made a grisly discovery.

  According to the statement police issued at 10:30 p.m., they had found what appeared to be human remains. Although, the police were not ruling out that they belonged to livestock, and they were waiting for the coroner to complete his preliminary investigation before coming to any conclusions.

  However, Darien Aikman refuted the claim that it might be anything other than human. He was quoted by the paper as saying: “Someone burned up a whole lot of folk out there. Saw a skull in the pile, myself. It was people, no doubt about it. Horrible thing.”

  Next to the quote, which was in a larger font than the rest of the page, was a picture of the tall gray haired man in a beige canvas coat. The small, brown dog was sitting on the ground beside him. The man’s creased face looked
ashen and drained. Templeton looked rather pleased with himself.

  The police released an update early Saturday morning. The remains found in Aikman Field were indeed human. There were at least six bodies, but they stated that it was still too soon to have a conclusive number. It was believed that they had been burned approximately four days before. No one had been identified. More updates were promised.

  When asked if it was the work of a serial killer, the spokesman declined to comment.

  The article stopped just short of making a definitive statement that the bodies in the field were those of the missing residents and students.

  The local talk radio station made no such hesitation. Denton was able to listen to the live stream of WBXR’s broadcast on their website. Two commentators took calls and discussed the “Bexhill Butcher.” They had no qualms about connecting the disappearances to the discovery or attributing it all to a serial killer.

  But in their rush to manufacture a bogeyman for the town, they failed to make the link between the burned remains found Friday and those of the three earlier victims. And they made no mention of the eights. The media was several steps behind the facts. He wondered where the police were.

  Denton sat back and let the show drone on. The coffee in his cup had grown cold. He set his glasses down on the desk and drank the bitter dregs. His unfocused eyes stared at the abstract pixels on the computer screen. He slowly started going over everything he had learned since that first night on Grimshaw Street.

  When he finally remembered his promise to Linda, he rushed to get ready in record time.

  It was almost a quarter to twelve, when they reached Moss Hollow. It took another fifteen minutes to find a parking space. The crowds of people braving the elements in search of Christmas gifts were ridiculous. He was glad the gallery wasn’t on Market Square: there would be no getting anywhere close to the place if it had been. He finally caught a break and was able to grab a space being vacated only a block from the shop.

  They each carried in two of the canvases Linda had carefully wrapped in brown paper. Denton had never seen the place so busy. Usually there were two or three patrons at most, quietly perusing the art on the wall and the crafts on the display tables. With the frenzy of the holidays there was barely room to move around. Overlapping conversations formed an audible fog, and the heat from the mass of bodies made the room stifling and humid.

  Linda was immediately swept up in the activity of the gallery. If Denton hadn’t known, he would never have suspected that a somber mood had consumed her only moments before.

  Left alone, Denton tried to dodge the shoppers and get out of the way. In their frenzy to find gifts they seemed oblivious to their surrounding and almost seemed to be trying to bump into him. He finally located an area of wall where most of the art had been cleared away. The blank space was being avoided, so he stood there and waited, happy to be out of the press of strange bodies. Now and again, he caught sight of Linda with one of the other assistants running about hanging paintings. It appeared that they had scrounged several new ones that morning from different artists. Even from a distance, he could tell which ones had been done by his wife.

  While he waited for her to finish, a group of landscapes drew his attention. The four small canvases beside him all depicted the same view, with notable differences in lighting and seasons. The scene looked naggingly familiar. He read the typed information card next to one of them. It stated: “A. Radcliff; Halcyon days on Mt. Splendor; $3799.”

  A low whistle escaped Denton’s mouth as he read the price. That was awfully steep for Moss Hollow, especially for such a tiny painting. The others all cost the same and all mentioned Mount Splendor. The name didn’t mean anything to him. It certainly wasn’t any place he’d ever been.

  A hand grabbed his arm. Startled, he began to move out of the way, until he realized it was Linda.

  “Hey, I have the painting that sold. It’s only being picked up after it gets framed. Here, help me put it up.” She held it out to him.

  Denton took it from her and placed it behind him, on the closest empty pegboard hook.

  “Why are you putting it back?” he asked, as he straightened it.

  “I want to get a picture of it. You have your phone? I left mine in the car.”

  He took it out and snapped five different shots, to make sure he had a good one. In the last one, Linda stood next to it with her arms outstretched towards it in a Vanna White pose. When he put the phone down, she snatched the painting away and was off again.

  “She is very excited,” Bernadette said.

  Denton hadn’t noticed the manager step up beside him. He said, “She gets this way when she sells something. She always seems so surprised by it.”

  “She should have more confidence in herself. She’s really quite exceptional.”

  “That’s what I tell her.” Although, never in those words.

  Bernadette was a very nice, genteel, older woman, and Linda adored working for her, but Denton couldn’t help roll his eyes at her pretentious way of speaking. Her upper-class chirp seemed both out of place and unnatural.

  He had once told Linda that she spoke like Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island.

  “Don’t be mean.” Linda had scolded him, but laughed in spite of herself.

  “I see you like the Radcliffs,” Bernadette said. After a lifetime of working in the gallery, she had immediately spotted the subtle way his eye kept returning to the landscapes. “She is one of Bexhill’s own, you know.”

  “Mount Splendor, do you know where that is?”

  “No. These are a collection from Agatha’s earlier period. They are not at all her typical style.” She pointed over at a couple of canvases, with a dramatic wave. “Those are some of her later works. This is the phase she is renowned for. Note the subject matter and fanciful technique.”

  One painting was of a woman in a glade holding her hand out to a white stag. The other was of an old man that looked like a druid standing on hill, surrounded by stars.

  “Is she very famous?”

  “She was famous… in certain circles. Certainly, she was a pillar of the local art movement. But even in larger metropolises, her name occasionally gets dropped.”

  “I just thought that thirty-eight hundred seemed like a lot.” He gestured back to the small painting.

  “Well, death does have a way of raising value. Such a shame. She was so young. Only in her forties, I dare say.”

  Of course, this must be the New Age artist Linda had mentioned. A morbid thought circled Denton’s head.

  “How did she die?”

  Bernadette started to speak but stopped short, her eyes faded to glassy blankness. Distracted fingers tugged at her pearl studded ear lobe. After a second, she admitted, “I have no idea.”

  Chapter 12

  The First Victim

  THE SNOW CRUNCHED under Denton’s boots. The white picket gate stood open behind him, caught in the un-shoveled path. Looking up at the big Victorian house, Denton thought of Linda’s painting, even though this was nothing like the Gutman House. There was no cupola, and instead of being red, it was painted white with dark green trim. But they shared in the town’s history, as if they were each part of Bexhill’s DNA.

  He had gotten Agatha Radcliff’s address from an old feature piece in the Shopper’s Express. They hadn’t actually printed her address, but there had been a picture of the house and a mention of the street, which was more than enough information to find it.

  The interview had been a fluff piece and comprised mostly of her talking about the philosophy behind her art. There was also a small summary of the Radcliff’s long history in the town. The artist’s house had been in the family for generations.

  On the Gazette’s website, he had come across her obituary. The headline was: Community Mourns Local Legend. There were five paragraphs discussing her life and
her career but not a word about the cause of death, only that she died on November 7th.

  Denton went back and scanned articles from that period. He finally came across a short piece, dated the following day, titled: Bexhill Artist Found Dead. Other than mentioning her prominence in the community, the only facts were that her body was discovered out by Salem Creek Mill, and that the police set the time of death between midnight and 3:00 a.m. There were no other reports on Agatha Radcliff after that.

  Why would there be so few articles about the death of such a famous local figure? He could only think of one reason. The same reason which had kept mention of Meyer’s death from reaching the front page.

  Looking at his desk calendar, he saw that the 7th was just over three weeks before his visit to Meyer’s Grimshaw apartment. According to the police report, Alfred Reynolds had been killed on the 16th. Could Agatha Radcliff be the first victim?

  Denton sat at the computer clenching his eye lids shut, trying to will the memory of that day in the police station back. What was the name on the second folder? It had sat there across from him the entire time. He could remember that it had been a light blue color. There had been a sticker along one edge with a three letter and three number code, with a bar code next to it. There was something written in blue ballpoint on the tab.

  The more he thought of it, the more certain he was that it had been Agatha’s name on the folder’s tab. He also became equally certain that he had never looked at it and his mind was playing tricks on him.

  There was a way to find out.

  Grabbing his coat and his car keys, he told Linda he needed to go to the hardware store to get more windshield wiper fluid.

  He hadn’t completely lied. Two brand new jugs of the stuff sat in his trunk. The stop had taken only five minutes. He should have a good half hour before she expected him home.