Alone
Matt pulled alongside the curb in an inconspicuous place just down from the doctor’s driveway but still had a clear view of the entire dwelling. Even hidden under a brooding blanket of autumn clouds, Matt could tell the house was a fortress sitting on its sloped lawn; it was a high, quadrate structure assembled in thick stone with sharp angles everywhere. It was girded by meticulously manicured bristlecone pines and tall hedges on all sides but the front. The houses on either side were at least fifty feet from the property line so the house stood practically alone--a monument to the doctor’s eremitic disposition.
Matt lit up a cigarette--one of two habits he bestowed upon himself as a single man. The nicotine calmed him as he studied the house. No lights were visible through any of the windows. The Cadillac stood alone in the driveway. In fact, the whole neighborhood seemed that way--void, languid. The only signs of life came from the gentle sway of the evergreen boughs and the ghostly dances of fallen leaves helped along by an occasional breeze that wandered the barren streets.
With his cigarette tucked between his fingers, Matt massaged his temples and, inexplicably, thought about high school. He thought about being picked on—about being too small, too lanky for sports. He had to prove that just because he wasn’t built for football, he could play it just the same. And he played it well; he was first-string wide receiver. But the hell he went through just to prove it . . . Then, he thought about Quantico. He wasn’t an Ivy leaguer like the rest. He didn’t have the highest IQ. Many thought he’d fail before the first year was up. They were wrong, too. He didn’t know why he was thinking about his past trials, aside from the fact that maybe this case would be another bump on the road to acceptance. He sighed, but he was used to it.
Suddenly, the darkness came to life. A night-cloaked figure, scarcely visible amongst the oily shadows, stepped from the doctor’s house and headed down the sidewalk away from Matt’s car. By the frenetic pace at which the figure moved, Matt knew it was Dr. Dougen. Finally, a break.
Matt lowered himself in his seat and watched over the steering wheel as the adumbration disappeared around the corner of the block two houses up the street.
“Out for a little stroll, are we?” he said to himself.
The blocks in this neighborhood were fairly large to accommodate the large houses and their properties. It was a calculated risk, but if he assumed Dr. Dougen was going to walk around the block, it would take a while--twenty minutes, maybe, at his pace. This would be a perfect time to plant the bugs. He already knew the layout of the house from the blueprints the Bureau got their hands on, and he could be in and out in no time. He knew this was a breech of protocol--attempting to plant surveillance devices without prior notification to Carcatelli--but he might not get a better opportunity. Besides, it was actually safer to do it now than to attempt the same feat in broad daylight when he could easily be seen.
He grabbed a black leather bag from the back seat and left the car.
Blackness gave him a cold embrace as he put away his unlocking tool and stepped into the kitchen. Wan light and bitter air spilled across the floor underneath him. As Matt closed the door behind him, the faint aroma of chili tickled his nose; it was the lingering smell of a late dinner, no doubt. He reached into his little bag and pulled out a penlight. He proceeded to test, then place tiny listening devices in the kitchen and living room.
The doctor lived well. Even in the quiet darkness, the house’s lavishness seemed to have a surreal glow, a self-illuminescence: embossed wall paper, hardwood floors so highly polished that they reflected and magnified the most minuscule light, oak and brass, satin and porcelain. Everything you’d expect in a physician’s abode. Yet, it seemed empty, hollow, somehow. Its incompleteness couldn’t be seen with the naked eye, but it could felt, most certainly felt.
Shaking off the feeling as best he could, Matt quickly checked kitchen drawers and lamp stands for any newspaper articles on the missing people, pausing occasionally to peek out a window at the naked street. Criminals liked to keep momentos of their sick accomplishments. And because of leaks in an investigation of this sort, they also used the newspaper articles as a litmus test to see how well they were covering their tracks and to find out how much the authorities knew. Nothing found, he quickly looked for a phone to place a tap.
Suddenly, he heard something in the basement. Subdued scrapings, a hiss, maybe a groan but not a human groan, definitely not that. The noise seemed eerily misplaced. He tried to make himself believe that maybe a hot water heater had gone bad. Or possibly, it could have been a dilapidated furnace. Maybe that’s why the doctor left for an evening stroll; he needed to work himself up for a more sound sleep so the noise wouldn’t keep him up all night. Of course a double shot of whiskey would administer the same affect, thinking of his other habit and one he wouldn’t mind partaking of right now to take the sudden edge off.
Part of him wanted to just leave. There were enough listening devices planted to hear any number of conversations and noises. He really didn’t have to place the phone tap if he didn’t have the time. But part of him wanted, no needed, to check out the noises in the basement. His F.B.I instinct kicked in. It wasn’t totally reliable, yet. That would come in due time. But if Dougen was in fact their man, then he couldn’t turn his back on what could be a next victim. If Frank were there, that’s what he’d do.
Warily, Matt McIver opted to investigate . . . quickly.
He searched several doors in the large kitchen, looking for the basement entrance. The more he heard the strange noises as he sought it out, the more disturbed he became. His blood became as chilled as the night outside as he heard the muffled sounds change pitch from oddly content to what could have been anger.
The stairs that descended to the basement were finally found behind a door next to the pantry in a part of the kitchen that was overly crowded by darkness. When the door was breached, a wan light climbed slowly up the stairs, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the darkness in which he now stood.
Matt checked his watch; he still had time.
He took his first step into the void.
Though the basement was expansive, it seemed tomblike--dark, cool, no windows and a low ceiling; it was an antithesis to the splendor above. Multi-layered shadows clung to Matt like a frightened child. At the far end, a soft light’s corona glowed from beyond a pile of darkened boxes and the house’s furnace.
The noises started once again, this time accompanied by unintelligible sounds like half-formed words muffled with a growl. They had a macabre eagerness that made Matt’s hair stand on end. Curiosity won over a welling fear, and he crept through the darkness to get a closer look at what lay in the light beyond the boxes. After quietly making his way to the furnace, Matt glanced over and around the boxes cautiously. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a harsh light on an empty, bloodstained gurney. It protruded from a hole in the wall, roughly chest high like a retractable table. From within that portal came a low, guttural sound, baleful but subdued. Something was in the wall--and it knew that Matt was there.
Then he heard it, clear as a bell; the kitchen door had opened then closed with a stifled thud.
Damn! The doctor was back!
Matt glanced at his watch again. It had barely been ten minutes. So much for his calculations.
The basement door opened and footsteps began clacking down the stairs.
As quietly as he could, Matt positioned himself between the shadows of some large boxes and watched as the pathologist, partially lost in the oily darkness, scuffled over to the table. Once in the light, his features began to take on a malign form. His eyes seemed lost in their deep sockets. His skin sagged unduly from his skeletal frame. The hues brought about by the naked light bulb had transmogrified him into a hideous beast.
But it seemed he wasn’t the only beast. There was another in the wall. One that Matt did not care to see.
Dr. Dougen spoke softly, almost a whisper, to the thing in the wall, and quiet grunts and ululations were its reply. After a moment of exchanging whispers, he went into another room at the end of that wall. Matt could see through the half-opened door that it was the garage.
As he wiped a saturating dampness from his forehead, he listened for any noises to get a feel for what the doctor was doing, but he heard nothing. Even the thing in the wall was quiet. Everything was quiet; he didn’t like all the quiet.
Well, whatever the doctor was doing, it was keeping him occupied long enough for Matt to attempt a quiet retreat. He could retrace his steps back up to the kitchen, disappear into the night unseen, and then get a search warrant. A sick feeling began welling up from his stomach of what he’d find behind that wall--at least what was left of them.
In the darkness, as he straightened himself from his now painful crouch, Matt briefly lost his balance and knocked over one of the boxes that had provided him his concealment. So much for stealth.
The thing in the wall now protested the disruption, a blood-icing snarl.
With his fear of getting caught now overpowering his fear of the uncomprehendable basilisk moving in the blackness beyond the wall, all Matt could hope for was to make it up the stairs and to the kitchen door before Dr. Dougen could get a good look at him. If he had to, he would overpower the man just to get to the safety of the dark street outside.
He started up the stairs, his heart threatening to explode through his chest. No one pursued.
He dashed across the kitchen to the door as acrid perspiration stung his eyes. No one pursued.
That was odd. He was sure that the pathologist would have heard the noises, but no one gave chase. Maybe the man was frightened, Matt figured. Maybe he thought that he was being robbed. Well, he was, in a way. With what had been seen in the basement, the pathologist would soon be robbed of his freedom. Once outside, Matt’s rite of passage would be complete.
But when he opened the door and saw the dark figure standing in front of him, hand held high, clutching an object, he knew he was wrong . . . dead wrong. A debilitating pain came with a thwack!
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