Ghouls

A quick rustling of trees obscured most of the next line. Kurt was able to decipher only one word.

“—killed.”

There was a brief impasse. Then Willard said, “This inordinate concern for Glen surprises me. I wonder about that.”

“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just not overly pleased by the way he looks at you on occasion. Like a big, sad-eyed mongrel.”

Kurt shook his head. This seemed as good a time as any to make himself known, now that the conversation had wilted. He rapped vigorously on the door with the knocker handle. The sound was puny and weak.

Only silence now from the window. Several seconds unwound, then the door opened.

Willard stood darkened by the foyer; he looked at Kurt with a lowered brow, as if searching for something minute, and then he brightened as recognition was made. “Ah, Officer Morris,” Willard said through too broad a smile. “I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”

Kurt didn’t care to explain the reason he was not in uniform. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’d just like to ask you a few things, if you’ve got the time.”

“Certainly, come on in,” Willard offered, and stepped back. Kurt entered a cramped, poorly lit foyer. Before him stretched a hallway he could not see the end of. This guy must be allergic to daylight, he thought, reacting to the hall’s drastic darkness. And fresh air, too. The air reeked heavily of fetid scents.

Willard wore casual, neat gray slacks, suede loafers, and a western-cut shirt with pens stuffed in the top pocket. Hair the color of lead spilled out the open V of the shirt.

“Can I get you a drink?” Willard closed the door. He seemed to be in a hurry to shut out the light. “A beer or something? I have Kirin, Old Peculier, and Iron City.”

Before he could answer, Kurt was caught off guard by one of many paintings on the wall. It was a large, age-tinted portrait of an old man whose head was bald as a light bulb, and who wore a tuxedo like something out of the gangbuster era. The old man’s face sagged around a tight, disapproving scowl. Uriah Heep on a bad day, Kurt reflected. You have a good one, too, you old plucked buzzard.

Willard was smiling, as if secretly bemused. Was he? The strangeness of the house made Kurt feel detached, while the ghastly portrait had sidetracked him further. Suddenly he wanted very much to leave.

“Kind of lost my train of thought,” he said, not soon enough. “That painting caught my eye.”

Willard’s smile peaked to sarcastic crispness. “Yes, that’s my late great father, Richard Harcourt Willard. I’m sorry to say that what he lacked in looks was not compensated for in kindness. He was as friendly as a mad dog…” Cracks formed around Willard’s eyes; the thought of his father seemed aggravating. Had Kurt struck a nerve by mentioning the portrait? Willard continued. “He inherited a fortune and increased it tenfold by the time he died. His rivals and associates alike referred to him as ‘The Castrator.’” Willard then tossed his head back and laughed.

What am I doing here? Kurt thought. For a moment he forgot why he’d come. In the portrait he now detected a ruined likeness, and Dorian Gray came to mind.

“You haven’t met my wife,” Willard was saying next. With a jolt, Kurt noticed a figure standing in a doorless, black entry to the left. Had the figure been standing there all along?

“Nancy, this is Officer Morris. He works for the local police department here in town.”

Kurt’s jaw nearly hit the floor. The figure came through a block of shadow and revealed itself as a taller than average woman with very dark, lank hair cut in a perfect line at the base of her neck. She was shocking to look at, a robust, athletic physique made lascivious by the bizarre light and an equally bizarre outfit. She wore a white leather skirt, net stockings, and a strange tabard-style waistcoat joined only by a single black button at the navel. The waistcoat was bright red, and its opened flare exposed so much of her chest that Kurt wondered what kept her breasts from popping out at any given moment. Alternative fashion is one thing, he thought, but this is exhibitionism.

“Pleased to know you,” she said. The voice from the porch. She raised a fine, red-nailed hand. “Have we met?”

Not really, Kurt thought. Not unless you consider me seeing you nude in Glen’s window an introduction. Lady, I never forget a cleavage. “No, I don’t think so. I only just met your husband the other day, as a matter of fact.” He shook her hand and found it curiously moist. Why should she be nervous?

“I was just telling Officer Morris about my father,” Willard said, indicating the portrait. He took his wife’s side, an act which seemed thoroughly incongruous. This was a hard couple for Kurt to picture married. They went together like a new wave cycle slut and a professor of geology.

Nancy Willard smiled, but the smile gave way to a tic. “That’s one subject worth avoiding in this house. The stories my husband tells about his father make Ivan the Terrible seem like Mister Rogers.”

“Sorry I never got to meet him,” Kurt said, thinking: Jesus, have I died and gone to a hell of small talk?

Willard glanced at his wife’s chest and frowned. “You mentioned wanting to ask us a few things?”

“That’s right,” Kurt said. “I’m sure you remember that recently a casket was stolen from Beall Cemetery and later found on your property—”

“Any leads?” Willard cut in. The universal question.

“Well, kind of. See, they found some fingerprints on it, but they were very unusual fingerprints, so unusual that we believe one of the persons involved probably has some physical problems that would be easily noticed.”

Nancy Willard’s voice turned limp, something which Kurt found very interesting. “What do you mean?” she said. “There was something wrong with the fingerprints?”

More curiosity. Willard’s eyes thinned, and his smile grew tight. Had his wife’s response displeased him?

“What I mean,” Kurt continued, now paying deliberate attention to their faces, “is that the size and nature of the fingerprints suggests a person who is physically abnormal, even deformed, at least by way of the extremities. For instance, unless we’re grossly mistaken, this person only has three fingers on each hand.”

“Very strange,” Willard commented. “By means of some accident?”

“No, we don’t think so. I’m not an expert, I’m just telling you what I was told. But the state police are sure it’s a deformity from birth, and they also think it’s an individual of great physical size, like someone with a pituitary disorder.”

Kurt paused for further comment, and to watch their faces, but this ploy failed as his eyes were repeatedly lured to Nancy Willard’s near-bare chest. The red waistcoat was obscene. Either button the goddamned thing up, or take it off. he wished he could say. Glinting, a ruby and diamond heart on a necklace lay in the cleft of her breasts.

The Willards remained silent; a sudden stiffness made them both seem taller. Kurt went on. “I just thought that if either of you have seen anyone like this, you might let us know. It’s a reasonable bet that whoever took that coffin is at least slightly familiar with the layout of your property. Loggers, or something. Hunters, maybe.”

“Well, I don’t allow any logging,” Willard said. “And I’m afraid the only hunting that goes on is entirely without my permission—poaching has always been a problem. The resource police come out whenever we report gunshots, though they’ve yet to catch a poacher. Once in a while a tree will go down near one of the access roads, and I’ll hire someone to cut it up and take it away. But in all that I certainly don’t recall anyone with the physical characteristics you’ve mentioned.” Willard looked up contemplatively, thinking through a squint. He stroked his trimmed beard. “The only contractors I’ve had out here were the people who constructed my garage, but that was years ago.”

“What about groundskeepers, lawn care?”

“Town boys mow the grass and keep up the yard around the house as needed. But we’re quite familiar with them.” Willard glanced to his wife. “Can you think of anything, dear?”

“No,” she said. “If I’d seen someone like that, I’m sure I’d have taken notice.”

“Well, anyway,” Kurt told them. “I just wanted to let you know. If you do see anyone meeting a description like that, or anyone suspicious for any reason, let us know. And of course any time you spot a vehicle other than Glen’s truck on your land, give us a call quick.”