“Then why did you?” I asked.

“Because so much of your story was based on known facts,” he said. “Because to some degree it challenged my established belief system. And because Lieberman’s patient already knew about you, not from his therapist but from an article I wrote about your case in Psychiatric Quarterly. He said Carolyn H. would understand.”

Do you see what I mean about a possible force for good, Ralph? Dan Bell was reaching out for me, just as I was reaching out for him, and before I could be sure that he even existed.

“I’ll give you Dr. Lieberman’s numbers, office and cell,” Dr. Morton said. “He’ll decide whether or not to put you in touch with his patient.” Then he asked if I might also have concerns about the middle school explosion in Pennsylvania, concerns relating to our discussions in therapy. He was flattering himself on that, there were no discussions—I just talked and Morton listened. I thanked him for getting in touch with me, but I didn’t answer his question. I suppose I was still mad that he waited so long to call.

[Here there is an audible sigh.]

Actually, there’s no suppose about it. I still need to work on my anger issues.

I’ll have to stop soon, but it shouldn’t take long to finish bringing you up to date. I called Lieberman on his cell, because it was evening. I introduced myself as Carolyn H. and asked for his patient’s name and contact number. He gave me both, but reluctantly.

He said, “Mr. Bell is anxious to talk to you, and after careful thought, I’ve decided to agree. He’s very elderly now, and this is in the nature of a last wish. Although I should add that other than his fixation on this so-called psychic vampire, he’s not suffering any of the cognitive decline we often see in the elderly.”

That made me think of my Uncle Henry, Ralph, who has Alzheimer’s. We had to put him in care last weekend. Thinking about that makes me very sad.

Lieberman said that Mr. Bell is ninety-one, and coming to his most recent appointment must have been very difficult for him, even though he had his grandson to assist him. He said that Mr. Bell is suffering from a number of physical ailments, the worst being congestive heart failure. He said that under other circumstances, he might worry that talking to me would reinforce his neurotic fixation and mar the rest of what might otherwise be a fruitful and productive life, but given Mr. Bell’s current age and condition, he didn’t feel that was much of an issue.

Ralph, it may be projection on my part, but I found Dr. Lieberman rather pompous. Still, he said one thing at the end of our conversation that moved me, and has stayed with me. He said, “This is an old man who is very frightened. Try not to frighten him more than he already is.”

I don’t know if I can do that, Ralph. I’m frightened myself.

[Pause]

This place is filling up, and I should go to my gate, so I’ll make this quick. I called Mr. Bell, introducing myself as Carolyn H. He asked for my real name. That was my Rubicon, Ralph, and I crossed it. I said I was Holly Gibney and asked if I might come and see him. He said, “If it’s about the school explosion, and the thing calling itself Ondowsky, as soon as possible.”

7

With a change of planes in Boston, Holly arrives at the Portland Jetport just before noon. She checks into Embassy Suites and calls Dan Bell’s number. The phone rings half a dozen times, long enough for Holly to wonder if the old man has died in the night, leaving her questions about Charles “Chet” Ondowsky unanswered. Assuming the old fellow actually has some answers.

As she’s about to end the call, a man picks up. Not Dan Bell, a younger man. “Hello?”

“This is Holly,” she says. “Holly Gibney. I was wondering when—”

“Oh, Ms. Gibney. Now would be fine. Grampa’s having a good day. Actually slept through the night after talking to you, and I can’t remember the last time he did that. Do you have the address?”

“19 Lafayette Street.”

“That’s right. I’m Brad Bell. How soon can you come?”

“As soon as I can get an Uber.” And a sandwich, she thinks. A sandwich would also be good.

8

As she slips into the back seat of the Uber, her phone rings. It’s Jerome, wanting to know where she is and what she’s doing and if he can help. Holly says she’s sorry, but it really is personal. She says she’ll tell him later, if she can.

“Is it about Uncle Henry?” he asks. “Are you chasing down some kind of treatment option? That’s what Pete thinks.”

“No, not Uncle Henry.” Another old man, she thinks. One who might or might not turn out to be compos mentis. “Jerome, I really can’t talk about this.”

“Okay. As long as you’re all right.”

It’s really a question, and she supposes he’s got a right to ask it, because he remembers when she wasn’t.

“I’m fine.” And, just to prove she hasn’t lost the plot: “Don’t forget to tell Barbara about those private detective movies.”

“Already taken care of,” he says.

“Tell her she may not be able to use them in her paper, but they will provide valuable background.” Holly pauses and smiles. “Also, they’re extremely entertaining.”

“I’ll tell her. And you’re sure you’re—”

“Fine,” she says, but as she ends the call, she thinks about the man—the thing—she and Ralph confronted in the cave, and she shivers. She can barely stand to think of that creature, and if there’s another, how can she possibly face it alone?

9

Certainly Holly won’t be facing it with Dan Bell, who’s all of eighty pounds and sitting in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank clipped to the side. He’s a shadow-man, with a mostly bald skull and dark purple patches under his bright but exhausted eyes. He and his grandson live in a fine old brownstone full of fine old furniture. The living room is airy; the drapes are pulled back to allow in floods of cold December sunlight. Yet the smells under the air freshener (Glade Clean Linen, if she’s not mistaken) remind her inevitably of the smells, stubborn and not to be denied, that she detected wafting into the lobby of the Rolling Hills Elder Care Center: Musterole, Bengay, talcum powder, pee, the approaching end of life.

She’s shown into Bell’s presence by the grandson, a man of about forty whose dress and mannerisms seem curiously old-fashioned, almost courtly. The hall is lined with half a dozen framed pencil drawings, full-face portraits of four men and two women, all good and all surely done by the same hand. They strike her as an odd introduction to the house; most of the subjects look rather skeevy. There’s a much larger picture over the fireplace in the living room, where a small and cozy fire has been kindled. This one, an oil painting, shows a beautiful young woman with black, merry eyes.

“My wife,” Bell says in his cracked voice. “Dead these many years, and how I miss her. Welcome to our home, Ms. Gibney.”

He rolls his chair toward her, wheezing with the effort it takes, but when the grandson moves forward to help, Bell waves him off. He holds out a hand which arthritis has turned into a driftwood sculpture. She shakes it with care.