She took a look. “Yup, but if you were hoping for a ride, or even a look, you’re going to be disappointed. We must be about our business.”

She didn’t see him. Only I saw him. And given the red hole where his mouth had been, he hadn’t died a natural death.

Like I said, this is a horror story.

60

Liz killed the engine and got out. She saw me still sitting in the passenger seat, my feet planted amid a bunch of snack wrappers, and gave me a shake. “Come on, Jamie. Time to do your job. Then you’re free.”

I got out and followed her to the front door. On the way I snuck another glance at the man in front of the double garage. He must have known I was seeing him, because he raised a hand. I checked to make sure Liz wasn’t looking at me and lifted my own in return.

Slate steps led to a tall wooden door with a lion’s head knocker. Liz didn’t bother with that, just took the piece of paper out of her pocket and punched more numbers into a keypad. The red light on it turned green and there was a thud as the door unlocked.

Had Marsden given those numbers to a lowly transporter? I didn’t think so, and I didn’t think whoever she’d heard about the pills from would have known them. I didn’t like that she had them, and for the first time I thought of Therriault…or the thing that now lived in what remained of him. I had bested that thing in the Ritual of Chüd, and maybe it would come if I called, always supposing it had to honor the deal we’d made. But that was yet to be proven. I would only do it as a last resort in any case, because I was terrified of it.

“Go on in.” Liz had put the piece of paper in her back pocket, and the hand that had been holding it went into the pocket of her duffle coat. I took one more glance at the man—Teddy, I assumed—standing by the garage. I looked at the bloody hole where his mouth had been and thought of the smears on Liz’s sweatshirt. Maybe those had come from wiping her nose.

Or not.

“I said go in.” Not an invitation.

I opened the door. There was no foyer or entrance hall, just a huge main room. In the middle was a sunken area furnished with couches and chairs. I later found out that sort of thing is called a conversation pit. There was more expensive-looking furniture placed around it (maybe so folks could spectate on the conversations going on below), a bar that looked like it was on wheels, and stuff on the walls. I say stuff because it didn’t look like art to me, just a bunch of splats and squiggles, but the splats were framed so I guess it was art to Marsden. There was a chandelier over the conversation pit that looked like it weighed at least five hundred pounds, and I wouldn’t have wanted to sit under it. Beyond the conversation pit, on the far side of the room, was a swooping double staircase. The only one remotely like it I’d seen in real life, as opposed to in the movies or on TV, was at the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue.

“Quite the joint, isn’t it?” Liz said. She shut the door—THUD—and bammed the heel of her hand on the bank of light switches beside it. More flambeaux came on, plus the chandelier. It was a beautiful thing and cast a beautiful light, but I was in no mood to enjoy it. I was becoming more and more sure that Liz had already been here, and shot Teddy before she came to get me.

She won’t have to shoot me if she doesn’t know I saw him, I told myself, and although this made a degree of sense, I knew I couldn’t trust logic to get me through this. She was as high as a kite, practically vibrating. I thought again of Thumper’s bombs.

“You didn’t ask me,” I said.

“Ask you what?”

“If he’s here.”

“Well, is he?” She didn’t ask with any real concern in her voice, more like it was for form’s sake. What was up with that?

“No,” I said.

She didn’t seem upset like she had been when we were hunting for Therriault. “Let’s check the second floor. Maybe he’s in the master bedroom, recalling all the happy times he spent there boinking his whores. There were many after Madeline left. Probably before, too.”

“I don’t want to go up there.”

“Why not? The place isn’t haunted, Jamie.”

“It is if he’s up there.”

She considered this, then laughed. Her hand was still in the pocket of her jacket. “I suppose you have a point, but since it’s him we’re looking for, go on up. Ándale, ándale.”

I gestured to the hall leading away from the right side of the great room. “Maybe he’s in the kitchen.”

“Getting himself a snack? I don’t think so. I think he’s upstairs. Go on.”

I thought about arguing some more, or point-blank refusing, but then her hand might come out of her jacket pocket and I had a pretty good idea of what would be in it. So I started up the right-hand staircase. The rail was cloudy green glass, smooth and cool. The steps were made out of green stone. There were forty-seven steps in all, I counted, and each one was probably worth the price of a Kia.

On the wall at the top of this set of stairs was a gilt-framed mirror that had to be seven feet tall. There was one just like it on the other side. I watched myself rise into the mirror with Liz behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“Your nose,” I said.

“I see it.” Both of her nostrils were bleeding now. She wiped her nose, then wiped her hand on her sweatshirt. “It’s stress. Stress makes it happen because all the capillaries in there are fragile. Once we find Marsden and he tells us where the pills are, the stress will be relieved.”

Did it bleed when you shot Teddy? I wondered. How stressful was that, Liz?

The hall at the top was actually a circular balcony, almost a catwalk, with a waist-high rail. Looking over it made my stomach feel funny. If you fell—or got pushed—you’d take a short ride straight down to the middle of the conversation pit, where the colorful rug wouldn’t do much to cushion you from the stone floor beneath.

“Left turn, Jamie.”

Which meant away from the balcony, and that was good. We went down a long hall with all the doors on the left, so whoever was in those rooms could dig the view. The only door that was open was halfway down. It was a circular library, every shelf crammed with books. My mother would have swooned with delight. There were chairs and a sofa in front of the only wall without books. That wall was a window, of course, curved glass looking out on a landscape that was now turning purple with dusk. I could see the nest of lights that must have been the town of Renfield, and I would have given almost anything to be there.

Liz didn’t ask if Marsden was in the library, either. Didn’t even give it a glance. We came to the end of the hall and she used the hand not in her jacket pocket to point at the last door. “I’m pretty sure he’s in there. Open it.”

I did, and sure enough, Donald Marsden was there, sprawled on a bed so big it looked like a triple, maybe even a quadruple, instead of a double. He was a quadruple himself, Liz had been right about that. To my child’s eyes, the bulk of him was almost hallucinatory. A good suit might have disguised at least some of his flab, but he wasn’t wearing a suit. He was wearing a pair of gigantic boxer shorts and nothing else. His immense girth, jumbo man-breasts, and flabby arms were crisscrossed with shallow cuts. His full moon of a face was bruised and one eye was swollen shut. There was a weird thing stuck in his mouth that I later learned (on one of those websites you don’t want your mom to know about) was a ball-gag. His wrists had been handcuffed to the top bedposts. Liz must have only brought two pairs of cuffs, because his ankles had been duct-taped to the bottom posts. She must have used a roll for each one.