“Yes indeed. So I left him a sandwich and a bottle of water to admire and I went to New York and I got you and we drove back and nobody came and here we are, so where the fuck is he?”

“There,” I said.

“What? Where?”

I pointed. She turned and of course saw nothing, but I could see for both of us. Donald Marsden, also known as Donnie Bigs, was standing in the doorway of his circular library. He was wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and the top of his head was pretty much gone and his shoulders were drenched with blood, but he was staring at me with the eye Liz hadn’t punched shut in her fury and frustration.

I raised a tentative hand to him. He raised one of his in return.

62

“Ask him!” She was digging into my shoulder and breathing in my face. Neither was pleasant, but her breath was worse.

“Let go of me and I will.”

I walked slowly toward Marsden. Liz followed close behind. I could feel her, looming.

I stopped about five feet away. “Where are the pills?”

He replied without hesitation, talking as all of them did—with the exception of Therriault, that was—as if it didn’t really matter. And why would it? He didn’t need pills anymore, not where he was and not where he was going. Assuming he was going anywhere.

“Some are on the table beside my bed, but most are in the medicine cabinet. Topomax, Marinox, Inderal, Pepcid, Flomax…” Plus half a dozen more. Droning them off like a shopping list.

“What did he—”

“Be quiet,” I said. For the moment I was in charge, although I knew that wouldn’t last long. Would I be in charge if I called the thing inhabiting Therriault? That I didn’t know. “I asked the wrong question.”

I turned to look at her.

“I can ask the right one, but first you have to promise you’re going to let me go once you get what you came for.”

“Of course I am, Jamie,” she said, and I knew she was lying. I’m not sure exactly how I knew, there was nothing logical about it, but it wasn’t pure intuition. I think it had to do with the way her eyes shifted away from mine when she used my name.

I knew then I’d have to whistle.

Donald Marsden was still standing by the door of his library. I wondered briefly if he actually read the books in there, or if they were just for show. “She doesn’t want your prescription stuff, she wants the Oxy. Where is it?”

What happened next had happened just once before. When I asked Therriault where he’d planted his last bomb. Marsden’s words stopped matching the movements of his mouth, as if he was struggling against the imperative to answer. “I don’t want to tell you.”

Exactly what Therriault had said.

“Jamie! What—”

“Be quiet, I said! Give me a chance!” Then, to him: “Where is the Oxy?”

When pressed, Therriault had looked like he was in pain, and I think—don’t know but think—that’s when the deadlight-thing came in. Marsden didn’t look to be in physical pain, but something emotional was going on there even though he was dead. He put his hands over his face like a child who’s done something wrong and said, “Panic room.”

“What do you mean? What’s a panic room?”

“It’s a place to go in case of a break-in.” The emotion was gone, fast as it had come. Marsden was back to his shopping-list drone. “I have enemies. She was one. I just didn’t know it.”

“Ask him where it is!” Liz said.

I was pretty sure I knew that, but I asked, anyway. He pointed into the library.

“It’s a secret room,” I said, but since that wasn’t a question, he made no response. “Is it a secret room?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

He went into the library, which was now shadowy. Dead people aren’t ghosts, exactly, but as he went into that dimness, he sure looked like one. Liz had to feel around for the switch that turned on the overhead and more flambeaux, suggesting to me that she’d never spent any time in there, even though she was a reader. How many times had she actually been in this house? Maybe once or twice, maybe never. Maybe she only knew it from pictures and very careful questions to people who had been there.

Marsden pointed to a shelf of books. Because Liz couldn’t see him, I copied his gesture and said, “That one.”

She went to it and pulled. I might have run right then, except she pulled me along with her. She was stoned and redlining with excitement, but she still had at least some of her cop instincts. She yanked on several shelves with her free hand, but nothing happened. She cursed and turned to me.

To forestall another shaking or arm-twisting, I asked Mars-den the obvious question. “Is there a catch that opens it?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he saying, Jamie? Goddam it, what’s he saying?”

Besides being scary as fuck, she was driving me crazy with her questions. She had forgotten to wipe her nose and now fresh blood was running over her upper lip, making her look like one of Bram Stoker’s vampires. Which in my opinion she sort of was.

“Give me a chance, Liz.” Then to Marsden: “Where’s the catch?”

“Top shelf, on the right,” Marsden said.

I told Liz. She stood on her toes, fumbled some more, and then there was a click. This time when she pulled, the bookcase swung out on hidden hinges, revealing a steel door, another keypad, and another small red light above the numbers. Liz didn’t have to tell me what to ask next.

“What’s the code?”

Once again he raised his hands and covered his eyes, that childish gesture that says If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. It was a sad gesture, but I couldn’t afford to be touched by it, and not just because he was a drug baron whose product had undoubtedly killed hundreds, maybe even thousands of people, and hooked thousands more. I had enough problems of my own.

“What…is…the…code?” Enunciating each word, as I had with Therriault. This was different, but it was also the same.

He told me. He had to.

“73612,” I said.

She punched in the numbers, still holding onto my arm. I almost expected a thump and a hiss, like an airlock opening in a science fiction movie, but the only thing that happened was the red light turning green. There was no handle or doorknob, so Liz pushed on the door and it swung open. The room inside was as black as a black cat’s asshole.

“Ask him where the light switches are.”

I did, and Marsden said, “There aren’t any.” He had dropped his hands again. His voice was already starting to fade. At that moment I thought maybe he was going so fast because he’d been murdered instead of dying a natural death or having an accident. Later on I changed my mind. I think he wanted to be gone before we found out what was in there.

“Try just stepping inside,” I said.

She took a tentative step into the dark, never losing her hold on me, and overhead fluorescents came on. The room was stark. On the far side was an icebox (Professor Burkett’s voice came back to me), a hotplate, and a microwave. To the left and right were shelves stacked with cheap canned food, stuff like Spam and Dinty Moore Beef Stew and King Oscar sardines. There were also pouches containing more food (later I found out those were what the army calls MREs, meals ready to eat), and sixpacks of water and beer. There was a landline telefungus on one of the lower shelves. In the middle of the room was a plain wooden table. There was a desktop computer on it, a printer, a thick folder, and a zippered shaving bag.