Being an avid mystery reader as an adolescent does not prepare you for real life. I truly imagined that my adult existence would be far more booklike than it turned out to be. I thought, for example, that there would be several moments in which I got into a cab to follow someone. I thought I’d attend far more readings of someone’s will, and that I’d need to know how to pick a lock, and that any time I went on vacation (especially to old creaky inns or rented lake houses) something mysterious would happen. I thought train rides would inevitably involve a murder, that sinister occurrences would plague wedding weekends, and that old friends would constantly be getting in touch to ask for help, to tell me that their lives were in danger. I even thought quicksand would be an issue.
I was prepared for all this in the same way that I wasn’t prepared for the soul-crushing minutiae of life. The bills. The food preparation. The slow dawning realization that adults live in uninteresting bubbles of their own making. Life is neither mysterious nor adventurous. Of course, I came to these conclusions before I became a murderer. Not that my criminal career satisfied the fantasy life I had as a kid. In my fantasies I was never the murderer. I was the good guy, the detective (amateur, usually), who solved the crime. I was never the villain.
Another skill set I thought I’d utilize more in my adult years was the ability to follow someone. And conversely, the ability to know when I was being followed. Again, these things never really came up. But on that Saturday night, after closing up Old Devils, I walked across the Boston Common, wind cutting through my clothes, and wound up at the bar at Jacob Wirth, drinking German beer and eating Wiener schnitzel. It was the middle of February but there were still Christmas lights strung up along the high ceilings of the beer hall, and, somehow, this place made me feel okay about eating alone. That was how I judged restaurants near me; there were the ones that made you feel lonely when you ate alone, like some of the higher-end haunts that clutter Back Bay, and then there were those places—Jacob Wirth, a restaurant called Stoddard’s—that were boisterous enough, and dark enough, that being alone didn’t seem to matter so much.
It was when I left Jacob Wirth, and began the cold walk home, that I felt sure I was being watched. Maybe I really have read too many books, but I felt it in my neck, an almost physical sensation that eyes were on me. I turned back, scanned the heavily bundled residents and tourists, but saw no one who seemed suspicious. But the feeling continued all the way to Charles Street, and when I turned up Revere toward my apartment, I looked back and saw a man, in the hazy light of the gas lamps, walking slowly across the intersection, his gaze in my direction, his face in shadow. The only distinguishing characteristic that I could make out was that he wore a hat, something with a narrow brim. He kept walking, a slow, rolling gait, and for a moment I almost considered turning around to confront him. But then he disappeared behind a building, and I changed my mind. Everyone walking along Charles Street glances up the residential side streets, especially in wintertime when they are at their prettiest.
When I was inside, I thought some more about the man on the street and decided that I was being paranoid. No one was literally following me. But that didn’t mean that I wasn’t being watched, somehow, that I wasn’t being toyed with.
Ever since Gwen Mulvey had arrived at Old Devils, asking me about the list of perfect murders, I’d been thinking about my shadow, the man (I always thought of him as a man) whom I’d met when he answered an anonymous message about Strangers on a Train. The man who killed Eric Atwell for me. The man who wanted Norman Chaney dead.
What if he’d figured out who I was? It wouldn’t have been too hard. Maybe he found me by doing some research into Eric Atwell. If he’d done just a little looking, he would have found out about Claire’s car accident, and the husband left behind, a man who worked at a mystery bookstore. Not only that, but a man who had once published a blog post about his eight favorite perfect murders, one of them being Strangers on a Train. It would have been easy to find me. And once he did, then what? Maybe he’d enjoyed killing Eric Atwell, and he wanted to keep on doing it? What if he decided to use my list as a blueprint for further murders? It would be a way to get my attention. It had, hadn’t it? Was it all some kind of game?
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Charlie, who’d staged the A.B.C. murders, and the train murder from Double Indemnity, and probably scared Elaine Johnson to death up in Rockland, Maine, was the same man who’d shot Eric Atwell for me.
He knew me.
And his actions had brought the FBI to my door. Maybe that was his intention, as well.
Charlie, what is it that you want?
I thought some more about Strangers on a Train. The book wasn’t about the people who were murdered. It was about Bruno and Guy, the murderers, and their relationship with each other. Maybe whoever I contacted through that website felt as though we were in a relationship as well. I remembered the commenter on my blog post, Doctor Sheppard. It was clear he wanted to know me, and that he wanted me to know him.
My cell phone rang. I looked and saw it was Gwen.
“Hello,” I said.
“Sorry I’m calling you so late. Were you up?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m up.”
“Great. A couple of things. I did some more poking around in the case of Elaine Johnson, the heart attack victim.”
“Right.”
“I spoke with the police detective who attended the scene, and she told me that the house was absolutely packed with books.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Gwen paused, then said, “I have a request of you. I know it’s strange, but I think it would be helpful. I’m driving to Rockland tomorrow afternoon. Could you come with me?”
“I suppose I could,” I said, “but I’m not sure I’d be any help. What would I be able to see that you wouldn’t be able to?”
“I’ve already thought about this,” Gwen said. “Maybe you’d see nothing, but maybe you’d see a lot. You knew her. I’m not sure it would be helpful, but I don’t think it could hurt. Does that make any sense to you?”
“A little bit,” I said.
“So you’ll come?”
“Sure, I guess. When are you leaving?”
“Excellent. I have to be here in New Haven all morning, and then I thought I could leave around noon. I’ll swing through Boston and pick you up one thirtyish and we’ll get to Rockland about five in the afternoon. Will that work?”
“Okay,” I said. “I can get coverage at the store. Will we be there overnight?”
“I hadn’t even thought of that. I just decided five minutes ago to make this trip.” She thought for a moment. “Let’s plan on spending the night. The detective said she’d meet us there at five, but we might want to take more than one look at the house, and there might be other witnesses I can interview the next day. Is an overnight okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Perfect. I’ll text you when I’m leaving New Haven. Should I pick you up at the store, or at your apartment?”
I told her I’d be at the store, and we ended the call.
I stood for a moment, then went and grabbed a beer from the fridge. I didn’t really know why Gwen wanted me to come along with her to Elaine Johnson’s house. She was grasping at straws. Maybe she was ambitious and thought I’d help her take down a serial killer. Maybe she wanted me there because she was hoping I’d tip my hand, that confronted with a crime scene I’d give myself away. Of course, her impulse was correct. Elaine Johnson was one of the murders on the list. The same man, my shadow, who killed Eric Atwell, had decided to keep killing people, and to use my list. And he was reaching out to me; that was made clear by his choosing Elaine as one of the victims. But how exactly did he know about her, know that she used to frequent the bookstore? How close was he to me?
I didn’t have the answers to those questions, but I did know, in my gut, that Gwen Mulvey was going to figure it out. She’d put it all together so far and she was going to continue to put it together. And it was going to lead back to me, to the murder of Eric Atwell, and to what I’d done to Norman Chaney in New Hampshire. She was going to find me. And that meant I needed to find my shadow first. I needed to beat her to it.