The Instruments of Darkness: A Thriller

Chapter XIII

Far to the northwest, the wind whistled around Kit No. 174, and dead leaves skittered across the ground. Had anyone been present to witness it, they might have thought that a shadow passed across the window of one of the upper rooms, but as like as not, it was the reflection of a branch buffeted by the breeze.

In another universe, this particular iteration of Kit No. 174 might have been regarded as blighted from the start, fundamentally flawed by a series of incidents during its manufacture, each unconnected to the last but all ultimately contributing to a structure that should never have been permitted to leave the warehouse, or would have been better off returned to Sears as soon as its faults became apparent to the purchasers. Its undeniable oddness, its sense of elemental deficiency, would then have had a logical explanation. But the house conformed to every basic standard, and so had been permitted to stand. Its abnormality was not inherent, but acquired.

Yet the house was not haunted, whatever some locals might have suggested—although none had ventured out lately to check, because even the rowdier kids from the district paid heed to the NO TRESPASSING signs posted on the property. It was just a house, distinct from the ground on which it stood in the same way that a tombstone is not the same as a grave.

What did it mark, this structure? Nothing, nothing at all.

And everything.

THE WOMAN WHO HADbriefly gone by the name of Mara Teller was examining the coverage of Colleen Clark’s arrest on her laptop, replaying the media footage of her transfer to Cumberland County Jail. A beer stood by the woman’s right hand, and a cigarette was burning in an ashtray, its column of ash growing longer and longer, like a gray worm being birthed, because the woman was entirely absorbed by the screen.

She watched, for a third time, the film of Clark being escorted from the Portland PD building. Her hands were cuffed, and she had a police officer at either side of her, but she held her head high, even as bright lights shone in her eyes and questions and abuse were shouted at her from the margins. The woman felt a degree of admiration, even sympathy, but not enough of either to hope that Clark got off. It was important she be convicted. If she were not, the inquiry into her son’s disappearance would take a different direction, which would be unfortunate.

Behind Clark walked the lawyer Castin, who had later made a statement to the media declaring his client’s innocence and expressing confidence that she would be exonerated. The woman thought Castin looked like a shyster. He talked too fast for her liking, and wore the kind of suit favored by hucksters who were trying to sell you something you didn’t want to buy.

Finally, she reached a short section of reportage headed by footage of a man of slightly above-average height leaving Portland PD headquarters. He wasn’t trying to flee the cameras, but gave the impression that, while he was aware of their presence, they were of no consequence to him. She listened to the commentary, even though she was already familiar with his name and reputation, before freezing the video on the private investigator’s face. Footsteps sounded behind her. She tapped the screen.

“I think,” she said, “that we may have a complication.”