An Absence of Light

As he was walking out of the second bedroom, he stopped. The showers. He hadn’t looked in any of the showers. The showerheads. Not in Sheck’s bedroom, because it was used regularly, but the other two were never used, or seldom used it seemed. He went back into the bedroom he had just come out of and went into the shower stall. The showerhead was a big fat one, large enough for a canister of 35mm film or something of similar size. He unscrewed it Nothing. He went into the second bedroom. Same kind of showerhead. Nothing. He stood with the showerhead in his hand. Jesus. The shower was never used. He looked down at his feet… at the drain. He laid down the showerhead, took the Phillips screwdriver out of his pocket and undid the two screws from the chrome-plated grill over the drain. Nothing. He left them there and went back to the second bedroom, stepped into the shower, and looked at the drain. He got down on his knees and looked at the chrome grate that covered it There appeared to be a piece of lint stuck to the lip of one of the little round holes. He looked closer, putting the penlight and his face nearer to the drain. It wasn’t a piece of lint.

His blood pressure shot up instantly as he fumbled with the screwdriver and undid the two Phillips screws. Carefully he removed the grate from its seat and felt the tug, like a gentle nudge of a bite on a fishing line. He lifted the grate and saw the string, which actually was not a string but a length of clear monofilament fishing line, tied through one of the holes on the grate. The knot of the colorless line was almost invisible. He put the penlight in his mouth, carefully raised the grate with one hand, and grasped the line with the other. The monofilament was only three inches long and was tied through the eyelet of a threaded cap screwed onto a plastic, waterproof canister about five inches long, the kind of ribbed container in which an outdoorsman might keep matches to protect them from moisture.

Neuman’s heart was racing. He couldn’t believe his luck. He couldn’t believe he had thought of this, of the goddamned drain. Gripping the canister in one hand, he stepped out of the shower and leaned against the vanity counter. Holding the canister up to his face he looked at it in the beam of his penlight. It was army green with a thick rubber seal between the screw cap and the case. It looked like the kind of heavy-duty equipment he would have expected of Sheck. He shook it gently and heard nothing. He wanted to open it in the worst way, but was afraid it might contain film that needed to be opened in a darkroom, and his fear of ruining such hard-won evidence canceled all thought of satisfying his burning curiosity.

Putting the canister in his coat pocket-still attached to the monofilament and drain grate-he walked out of the bedroom, down the hallway to the kitchen and into the family room. Through the sliding glass doors that looked out onto the lawn, he had a perfect view of the burning marina across the lake. He was aware of an acidy, hollow feeling in his stomach as he thought that the night before Sheck might well have been standing where he was standing now, looking across at the bright display of lights that shone every night from the marina, lights strung on poles along the docks, lights running up and across the masts of the sailboats and around the cabins of the cruisers. Lights two times themselves, reflected upon the surface of the water.

Chapter 54

1:25 A.M.

Graver sat at Arnette’s library table with Cheryl and Arnette as Cheryl rewound the tape for the third time.

“You want to hear it again?*’ Arnette asked.

Graver shook his head. He was not likely to forget anything he had heard in Dean Burtell’s last conversation. It was an eerie recording with its wavering beginnings as Cheryl zeroed in on the range and the frequency followed by a remarkably clear reception. Bruce Sheck’s voice was whiskey raw and surly, and it was easy to imagine him after what Valerie Heath had already said about him. Good-looking, athletic, more savvy for sure than Valerie Heath could have imagined, an element of meanness sulking just beneath the surface.