Stillness & Shadows by John Gardner (accelerated reader books TXT) 📕

blush was dark and his small, far from prominent chin slightly trembled, his voice was, though thin and nervous, even. “I’ve put my cards on the table. I thought you agreed in advance to do the same.” (It wasn’t true, and he knew it, Craine thought; but never mind.) The inspector jerked one hand out, palm up, effeminate. “What makes you think Ira’s phone call was from his wife?”

“Several things—nothing that would stand up in court. His look when the phone rang, his tone of voice, the effect it had on him—only a wife can hit the weak spots with such absolute precision.”

“A wife or, sometimes, a neurotic mother,” McClaren said.

“True, except that Ira’s mother’s dead.”

McClaren nodded. After a moment: “Can you remember what was said?”

That too Craine could tell quickly. He could remember only one short outburst: “Kill them! That’s a wonderful idea! Kill them and pin the thing on me!”

“What?” McClaren said, looking at him harder. “You’re sure he said that?”

“Don’t make too much of it,” Craine said.

“What do you make of it?”

“As an ordinary observer of humanity,” Craine said, “I’d say Ira Katz and his wife were very angry, saying whatever they could think of to give pain.”

“You’re not making this up,” McClaren said, studying him.

“Any reason I should?”

McClaren evaded it, slowly swivelling around in his chair to frown thoughtfully at the blank gray wall. “Anything else you can tell me about Katz?”

“Well,” Craine said, hesitant about saying what he had in mind but interested in seeing how McClaren would react, “in the battle between Ira Katz and his wife, I’d say his wife wins hands down up at the English Department.”

“Oh?” McClaren said. It seemed to come to him as news.

“I was talking with the chairman.”

“Wendel Davies.”

“That’s him. Very fond of Katz’s wife—nothing intimate, you understand. Likes her cooking, things like that. As for Katz, Professor Davies seems pretty well certain he’ll never get tenure.”

“Interesting,” McClaren said. “No tenure, no job—no alimony, no child support …”

“That’s true too,” Craine said. “I guess they both lose.”

“Funny man, Wendel Davies—as you’ve noticed. I occasionally see him at faculty meetings and whatnot. Independently wealthy; family’s in plastics. Sometimes you get the feeling he’s made of plastic himself. Great humanist, head full of poetry and fine feeling, but sometimes you get the feeling that back behind all of it …” He let it trail off, as if embarrassed. He cleared his throat.

“Very logical mind,” Craine said.

“Yes, so it seems.” McClaren glanced at his watch. “Of course I hardly know him,” he added. Despite the glance at his watch he was pretending he had all day. No question about it, he was spending more time on Craine than made sense. “That reminds me,” McClaren said, abruptly turning. “What about Carnac—where does he fit in? I assume you’ve got some theory?”

“No theory,” Craine said. “I’ve thought about it, naturally.”

“As for myself, I keep thinking of that idea of Tummelty’s, that Two-heads Carnac, crazy as he seems, may in fact be an authentic psychic.” He leaned forward, fingertips of both hands pressed together, as if trying out the idea on Craine. “Suppose our murderer is someone who knows Carnac well, knows he can ‘see’ things. That would make Carnac a threat, you’ll admit.”

“Carnac’s about as psychic as my left foot,” Craine said, and gave a laugh.

McClaren studied him, shaggy eyebrows lifted with interest. “You know that for a fact?”

“I know that every two, three weeks he gets kicked into the street because his fakery’s so obvious any child can see through it. Tarot, tea leaves, that crazy mason jar—”

“Mason jar?” McClaren echoed.

“Claims it works better than a crystal ball,” Craine said, and gave an angry little goat laugh. “Believe me, if he’s psychic—”

“But isn’t it true,” McClaren broke in, “that with some people psychic ability comes and goes? I’m sure you’ve read of any number of cases—the Fox sisters, Eusapia Palladino, Nelya Mikhailova, for example, or better yet, the famous cousin of William James—I’m sure you’ve read of cases of authentic psychics who, as their powers waned, turned to trickery to keep from disappointing their disciples, or in order to stay in business, or for even more complicated reasons. Think about it a moment. Supposing that there really are people of psychic ability—and believe me, on that score Tummelty’s operation leaves very little doubt—doesn’t it seem natural, on the face of it, that Carnac—at least once in a while—is one of them? Think of that remarkable collection of junk in his shanty—dowsing rods, Ouija boards, canes, crank books and magazines, not to mention stuffed animals, voodoo candles, little bottles of God knows what …”

“Unlike you, I have never been in Mr. Carnac’s shanty,” Craine said.

“Be that as it may,” McClaren said, “the question is, Why is he so interested in such things? If we begin with the assumption that he has had certain psychic experiences from time to time—disturbing experiences, more likely than not, since that’s the usual case … I’m sure in all your reading you’ve run into these things …” Detective Inspector McClaren was rising from his chair as if having an otherworldly experience himself. He dipped his fingers into his sport coat pockets and half-turned away as if to look out a window, though there was no window there. “They’re almost always unpleasant, and usually extremely unpleasant, these psychic experiences. I was reading, in a book Dr. Tummelty lent me, about the dreams people had before the Alberfan disaster in Wales, back in 1966. You probably remember it—coal slide that killed a hundred forty-four adults and children. More than two hundred people reported dreams and premonitions—all exceedingly unpleasant. One woman dreamed of children standing by a building—the school—below a great black mountain. Hundreds of black horses came thundering down the mountainside dragging hearses! Think of Abraham Lincoln’s recurring dream just before his death—alone in a boat, drifting out farther and farther on a still gray sea. But dreams are the least of it. Think of the horror that must have