Mickelsson's Ghosts by John Gardner (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

of a hundred cheap movies. Stall, let the murderer in his monstrous pride tell his story, and at the last minute, with a sudden blast of stereo trumpets and frenetic violins, some rescuer would come crashing through the window, pistols blazing, karate-boots flying. He knew it was absurd, no rescuer would come, but his wisdom ran behind his brain: he was already stalling.

His chief emotion, strange to say—and even as he felt it he recognized its strangeness—was not fear for his life or horror at life’s bleakness or even disgust that a man could so completely seem one thing and in fact be another, could to that degree despise all other people’s values—but sorrow at the waste. Michael Nugent’s fine, eager mind had been thrown away like a thing of no worth, a dead mouse from a trap; and then gentle, strikingly beautiful Randy Wilson. (He remembered how the boy would fade back, looking at walls and doors, giving Nugent and Mickelsson privacy; he remembered the shine of tears in the black boy’s eyes when Mickelsson had seen him at Binghamton General.) And before that, Professor Warren had been wasted—a man Mickelsson had never known, but surely a creature of some worth in the world, a chemist who’d been bright enough and earnest enough to get Nugent’s attention, and newly married to a woman who had evidently loved him. How could one do such things? Mickelsson checked himself, drawing his elbows in like a man rebuked. He himself was perhaps no different, really, from the fat black adder on the couch. What did he know of the ex-thief he’d killed, some mother’s son, anyway, his head crammed with the same two billion neurons (or whatever it was) as anybody else’s. So he told himself, but Nugent’s face rose before him and Mickelsson’s stomach jerked. He clenched his teeth and fists.

“Keep your hand out of your pocket!” Lawler said sharply.

“I was just getting a Di-Gel,” Mickelsson said. He had trouble with his voice. His lips were dry and thick.

Lawler meditated, eyes narrowed more, then nodded. He watched carefully as Mickelsson reached in and drew out the package. “You smoke too much,” Lawler said, “and drink too much. You’re as much a killer as I am.” He faintly smiled.

“If that comforts you, good,” Mickelsson whispered. He changed his mind about the Di-Gels and dropped them back into his pocket.

With his left hand Lawler reached for the couch-arm, preparing to help himself stand up. “We won’t discuss it,” he said. “As you know, we have work to do.”

A little stupidly, Mickelsson echoed, “Work?”

“We have a search to make,” Lawler said. Now he leaned his left hand onto the glass-topped table, balancing himself as he straightened up. “I’m afraid we have to tear your lovely house apart.”

“You’re crazy!” Mickelsson said. His slow-wittedness astounded him. How could he not have known that this was coming? The same instant, as Lawler’s hand rose from the table, Mickelsson saw—snapping into focus like some object in one of his son’s photographs—the old box with its few remaining keys. Instantly the color of the room changed, as if he were gazing through a curtain of blood. The box, of course! The Mormons hadn’t known what they were looking for, if it was Mormons who’d searched his house; Lawler himself had suggested that, and it made sense. They had known only, as perhaps some roving gang of kids knew, too, and as no doubt Professor Warren had known, that the house contained something. He remembered now, dimly, that someone had spoken to him—the U.P.S. man—of a legend concerning buried treasure. Mickelsson almost laughed; in fact he was in the act of raising his hand to point at the box when he understood the rest. The box of keys was worthless, that was obvious enough; the Mormons’ secret was perfectly safe, if it had ever been safe. But if Lawler were to learn that that mouldy black box was the object of his quest, his work here would be finished, along with Peter Mickelsson’s usefulness. Almost before the thought was clear in his head, Mickelsson had looked away from the box, careful not to lead Lawler’s eyes to it.

Lawler was saying, “We can leave your new diningroom. You already tore out the walls in there, and if you’d found anything I believe you’d have let me know.” He smiled. “Let’s start up in the bedrooms. Human beings have a natural tendency to hide things near the bed. I suppose it’s in some way sexual.” He gave the pistol a little wave, suggesting that Mickelsson get moving. “You have tools?”

Mickelsson nodded, still faint with the realization of how close he’d come to speaking of the box, and, with Lawler following, the gun trained on his back, went to get the pick, the wreckingbar, and a claw-hammer. He pushed the hammer-head down into his trouser pocket, crowded in with his pipe. He was only now beginning to register that he must actually tear the house apart, not only undo all he had done but reduce the house to less than it had been when he began. He thought of mentioning to Lawler the horror of that, then kept silent. Probably no one, not even a decent, life-loving man, would really understand. Psychological symbolism; shadows out of childhood. But ah, how powerful such symbolism was! In the hallway, moving ahead of Lawler toward the stairs, he ran his fingers along the new wallpaper. It occurred to him that if, by some miracle, he should get power over Lawler, he would certainly kill him. He felt remorse for the scorn he’d felt toward the well-kept old houses of Montrose, green-shuttered, white palaces, neat broad lawns. He’d disliked the people who owned them, he thought. People too gullibly pious, too proud and conservative; his own people, as much so as the people of Susquehanna.

The cat darted past Mickelsson’s right leg, running toward the foot of the stairs, where, abruptly, it paused, tinted by the light coming