Another sound, this one closer.

  “Hello?”

  Still no response. He looked around him, eyes zeroing in on the jutting point of the rock-crusted sentries. He realized he might be able to heft himself up, climb to the top of one and gaze about the land. See if what he was hearing was really an animal, or something with other nightly plights in mind. His hand scraped against the jagged edge, drawing blood. He pulled back. Okay, let’s try this again. His foot more secure, he grabbed upward, found a smooth spot and lifted. He continued onward until he’d reached the top, about twelve feet above the ground. He sat on the edge, taking in his surroundings. The moon seemed within reach, the light better, but that could be deceptive, a trick of the eyes.

  Another sound, this one shriller, suddenly cut through the night.

  “What the hell…?”

  It was his phone. Perhaps climbing up here had increased the signal. He wanted to silence it, not give away his location. But when he saw the Caller ID, he had no choice but to pick up.

  “Mallory,” he said, talking quietly. “Everything okay?”

  “Jimmy, I can barely hear you…”

  “I’m in the woods, trying to keep quiet.”

  “The woods…Ma said you were at the Calloway Estate.”

  “Which is near the woods. What’s up? Ma okay?”

  “Yeah. She just missed you at dinner. Meaghan and me, too. Look, Jimmy, what’s going on with Seetha’s situation? I’ve got a call into Captain Frisano but haven’t heard back. And you said you were going to come see her. She’s in hiding, Jimmy, no one to talk to and nervous that no one is telling her the truth. I’ve done what I can…”

  “Sorry, it’s another case I’m working, took me out of the city.”

  “Yeah, it’s all over the papers. Ma said the show’s back up?”

  “Look, Mal, can we talk tomorrow? I’ll come to Seetha. I’m on the earliest train I can get.”

  “Okay, thanks, Jimmy. Be safe.”

  The call ended, the word safe lingering in his mind. Was he still alone out here? Had the phone call scared away whoever was out here? Was it really just an animal, or someone up at the house following him? Or someone entirely different, with a motive only they knew. About to climb down, he heard that rustling sound from earlier, this time much closer. He didn’t call out, since the first two times offered up no answer. He had to be cautious. He felt his nerves heighten, his senses on overdrive. He eased down from the sentry, his back vulnerable.

  And that’s when the blow came.

  A hard, fast chop to his body that made him lose his footing. His hand slipped and he felt himself falling. It wasn’t a long drop to the earth, but that didn’t lessen the impact. A whoomph sound escaped from his mouth when he landed, his shoulders taking the brunt. But he quickly regrouped, spinning around in case his attacker had another go at him. He got to his feet, swung a fist into the darkness and only swiped at air. But then he caught sight of a figure, retreating through the nearby trees. He launched after it, again wiping his hands against his pants, his shirt. He raced forward, intent on catching the culprit and finding out who, and why.

  Enough mysteries. Jimmy wanted results. That determination fueled him. He saw the figure up ahead, one who moved with catlike reflexes, darting between tree trunks. He heard a sudden rip, a yelp. The figure went down, but not for long, and seconds later had disappeared into the darker recesses of the woods. No crack from fallen branches, no rustle in the dense brush. It was like the figure had vaporized into the air, the only evidence it existed was the piece of clothing Jimmy came upon moments later.

  It was dark, perhaps brown in color, and it was made of heavy material.

  He took out his phone and used the light to see it better. He’d seen it before. On a video screen at the Calloway Theatre. It was the cloak from the person who had left Casey Crais those threatening letters. An interesting development for sure, one Jimmy wanted to examine in better light. So carrying his spoil, he returned to the driveway and wound his way back up to the house, where he slipped inside hoping to avoid detection. He didn’t want to see anyone, wishing to keep the cloak a secret until he knew more.

  Upstairs he went, taking the steps two at a time. He reached his room, tossing the cloak to the chair. He went right to the private bathroom, where he flipped on the light. He stared at himself in the mirror, saw dirt splotches on his face, as well as a smear of blood across his white dress shirt. He knew it was his own blood, from the cut he’d gotten on the rock. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, collateral damage he wouldn’t need again. He splashed his face with cold water, then washed the cut thoroughly. Satisfied he’d cleaned it, he retreated back to the bedroom, where suddenly a lamp was switched on from the nightstand.

  “What the hell…”

  “Now, that’s a sight I’ve not seen in some time…still very appealing.”

  “Remy?”

  “In the flesh,” he said from beneath the blankets of the bed. He smiled, a leer attached to it. “Literally.”

  “Get the hell out of my bed…”

  “Happily…”

  Remy pulled the blankets back to reveal his naked self, his compact body tight with muscle. He was sporting a hard-on. For his size, he’d always been surprisingly well-endowed. Still, Jimmy looked away. “Never mind, Jesus, Remy, cover yourself. Don’t a make a fool of yourself.”

  “Who’s the fool, Jimmy McSwain?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Oh, shit, are you drunk?”

  “Of course. Aren’t I always? Isn’t that what you think?” His voice was raised, his words slurred.

  “You’re only proving my point, Remy. Don’t make a scene. Put your clothes on and leave.”

  “Sure. What should I wear…ooh, how about that garment over there…”

  He was pointing to the cloak draped loosely on the chair. Jimmy stared at it, then at Remy, and a realization hit him that like a boulder, one he hoped wasn’t true but knew otherwise. He hoped it was just the booze talking. But as Remy slid off the bed and padded over—still naked, still hard—he grabbed for the cloak and with a flair for the dramatic only a fashion designer could employ, he wrapped himself inside it, a fit so perfect it looked like he’d made it for himself. Which Jimmy now surmised he had.

  Remy came toward him, his small hands sticking out of the large folds. He ran a hand across Jimmy’s cheek, causing Jimmy to flinch.

  “What’s the matter, is the big tough McSwain afraid?”

  “I just don’t need to get into this.”

  “Fuck yeah, you do. Come on, Jimmy, do what you used to do. Take me to bed. Fuck me.”

  “That was a long time ago. You were a different person.”

  “And now I’m…what? You hate me? You don’t find me attractive?”

  “Not in the least,” Jimmy said. He words might have been delivered by a corpse, emotion having gone dead.

  Just then Remy’s hand reached out, as if to slap Jimmy, but he was waiting for it. He caught it, twisted it with such force he drove Remy down to his knees with a cry of pain.

  “So, what, you want me to blow you instead?” he asked with a giggle.

  Jimmy pushed the man even farther down until he was splayed on the floor. He stood over him, powerful, like a triumphant gladiator, defeating the aggressor. It wasn’t hard because he knew all of Remy’s lame games. But what he wondered was if Remy had been his attacker a short while ago? And if so, why? What did it all mean? He knew he’d get no answer from his former lover, a man so foreign to him now it conjured no memories of the past. Like Jimmy had been able to wipe it all clear.

  “Stay there,” Jimmy said.

  He was about to head out in the hallway when he was met by Casey Crais at his door, the man dressed in a silk robe and old-fashioned pajamas.

  “Ah, just the man I was looking for.” Jimmy pointed to the floor. “I believe he’s with you?”

  Casey saw the man laying there, the cloak halfway off his body, the rest of him exposed. “Oh, Remy, what have you done?”

  “Shut up, Casey,” Remy said, drool slipping out of the side of his mouth. “Fucking jerk. It’s all your fault, dragging me back to the city, making me…making me see him, and then doing your stupid bidding…”

  Jimmy saw a crestfallen look on Casey’s face, realization of what more had been exposed.

  “You sent the letters to yourself,” Jimmy said with conviction. “You had Remy dress up in the cloak to deliver them, a mystery man in the night. I’m guessing it was meant as a harmless prank—publicity for your show?”

  “I was just trying to get Welly’s attention. To get the word out about the show.”

  “So why hire me?”

  “Welly’s idea. He wanted to keep it quiet, and said he knew of a private investigator who would be discreet,” Casey said. “Discreet was the last thing I wanted. But I swear to you, Jimmy, and even though I’ve given you no reason to trust me, my dumb little scheme has nothing to do with what happened to Gareth Fitzroy. I swear.”

  “Your word means nothing,” Jimmy said.

  “I live by my words. My play is honest.”

  Jimmy let out a derisive snort. “You’ve gotten tons of attention for the show. And you are now the star of your own show. That’s honesty? You’ll have it all—fame, talk show appearances, perhaps a Hollywood deal. Well played, Casey, very well. But this doesn’t mean you’re in the clear for anything else. Tomorrow, after you tell Welly everything, you’ll go back in the city and visit Detective Alvarez about the Fitzroy case. You’ll spill your guts. Perhaps he’ll believe you. Perhaps when the show goes back up on Thursday, the drama can be kept to the stage, where it belongs. Of course, that depends on whether Welly agrees to keep the show going after he learns of your…games.”

  “He has to. He has too much invested in it. He’s put everything into this show.”

  Which was true. The way Tristan was circling around the Calloway Foundation, trying to sell off the Calloway Theatre, Welly’s livelihood was on the line and it was right now dangling off a precipice. Jimmy had to keep it from falling off.

  What a fucking mess was Jimmy’s blunt thought. “It’s in Welly’s hands now.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Just get the hell out of here. And take this drunk with you. I’m still watching you, Casey. Even if I wasn’t being paid to.” Jimmy stared down at a pathetic Remy, who appeared passed out. He felt disgust in his gut. These two men deserved each other, self-destruction was their common bond.

  Soon Jimmy was alone in his room, the door closed. He opened a window to welcome a cool night breeze, the first taste of fall. It felt good against his body, raw, like the heat of summer was finally waning. Let me bring on tomorrow, the world seemed to be saying, everything will be brighter then. Except Jimmy always seemed to find darkness even among white floating clouds.

  § § §

  He was never happier to see the steel and glass skyscrapers of New York as he was this morning.

  After arriving at Grand Central, Jimmy hopped the Shuttle to Times Square and decided to walk from there to his mother’s house on 10th Avenue and 48th Street. He felt like it had been years since he’d visited, even if only a day and a half had passed. The events that had taken place up at the Calloway Estate still swirled inside his mind, but at least he’d done as he’d been hired to do. He solved the Case of Casey Crais. It was the playwright himself who had sent the letters, a desperate ploy for attention. Jimmy ducked out just before the confrontational meeting between Casey and Welly; it wasn’t his business. He took his leave, happily, even calling a cab to pick him up at the front gates. No more high living, no more prime rib and people who lived in glass houses.

  The crazy bustle of New York was in full force on this Tuesday, the pace like the humidity, sweat-inducing. He walked past the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where all walks of life came and went, but at least they were living, pursuing their dreams. Jimmy darted up Ninth Avenue, where he came to the building which housed his office. Paddy’s Pub was open according to the neon sign in the window. Jimmy checked his watch, saw that it was only ten-thirty. A quick look through the window showed a few older men sitting at the long bar with beers. Their brand of living, it worked for them until it didn’t. Uncle Paddy was behind the bar, sipping at a cup of coffee. Jimmy slipped in and sidled up to the bar, and given the night he’d just had was tempted to join the men with their sunrise beers. He opted for the coffee.

  “You look like hell, Jim.”

  “Thanks, Paddy,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well. Working a case.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Solved it,” he said. “Part of it. It’s complicated.”

  “Always is.”

  “With me.”

  “With everyone. Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. You sure I can’t pour you one? Take the edge off?”

  Jimmy thought of saying yes. He thought of saying no. He thought of Remy and what the booze did to him. But he wasn’t Remy, and so he nodded his head and Paddy went to the tap and soon a cold draft was settling in front of him. It was five o’clock somewhere and lucky those who could sip guilt-free. He took his first taste of the day and let out a sigh.

  “Remind me never to become rich,” Jimmy said.

  “Since it’s doubtful you can pay for that beer, I’ll take my chances.”

  “Thanks. Paddy, I needed a dose of reality.”

  “Anytime, Jim. Mags tells me the show’s back up, starting Thursday.”

  “Unbelievably, yes. With the playwright as the star of the show.”

  “Read that in the paper.”

  Paddy slid the day’s Post over to him. Michael Reidel, the theatre columnist, had the front page story. STAGE FRIGHT read the headline. Jimmy didn’t find it funny. A photograph of the Calloway Theatre was featured, the marquee for Triskaidekaphobia front and center. No one could miss it. This kind of coverage was a producer’s wet dream, even if it had come at the expense of a life. There was always another actor around the corner. The article continued inside, and Jimmy sipped as he read. Nothing new here, he’d heard it all yesterday. What interested him were the photographs that accompanied the sensational piece. Photos of Casey Crais, of Gareth Fitzroy, of Wellington Calloway and a sepia-toned portrait of Harold Calloway, the famed actor whose name kept the theatre lit. The article even went the fanciful route, retelling the story of the Calloway ghost and its supposed haunting of the house.

  The ghost hadn’t killed Fitzroy. Not even a cloaked specter had.

  Jimmy pushed the paper aside, finished his beer and thanked his uncle for the ear.

  “You should have been a psychiatrist,” Jimmy said.

  “Nah, none of that mumbo jumbo. Those docs don’t cure anyone, too busy asking questions that don’t ever get answered. Bartenders, we listen.”

  Insightful as ever; Jimmy hugged his uncle and made his way back out into the busy day and decided he needed a shower first. So he turned the lock on the front door of the building and made his way up to his office. It was warm inside; he hadn’t been here in a few days, so he opened the windows and let the breeze filter in. He stripped down and threw himself in the shower, the spray invigorating, the perfect wake-up call, and in more ways than one. He thought about what Paddy had said about therapists, which made him think of Dr. Florian as played by Gareth Fitzroy. At the end of the play, he cures none of his twelve patients, all of whom are suffering from various fears. Instead, one of them comes back after the group therapy session ends and kills him. Curtain. Applause. The audience leaves, themselves not cured of their own phobias and perhaps for some their inner darkness has suddenly stirred. Had someone taken out their aggression on the man who played Dr. Florian? Was it the fictional character who had been the target, or the man playing the role? Hard to say. Transference wasn’t that what the experts called it?

  Jimmy stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, tossed on a fresh pair of jeans and a blue chambray shirt. He left it untucked, casual and comfortable. He ran a comb through his hair and pronounced himself good to go. But just where was he going? What angle was he working? The Fitzroy murder? The Forever Haunt? Did he go see Detective Alvarez at Midtown North, or Mallory at her law firm, where she would then take him to Seetha? Undecided, he instead walked up Ninth Avenue to 47th Street, turning east toward Eighth. He wanted to check out the scene in front of the Calloway.

  What he saw upon arrival were news vans parked in front of it, and across the street near the Edison Hotel. A news reporter was standing before a microphone, checking her notes for when she went live. It was almost noon, the local networks were prepping for their mid-day broadcasts filled with “Breaking News.” Jimmy stood on the corner, watching the action unfold. The theatre’s marquee was lit, unusual at this early hour of the day. But the action was brisk here, not just from the media. Jimmy noticed a line of people out the front doors, eager theatregoers wanting at the box office for a chance to face their own fears, or at least see the play which had led to a shocking murder.

  It was like Opening Night, but gruesome and sordid, a red carpet drenched in blood. Jimmy wanted to turn away when he noticed his mother and sister emerging from the stage door area. Meaghan’s belly seemed to have grown exponentially the last week, she in the midst of her second trimester. Maggie held her arm and the two escaped the glaring eyes of the spotlight. Jimmy had been ready to pounce if a camera turned their way. He waved to them from the corner, and soon his mother was kissing his cheek and his sister was popping a bubble from the gum she chewed.