Читать книгу Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 7-9: Buried Alive, Her Last Scream, The Killing Game - J. Kerley A. - Страница 19

I followed Jeremy inside. The living room was a huge space, stone fireplace holding one end, bookshelves the other. Windows reached from the shelves to the vaulted ceiling peak. The wood walls shone softly, polished to a buttery gloss. The furniture was more delicate than the cabin; a couch, sofa and chair set on a braided rug inscribing an oval on the oak floor. A low table set centered the grouping. A chrome lamp arched fifteen feet from its base in the corner to the shade floating over the table. To the rear I saw a well-appointed kitchen with hanging pots, a beaten copper counter.

Though the exterior proclaimed rustic, the interior said Manhattan loft, reminding me that, in Manhattan, my brother had scammed a delusional paranoiac man into stealing from his brother-in-law. The take amounted to tens of thousands of dollars that he’d used in his escape and subsequent hideaways, but even the whole sum would have been nowhere near what this place cost.

“This must have cost a fortune, Jeremy,” I said. “Where’d you steal the money?”

Jeremy turned to me, his eyes guarded and cryptic. “I’ve learned a modest trade.”

“You? A trade?”

He gestured me upstairs to a room devoid of décor, like a cell, or a place where attention was riveted on a single task, no distraction allowed. The shades were drawn, everything lit solely by a bank of computer screens, four in all. The monitors sat on a long desk with a single ergonomic chair, a keyboard angled in front of the chair. The same screensaver played on all monitors, a white line inscribing random shapes against the dark.

My brother, who spent the bulk of his time in dark spaces in his mind, preferred this sort of room. The warm and bright furnishings downstairs were just a stage set for visitors. Jeremy crossed to the desk, tapped a button, turning the screensaver into charts and graphs, stock symbols and prices ticking in the corners.

“You play the stock market?” I asked.

Jeremy grinned, his eyes cold in the glare of the monitor images. “The market has but two states, Carson: scared child or blustering drunkard. I feel which one’s in charge and place my bets accordingly. Yesterday the blustering drunkard opened the shop. I bought a medical firm at four bucks a share. Just before noon I sold at six and a half. At one the scared child took control, and my former med stock plunged to under three within a half-hour. I shorted on another stock that promptly dropped a third of its value. Yesterday I made over four thousand dollars pressing keys on my computer. I’ve become quite the little capitalist, brother.”

“Under the name of Charpentier, no doubt.”

“The process of creating the identity involved a child who died in Moose Hat in 1963, plus a few brilliantly manufactured certificates from the underground market.”

“So you started your stock operation before you arrived? That’s how you made the money to buy this place?”

Jeremy smiled as if he hadn’t heard my question. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, squeezed it to the point of pain.

“Come, Brother, let’s have a drink to celebrate our joyous reunion.”

We retreated downstairs where Jeremy fetched iced teas and we sat in the living room. Though resembling a handsome and distinguished professor in his late forties, the eyes, voice and mannerisms were fully Jeremy’s. I felt if I could grab the top of his scalp and pull, the professor would become a limp costume in my hand, my forty-two-year-old brother revealed, naked and scheming.

“The way I’m figuring things, Jeremy,” I said, “you tricked me here.”

He crossed his long legs, a man at ease. “The last we talked, you were planning a vacation, but dithering over destination. I went to the cabin-rental place and bought you a contest to win. The owner, Dottie, thought it all very cute. She said, ‘He won’t really believe I kept his name for nine years, will he?’ I said, ‘Hon, this guy believes in love.’”

“You mimicked Donna Cherry’s voice. Sent me to the crime scene.”

“I heard them nattering on my police-band radio, talking about a dead body, where it was located and so forth. They seemed confused and I thought you should meet the local constabulary.”

“Why?”

He looked at me like I was the one not making sense. “Aren’t dead bodies your field of endeavor?”

“I got there first, Jeremy. I could have been killed.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Did you like my interpretation of Miz Cherry’s voice? I hybridized Scarlett O’Hara with a cat in heat. Is the lady prettier than her voice?”

“Yes,” I sighed. Talking to my brother was like talking into a whirlwind of conversational snippets.

“She’d have to be. Are you fucking her yet?”

“What?”

“If she’s pretty, you’ve commenced a charm offensive to get into her pants, Carson. You need the attention.”

My brother was fascinated by love and sex. Whenever we spoke on the phone, he pressed me about women. If I mentioned a recent date, I was in love. He had endless arcane theories on love and sex, always revolving around a damaged psyche. Mine, of course, never his.

“Drop it, Jeremy. I have no interest in the woman.”

“You’ve already targeted her,” he said. “Part of your childhood damage manifests in a shy roguish charm you use to warm yourself with temporary lovers, Carson. You gain them through various sensory buttons and words, then get to hide within them.”

“I don’t need to hear your old—”

Jeremy put a soft innocence in his eyes and stared shyly at the floor. “I don’t know for certain, ma’am,” he said earnestly. “But maybe I can stop by your house later, just to check on things. Would that be all right with you?”

My breath halted in my throat. It was my voice coming from my brother. It wasn’t like hearing a recording, but freakish, like eavesdropping on me from inside myself. My brother re-assumed his face and smiled wickedly.

“Then, Carson, once inside Miz Cherry you’ll feel a momentary sense of safety and control. Maybe even—”

“We’re talking about you,” I rasped, my mouth dry. “Why did you want me here?”

“We’re brothers,” he said innocently. “We should spend time together. Thus my gift of a vacation.”

“You know what I think, Jeremy?”

“Usually. But go ahead.”

“I think maybe you heard details of the first murder, the snack king, on your little radio. Heard enough to figure out it was a horror-show scene. You got spooked about law-enforcement types running about, doing things like studying newcomers. Figured you’d feel better if I was around to keep an eye on things for you.”

“You’re so suspicious, Carson,” he crooned, flicking lint from his collar. “It can be an irritant at times.”