Broken Harbor (39 page)

Anyway here’s the update, this aft went up to the attic to see if any more leaves/wood/whatever + in one corner were four animal skeletons. Not an expert here but they looked like rats or maybe squirrels. Heads were gone. Maddest thing is they were lined up really neatly, like someone had arranged them ready for me to find—know that sounds crazy but I swear that’s what it looked like. Don’t want to say anything to my wife in case she freaks out but guys this IS a predator and I NEED to find out what kind.

This time the regulars were unanimous: Pat was out of his depth here, he needed a professional and fast. People posted links to pest control services and, less helpfully, to sensationalist news stories where small children had been maimed or killed by unexpected wildlife. Pat sounded a little reluctant (
I was kind of hoping to deal with this myself—don’t like getting people in to fix stuff I should be able to sort
), but in the end he handed out thanks all round and headed off to ring the pros.

“Not cool as a cucumber there,” Richie said. I ignored him.

Three days later, Pat was back.
OK so pest control guy came out this morn. Took 1 look at skeletons + said can’t help you out man, biggest he deals w is rats + no way is this a rat, rats don’t line up bodies like that + rats won’t take the head off a squirrel + leave the rest—he’s pretty sure all 4 skeletons are squirrels. Never seen anything like it he said. He said maybe a mink or could be some exotic pet that some idiot had to get rid of + let go into the wild. Possibly something like a bobcat or even a wolverine, he said you’d be amazed the tiny spaces these things can slip through. He said could be specialists that would deal w it but I’m not keen on spending loads of dosh to have someone else come out here + tell me not his problem either. Also at this stage starting to feel kind of like its personal—this house ain’t big enough for the two of us!!
Those little faces again, rolling and laughing.

So am looking for ideas on how to trap it/flush it out/what to use for bait/how to get proof it exists for my wife. Night before last thought I had it, was giving my son a bath + the thing started going nuts right over our heads—at first just like a few scratches but gradually built up till it sounded like it was spinning round in circles trying to scratch a hole in the ceiling or something. My son heard it too, wanted to know what it was. Told him it was a mouse—never lie to him normally but he was getting scared and what was I supposed to say?? Legged it downstairs to get my wife to come hear it, by the time we got back upstairs the noise had totally stopped, not another peep out of the little bastard all night. Swear to God it was like it knew. Lads I NEED HELP here. This thing is scaring my son
in his own home. My wife looked at me like I was some kind of total looper. I need to get this fucker.

The desperation rose off the screen, hot fumes like tar smoking in ruthless sun. The scent of it stirred up the board, turned them restless and aggressive. They started jostling Pat: had he shown the skeletons to his wife? What did she think about the animal now? Did he know how dangerous wolverines were? Was he going to call in the specialist? Was he going to put down poison? Was he going to board up the hole under the eaves? What was he going to do next?

They—or, more likely, all the other things crowding in on his life—were getting to Pat: that level-headed ease was fraying at the edges.
To answer your questions no my wife doesn’t know about the skeletons, I scheduled pest control guy for when she was going to the shops w the kids + he took them away. I don’t know about you but I believe its my job to take care of my wife not scare the shit out of her. Its one thing for her to hear scratching, totally other deal showing her skeletons w heads gone. Once I’ve got my hands on this thing then obviously I’ll tell her everything. Don’t exactly like her thinking I’m going mental meanwhile, but I’d rather that than have her petrified every time she has to be in the house on her own, hope that’s OK w you but if not basically tough shit.

About specialist etc: haven’t decided yet but no I’m not planning on boarding up the hole + I’m not planning on poison. Sorry if that’s not what you guys would advise but again tough, I’m the one living with this + I am GOING TO find out what it is + I’m going to teach it to fuck w my family, THEN it can bugger off + die wherever it wants but til then I’m not gonna risk losing it. If you have an actual helpful idea then yeah please feel free to contribute I’d be delighted to hear it, but if you’re just here to give me hassle for not having this under control then screw you. To everyone who isn’t being a shit thanks again + I’ll keep you updated.

At this point someone with a couple of thousand posts to his name said:
Guys. Don’t feed the troll.

Richie asked, “What’s a troll?”

“Seriously? Jesus, have you never been on the internet? I thought you were the wired generation.”

He shrugged. “I buy music online. Looked stuff up a few times. Message boards, though: nah. Happier with real life.”

“The internet is real life, my friend. All those people on here, they’re as real as you and me. A troll is someone who posts bollix to stir up drama. This guy thinks Pat’s messing about.”

Once their suspicions were raised, none of the posters wanted to look like suckers: everyone had, apparently, been wondering all along if Pat-the-lad was a troll, an aspiring writer looking for inspiration (
Remember that guy last year on the Structural Issues board with the walled-up room and the human skull? The short story showed up on his blog a month later? Piss off, troll
), a scammer building towards a pitch for money. Within a couple of hours, the general consensus was that if Pat had been for real, he would have put down poison a long time ago, and that any day now he would be back to announce that the mysterious animal had eaten his imaginary kids and ask for help paying for their funerals.

“Jaysus,” Richie said. “They’re a bit harsh.”

“This? Hardly. If you got online more, you’d know this is nothing. It’s a wilderness out there; the normal rules don’t apply. Decent, polite people who don’t raise their voices from one year’s end to the next buy a modem and turn into Mel Gibson on tequila slammers. Compared to a lot of the stuff you see, these guys were being real sweethearts.”

Pat had seen it Richie’s way, though: when he came back, he came back furious.
Look you pack of wankers I am NOT A FUCKING TROLL OK???? I know you spend all your time on this board but I actually have a fucking LIFE, if I was going to waste my time messing w someones head it wouldnt be you lot of losers, just trying to deal w WHAT IS IN MY ATTIC + if you useless twats cant help me w that then you can FUCK OFF.
And he was gone.

Richie whistled softly. “That there,” he said, “that’s not just the internet talking. Like you said, Pat was a level-headed guy. To get like that”—he nodded at the screen—“he must’ve been well freaked out.”

I said, “He had reason to be. Something nasty was in his home, scaring his family. And everywhere he turned, people refused to help him. Wildwatcher, the pest-control guy, this board here: all of them basically told him to bugger off, it wasn’t their problem; he was on his own. In his place, I think you’d be
well freaked out
too.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Richie reached out to the keyboard, glancing at me for permission, and scrolled back up to reread. When he was done he said, carefully, “So. No one but Pat ever actually heard this yoke.”

“Pat and Jack.”

“Jack was three. Kids that age, they’re not the best with what’s real and what’s not.”

“So you’re with Jenny,” I said. “You figure Pat was imagining it.”

Richie said, “Your man Tom. He wouldn’t swear to it that there was ever an animal in the attic.”

It was after half past eight. Down the corridor, the cleaner was playing chart music on her radio and singing along; outside the incident-room windows, the sky was solid black. Dina had been AWOL for four hours. I didn’t have time for this. “And he wouldn’t swear there wasn’t, either. But you feel that this somehow supports your theory that Pat slaughtered his family. Am I right?”

Richie said, picking the words, “We know he was under plenty of stress. There’s no two ways about that. From what he says on here, sounds like the marriage wasn’t doing great, either. If he was in bad enough shape that he was imagining things . . . Yeah, I think that’d make it more likely he went off the deep end.”

“He didn’t imagine those leaves and that piece of wood that appeared in the attic. Not unless we did too. I may have my issues, but I don’t believe I’m hallucinating quite yet.”

“Like the lads on the board said, those could’ve been a bird. They’re not proof of some mad animal. Any man who wasn’t stressed to fuck would’ve thrown them in the bin, forgotten all about them.”

“And the squirrel skeletons? Were those a bird too? I’m not a wildlife expert, any more than Pat was, but I have to tell you: if we’ve got some bird in this country that’ll decapitate squirrels, eat the flesh and line up the leftovers, nobody told me.”

Richie rubbed the back of his neck and watched my screen saver spiral in slow geometric patterns. He said, “We didn’t see the skeletons. Pat didn’t keep those. The leaves, yeah; the skeletons, the bit that would’ve actually proved there was something dangerous up there, no.”

The flash of irritation made me clamp my jaw tight for a second. “Come on, old son. I don’t know what you keep in your bachelor pad, but I promise you, a married man who tells his wife he wants to store squirrel skeletons in the wardrobe is in for a short sharp shock and a few nights on the sofa. And what about the kids? You think he wanted the kids finding those?”

“I don’t know
what
the man wanted. He’s all about showing his wife that this yoke exists, but when he gets solid proof, he backs right off: ah, no, couldn’t do that, wouldn’t want to freak her out. He’s dying to get a look at it, but when the pest-control fella says he should get in a specialist: ah, no, waste of money. He’s begging this board to help him figure out what’s up there, he offers to post photos of the flour on the attic floor, photos of the leaves, but when he finds the skeletons—and they could’ve had teeth marks on them—not a word about pics. He’s acting . . .” Richie glanced sideways at me. “Maybe I’m wrong, man. But he’s acting like, deep down, he knows there’s nothing there.”

For a strong, fleeting second I wanted to grab him by the neck and shove him away from the computer, tell him to piss off back to Motor Vehicles, I would handle this case myself. According to the floaters’ reports, Pat’s brother Ian had never heard anything about any animal. Neither had his old workmates, the friends who had been at Emma’s birthday party, the few people he had still been e-mailing. This explained why. Pat couldn’t bring himself to tell them, in case they reacted like everyone else, from strangers on discussion boards to his own wife; in case they reacted like Richie.

I said, “Just asking, son. Where do you think the skeletons materialized from? The pest-control guy saw them, remember. They weren’t all in Pat’s mind. I know you think Pat was going off his rocker, but do you seriously think he was biting the heads off squirrels?”

Richie said, “I didn’t say that. But no one except Pat saw the pest-control guy, either. We’ve only that post to say that he ever called someone in. You said yourself: people lie, on the internet.”

I said, “So let’s find the pest-control guy. Get one of the floaters on to tracking him down. Have him start with the numbers Pat got from the board; if none of those pan out, then he needs to check every company in a hundred-mile radius.” The thought of a floater coming in on this angle, another cool pair of eyes reading through those posts and another face slowly taking on the same look Richie had worn, tightened my neck again. “Or, better yet, we’ll do it ourselves. First thing tomorrow morning.”

Richie tipped my mouse with one finger and watched Pat’s posts flick back to life. He said, “Should be easy enough to find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Whether the animal exists. Couple of video cameras—”

“Because that worked so well for Pat?”

“He didn’t have cameras. The baby monitors, they don’t record; he could only catch what was happening in real time, when he had a chance to keep an eye out. Get a camera, set it up to record that attic round the clock . . . Inside a few days, if there’s anything there, we ought to get a look at it.”

For some reason the idea made me want to bite his head off. I said, “That’s going to look just great on the request form, isn’t it? ‘We’d like to request a valuable piece of department equipment and a massively overworked technician, on the off chance that we might possibly catch a glimpse of some animal that,
whether it exists or not,
has absolutely sweet fuck-all to do with our case.’”

“O’Kelly said, anything we need—”

“I know he did. The request would be approved. That’s not the point. You and me, we’ve got a certain amount of brownie points with the Super right now, and personally I’d rather not blow the lot on having a look at a mink. Go to the fucking zoo.”

Richie shoved his chair back and started circling the incident room restlessly. “I’ll fill out the form. That way it’s only me blowing my brownie points.”

“No you bloody won’t. You’ll make it sound like Pat was some kind of gibbering maniac seeing pink gorillas in his kitchen. We had a deal: no pointing the finger at Pat until and unless you’ve got evidence.”

Richie whirled on me, both hands slamming down on someone’s desk, sending papers flying. “How am I supposed to
get
evidence? If you put the brakes on, any time I start off on something that could go somewhere—”

“Calm down, Detective. And lower your voice. You want Quigley popping in to find out what’s going on?”

“The deal was we
investigate
Pat. Not I
mention
investigating Pat once in a while and you shoot me down. If the evidence is out there, how the fuck am I supposed to get to it? Come on, man. Tell me. How?”

I pointed at my monitor. “What does this look like we’re doing? Investigating Pat bloody Spain. No, we’re not calling him a suspect to the world. That was the deal. If you feel like it’s not fair on you—”