Epitaph

by James Siegel

Genres: Anthologies

Synopsis

Following a string of clues, William Riskin investigates the mysterious disappearance of numerous people. As he uncovers his partner's part in these crimes, he comes face to face with the ultimate evil.

Release date: February 1, 2003

Publisher: Mysterious Press

Print pages: 320

Sample

Mrs. Simpson finally noticed him on the third day. He’d been there before; standing in the amber shadows where the wooden overhang
of a Cape Cod roof met the milk-weed and thistle of the local lot. That it was milkweed and thistle she was sure of—gardening
was her passion and it had taught her the virtues of careful observation. But her powers of observation had proved lacking—after
all, she’d noticed him now, but he’d been there before. He smacked of familiarity, of something already seen, if not already noted.


She pointed him out to her husband, who peered at him through the kitchen window, then went back to the refrigerator with
all deliberate speed.


“So?” was all he said, almost out of the corner of his mouth, a characteristic he’d inherited from his latest and most severe
stroke, which had laid him up over half a year and left him sluggish, apathetic, and irritable.


Yes. So? It was a sound question, one she pondered on and off for the rest of the day and a good part into the night.


That he’d been there before? Well, maybe. After all, what was he doing there, hidden in the undergrowth like a greenhouse cat? Weed-watching? Or was he merely getting some air, getting it in a
place that suited him—in a place with a view perhaps, though she couldn’t imagine exactly what view that was.


It was when she noticed him the next day, back in the shadows like a reluctant suitor, and then again the day after that,
that she slowly began to understand what it was that bothered her. Why it was that looking at him made her feel guilty as
a voyeur—something she’d never felt with plants, or, for that matter, with sex—may it rest in peace—either.


What it was, was a mirror image. She was peeking on someone who was peeking on someone else—it was that simple. He was watching
someone, someone or something, and she’d stumbled onto it and compounded it all by committing the very same indiscretion. It was, in a sense, mortifying.


But mortifying as it was, she didn’t stop.

She tried, really tried, puttering with this and that, busying herself with one thing or another, but the problem was she kept passing that window, and every time she passed it she had the overwhelming desire to look through it. So much for trying. Soon she found herself right back at the kitchen window. Watching the watcher.


And he was an artist at it, really—a professional, she might have said. For he didn’t flinch, he didn’t blink, he didn’t seem
to move a muscle. He just stood. And watched.


What or who he was watching was, however, a mystery. She couldn’t tell—he was simply too far back into the shadows. He might’ve
been looking left, or he might’ve been looking right; he might’ve, in fact, been looking at her. Yet even the possibility that this might be the case didn’t deter her an iota. She was, in a way, too fond of him now.


For she’d begun to think of him as hers, the way bird-watchers tend to think of a returning cardinal or blue jay as theirs—their little bird. He was her little watcher, and the more she watched, the more cognizant she became of a certain feeling
she had about him, a feeling she might have termed maternal. Though he was (even half obscured by weeds she was sure of this)
quite as old as her, give or take a decade. Yet this only endeared him that much more to her.


She began to think of herself as his rear. His accomplice, if you will. And as this feeling intensified, she grew bolder,
bold enough to actually consider going outside to talk to him. What she would say once she got there, she hadn’t a clue—but
it was her experience that these things tended to sort themselves out. A simple hello might do for starters—then, they’d see.


By this time, his visits had taken on the sameness of routine. He was always there when she woke; he always left for the better
part of an hour just after noon (for lunch perhaps?); he always returned in time for the single bell struck at St. Catherine’s
across the road. By four he was gone. Give or take a minute, he stuck to that schedule as faithfully as a crossing guard.


It was well into the second week A.N.H. (After Noticing Him) that Mrs. Simpson decided to take the plunge. She waited till
mid-morning, then, taking a deep breath the way her mother had taught her to when she was about to do something daringly out
of character, she pushed open the kitchen latch and ventured outside.


If he’d noticed her, he didn’t show it. He stood rigid as ever, still half obscured by shoots of milkweed and thistle, shoots
grown thick and hoary in the early summer heat. She set her sights for his side of the street.


When she reached it, she turned right and began to walk straight toward him. She could see some details now: flat brown shoes
with air holes in the tongue, the kind worn for comfort and nothing else; well-creased pants that fell just a bit long down
the heel; a gray cotton shirt in need of ironing. A definite widower, was her off-the-cuff guess.


When she drew alongside him—and the ten or so yards needed to accomplish that feat seemed, at least to her, to take forever,
she glanced, casually as she could, up to his face and said, “Nice morning, isn’t it?”


But if he felt it was a nice morning too, he didn’t say so. He didn’t, in fact, do anything. He kept his face turned away—toward Mecca maybe?—and continued to act as if a woman had not decided (foolishly decided, she now believed) to pass him and reflect on the weather. One thing she wasn’t, however, was a quitter. And she
was about to try again, almost, in fact, had the words out, when something she saw made her stop, stop dead, as if someone
had just clapped their hand around her mouth. She continued on down the block without looking back.


The next day he was there again, and he was there again the day after that. But the next day, two and one half weeks After
Noticing Him, he didn’t show. And he didn’t show the day after, or the day after that.


And she knew, in the way she knew most things, not with her head, but with her heart—that that was it. He was never coming
back.


In the weeks that followed she found herself glancing out the window less and less, till she finally stopped looking out at
all. She immersed herself in her plants again, and though she found them staid and rather lifeless after him, she was grateful for them, for they passed the time and left her pleasantly fatigued. Gardening, after all, was a harmless hobby, and she knew it was that, above all else, that gave her comfort.


Several weeks later, snuggled up in bed, her husband suddenly asked about him.

“That guy? Whatever happened to him?”

She didn’t know, she said. Just gone, that’s all.

But then, she suddenly felt the need to tell more, felt it as strong as she’d ever felt anything.

“He had a gun,” she said. “I walked by him and he had a gun. I saw it.”

And she began to tell her husband more, more of what she felt and what she thought and what she theorized. But halfway through,
she gave up.


For he was fast asleep, turned to the wall like the class dunce, and certainly just as oblivious.

It was called a no-frills flight because that’s exactly what you got—the flight. No more, no less.


Southeast Airlines Flight 201 out of a Long Island airport no one’s ever heard of, departing Gate 13 at the ungodly hour of
six A.M. Not that there was any shortage of takers—William had to queue up for a good half hour, stuck between Sophie from Mineola
and Rose from Bellmore, who kept a running commentary going on the best buffets in Boca Raton. Sophie leaning toward General
Tso’s Szechuan Splendor with Rose touting a seafood buffet that sounded vaguely Lithuanian.


Once William actually made it on board, his initial feeling was immediately confirmed—the flight was packed solid. No matter.

You’re a man on a mission, William. Remember that. William had hoped for a senior citizen rate, but the no-frills flight was the best he could turn up, a name that kept proving itself right on the money. When he ordered a drink, he was told he’d
have to pay for it, when he asked about food, he was given a price list. Earphones were five dollars, and then there were
only two channels to choose from: mellow music and inspirational pep talks from America’s most famous business leaders. There
were only six or so magazines to go around, and no newspapers, and the magazines were of the kind found in dentist’s offices—dog-eared,
six months out of date, and completely uninteresting.


William didn’t mind. For one thing, he hadn’t been on a plane in years; he’d forgotten the way the ground looked, like one
enormous patchwork quilt, the clouds soiled mattress fluff through which the plane kept punching holes. He found it… okay,
exciting. Though he was just about certain he was in the minority there. Just look around. It was immediately evident why
no senior citizen rates were offered on the no-frills flight. The airline could never afford it. Everyone on the plane—save
for one little girl, the stewardesses (or flight attendants as they were apparently called now), and—hopefully—the pilots,
was a senior citizen. Everyone. It was all Sophies and Roses and your good old uncle Leo.


They seemed to William like refugees, for they all wore a collective look of oppression. In flight all right, and in more ways than one. Running like mad from the crime, the cold, the heat, the noise, the annoying son-in-law—
take your pick. Running from the loneliness too. What had Rodriguez said? Just another old guy with nobody. Sure. Refugees, on their way to the promised land.


And yet, he, William, senior citizen, wasn’t one of them. Technically, he was one of them—his birth certificate said so. So did his body—that said so too. In fact, his shoulder wouldn’t shut
up about it. Okay, his prostate could be quite the blabbermouth too. But they were running; he was working. Yes he was. And
he didn’t feel like one of them either, didn’t feel like one of the herd. He felt like devouring the herd. He had his appetite back, his hunger for all things human. What had those corny Charles
Atlas ads said— Be a new man. Sure, why not. A new man.


Keep your eye on the ball, William. Stay focused.

The man next to him was called Oozo, and he owned a delicatessen in Fort Myers. Or his son did. Or they both did. William
couldn’t be sure because Oozo had an odd way of talking and William was too polite to actually interrupt him to ask.


Don’t fall asleep on the job, William.

But at some point in Oozo’s never-ending monologue, William, new man that he was, eyes open and vigilant, shoulder to the
wheel, and man on a mission—did. Fall asleep. Soundly.


But maybe not too soundly—because he dreamt.

He was back in the funeral home. But this time with some old faces. Why, there was Santini, and look—Jean himself, and wasn’t
that Mr. Klein back there? What do you know? It was a reunion of sorts. Everyone getting to see everyone else and compare
notes. Only, if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear they were all staring at him.


I know, he said. I got old.

They didn’t try to dispute him. They were just wondering, they said, if he could manage.

I’ll manage fine. Man on a mission. Back in the saddle.

They reminded him about the girl. Five years old, wasn’t she? About the white petticoat and the graffitiscarred asphalt. And
all that blood.


Hot on the trail, he assured them.


Sure, they said. Okay.

I’m sniffing the clues. I’ve got my nose to the ground.

But he was tap-dancing for time.

He knew it; they knew it. And now they were all starting to leave him, shaking their heads, and one at a time exiting stage
left.


Man on a mission, he called after them.


But they were gone, each and every one of them, gone. And he was all alone with the coffin.

The coffin dull brown, open, and empty.

And his.

When he woke, catapulting himself out of dreamland like a man whose bed is on fire, the plane was halfway into its descent,
the jet-black runway of Miami Airport rushing up to meet them.


His clothes stuck to him; there was a sour, acrid odor in the plane. He would’ve complained to the stewardess, whoops… flight
attendant, about it, but he was just about sure it was coming from him. Besides, complaining might be extra on the no-frills
flight; it might be listed as a frill.

This was good. Joking was good. He breathed in. He breathed out. Good.

He’d dreamt about death. He’d dreamt about dying and he ’d been frightened by it. Imagine that. It seemed to him that this
was very important, being frightened. That it might be the price you pay for being back in the real world. You decide to join
the living, you get back your fear of death. Call it the price of admission.


When the plane landed, bumping twice along the runway before settling down, the passengers began clapping, all the old people
whooping it up, as if they felt safe now. Safe at home. Safe at last.


Well, why not.

He bought two maps of Miami in the airport lobby. Then he went down the row of rent-a-car booths looking for the most disreputable
one he could find. William had this minor problem. He hadn’t driven a car in more than a decade; his license was older than
that.


At the very end of the rent-a-car lane, two information booths removed from the rest, was Discount Rent-A-Car, a Cuban woman
reading the Star behind the counter. “Who Broke Up My Marriage?” the banner headline, though William couldn’t exactly see whose marriage it
was. These days, probably everybody’s.


“I’d like a car,” William said.

The woman looked up at him and, without putting down the paper, slid a price list across the counter.

There was Luxury, Deluxe, and Comfortable.

“What’s the difference?” William asked.

“Huh?” She peered at him quizzically.

“Between Luxury, Deluxe, and Comfortable?”

“Luxury and Deluxe have air-conditioning,” she said. “Comfortable doesn’t have air-conditioning.”

“So Comfortable isn’t.”


“Huh?”

“Comfortable.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I’ll take Deluxe,” he said, compromising.

She pulled out a form from under the desk.

“I need your license.”

“Sure.” William took out his wallet and after twenty seconds or so of leisurely rummaging, he pulled it out and slid it across
the counter.


William A. Riskin—it said. Never Billy, Bill, or Willy, just William, thank you very much. Date of issue—never mind.


She barely looked at it. Instead, she started filling out the form, quickly and with no hesitation whatsoever. She had this
rental thing down, William thought. As if her arms were moving on their own, her body set on automatic. Good, he thought,
good; he was almost home.


But then he wasn’t. Almost home.

“This license is expired,” she said.

“Really?” William sounded surprised. “I could have sworn…”

“It expired ten years ago.” She read him the expiration date. “That’s ten years ago.”


“Are you sure that’s what it says?”

“That’s what it says.”

Silence. They’d reached a Mexican standoff. William made no move to retrieve his license; she made no move to give it back.

Then she said, “I’ve already filled out the form. You should have told me your license expired.”

“Yes,” William said.

“I’ve already filled out the form. See, it’s all filled out.”

Yes, he saw. It was all filled out all right.

“Shit,” she said, “shit.”

Then she said, “Don’t run any red lights.”

And William had his car.

He booked himself into the National Inn by the airport, and was given a room that faced directly onto the runways.

“Don’t worry,” the bellboy said to him after he’d dropped his borrowed suitcase onto the bed. “You turn up the AC, you won’t
hear a thing.”


Which turned out to be only half true. The air conditioner drowned out the planes, but its wheezing rotors drowned out everything
else too, including his thoughts, which weren’t much, but were, nevertheless, sorely needed.


Okay, William, get to work.

He turned off the AC, then spread both maps across the bed, where he went at them with a blue Magic Marker that he’d picked
up in the hotel lobby.


Follow the list, William. Samuels to Shankin to Timinsky. Follow the list.

It took him over an hour to fix each of the names to the maps, after which, sweating but good, he fit one into his pocket
and the other into his bag, that one for in case. This sort of fastidiousness had been more Jean’s way than his, but that was the way he was going. He had
Jean’s list, so he’d go the way Jean would have. Copy the habits, he used to say. When you’re looking for someone, copy the habits. So okay, that’s what he’d do.


Then he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, as if it held the answers he desperately needed to hear.

It was already mid-afternoon when he finally eased himself into his car, an off-white Mustang which had seen better days, and
took off. Of course the Mustang had also seen better drivers. Much better drivers. Compared to him—Indianapolis Speedway caliber drivers.


Ten years had made him rusty. Let’s see: left turns, turn wheel left, right turns, turn wheel right. And the brake is the
one on the…? The problem, once he got the basics squared away, was that he overreacted. He turned too hard at corners and
nearly ran into the curbs; he braked too hard at traffic lights and nearly propelled himself into the dashboard. The heat
didn’t help matters either; it didn’t take him long to discover his air-conditioning was broken—the only thing coming through
the vents was hot air. He opened both windows and loosened his shirt, which ten minutes of driving had turned dishrag limp.


Follow the list, William.

His first stop was 1320 Magnolia Drive—a Mr. Samuels—and to get there he had to ride through old Miami Beach. It had, William
thought, the look of a tinsel town that had somehow lost its tinsel. Though, here and there, it was trying to get it back,
scaffolded porticoes and plastic-covered bamboo roofs being restored to their original levels of tackiness.


Traffic had reached a standstill. It seemed a bus had somehow collided with a Porsche—at least that was the story being passed
from car to car. The only people made happy by this turn of events wore Stamp Out M.S. T-shirts; they flitted from one passenger window to another like hungry pigeons in search of crumbs, which they collected
in boxes that began to sound like maracas as they jiggled up and down across the avenue.


“Can you spare something for a worthwhile cause?” A girl in tight white shorts had placed her box directly at eye level; William
could just about smell her youth. Ahhh.


He pushed a dollar bill into the box.

“God bless you,” she said.

“I hope so,” he answered, but she’d run off to the car behind him and didn’t hear him.

The blocks groaned by. He’d reached a section where fast-food joints had weaseled in between the crumbling hotels. Texas Wacos,
Wendys, and Big Jakes separated by red stucco, kneeling palms, and cracked neon. Limp white towels hung from serrated balconies
like washed-out coats of arms. Cuban bellboys grabbed smokes outside empty lobbies.


The natives, mostly old, moved in time to the crippled traffic, clip-clopping along in white mules, their floppy hats casting
huge shadows on the pavement. There was a purposefulness to their motion that seemed completely misplaced, as if, bent and
beaten, they were merely following some timeworn route, some caravan track in the sand.


Fred’s Fritos, the Crab Corner, the Dunes. The Beachcomber, Wiggles, and FleshDancers—featuring Wendy Whoppers and Ms. Nude
Daytona. The traffic thinned out, his pace picked up a little. Soon Miami Beach itself was gone. Referring back to the map,
he turned into a street darkened by huge grugru palms, a street saturated with the sickly sweet smell of plantain.


Now, evidently in the residential district, one block followed another with little change. They’d built their homes in the
Spanish style here; only the color of the stucco varied—from red to brown to every combination of pastel. Each house had its
small flat lawn, its thick spiraling palm, and filigreed iron gate. But it was the overall flatness he noted, as if the heavy
Florida air, swollen with moisture from the sea, had pressed everything into a pancake.


It was quiet too. Except for the occasional bark of an unseen dog, silence permeated the very air, like the humidity, oppressive
and inescapable. He flicked on the radio in an effort to pierce it, but the tinny country sounds that bled one into the other
as he turned the dial this way and that seemed almost sacrilegious here—think laughter at a funeral—so he turned it back off.


Now the neighborhood began to change. There was no sharp demarcation, no single street separating the haves from the have-nots,
but rather a gradual and insidious progression of ruination. The filigreed iron gates went first, then the grugru palms, as
the lawns themselves turned scraggly and spotty. It was, William thought, like driving toward ground zero, bearing witness
to the general and increasing denuding of the land, inching closer and closer to that terrible point of impact.


Which, in this case, was Magnolia Drive. No doubt about it. There was nothing further but swampland, acres of gold and green
shaded by thick rippling swarms of badass insects. Magnolia Drive was several blocks long, was devoid of even a single magnolia
tree, and looked very much like a repository for trash, of both the inanimate and animate kind. The houses were dilapidated
things, slapped together like collages: design th. . .