The House On Gable Street (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Read online

  Nightingale was out of ideas for the moment, so he was quiet. Wainwright took another sip, and spoke. ‘Mary’s worried, Jack. Is there any chance you could go down there and take a look? I’d surely appreciate it.’

  It was phrased as a request, but Nightingale knew that he had no choice in the matter. ‘I’m not busy right now,’ he said, as if he were ever allowed to be busy when Wainwright twitched the leash. ‘Flights permitting, I could be down there tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Mary. ‘Though perhaps the day after would be better, I’m not flying back till tomorrow night. I’d offer you a ride, but, I’d rather people...didn’t...’

  ‘We understand,’ said Wainwright. ‘I know how hard you work to keep your private life private. I’ll organize Jack’s flight, if you can meet him at the airport.’

  ‘No problem, she said. ‘We’ll take care of the expenses and Jack’s fee, of course.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Wainwright. ‘It’s not often I can do something to help my oldest friend, this one’s on me.’

  * * *

  Mary Madison’s limousine tires were still crunching on the gravel driveway when Wainwright lit one of his favorite Cuban cigars, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, took a sip of his Glenlivet and sighed contentedly. Nightingale needed no invitation to light a Marlboro, and give a matching sigh.

  ‘Sheesh, Jack, she’s such a dear friend, but since she went off on this health kick, it’s kinda difficult. A single malt just doesn’t taste the same without a smoke. Why not join me, you won’t be driving or working today.’

  ‘Happy to,’ said Nightingale.

  Carla appeared and brought a Glenlivet for Nightingale and a fresh one for her employer. In all the time Nightingale had known Wainwright, he’d almost never seen him without a large glass of single malt whiskey in his hand, but the drink never seemed to have the slightest effect on the young man. Nightingale didn’t share his gift, so took a small slow sip and set the glass down.

  ‘Mary obviously means a lot to you,’ said Nightingale. It was a fairly transparent attempt to open Wainwright up, but there were things Nightingale needed to know.

  ‘She does too,’ said Wainwright, gazing at the glowing end of his cigar. ‘She’s good people, always was, and not everyone was kind to a young black boy growing up in Brownsville. We both found our own way out, her with her looks and the modeling, me...well, you know.’

  Nightingale knew of Wainwright’s reputation as a top Satanist, though he’d rarely seen any real proof of his abilities. He was pretty sure that he’d be happier that way, some things were better taken as read.

  ‘Must have been hard,’ said Nightingale, but it seemed Wainwright was not to be pumped.

  ‘Ancient history, Jack,’ he said. ‘All you need to know is that if something’s bothering Mary, then it’s bothering me, and I need you to fix it.’

  ‘Might be easier said than done,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sounds like a haunted house to me, and what do I know about ghosts?’

  ‘Spirits. We call them spirits. Can’t say I’m an expert in that area myself. If push comes to shove I could get you some help from someone who knows more than both of us.’

  ‘What, Ghostbusters?’ said Nightingale. ‘Joke.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t give up your day job,’ said Wainwright. ‘Spirits can be nasty, so don’t take this lightly.’

  Nightingale held up his hands in surrender, and decided to change the subject. ‘How much does Mary know about you?’ he asked.

  ‘She knows I started out broke and made good, something to do with property, she thinks. She knows I take an interest in the supernatural and have a large collection of books. She knows she can come to me any time she’s in trouble.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘That’s all,’ repeated Wainwright, ‘And that’s all I want her to know, so you won’t be needing to tell her anything else. Call if you get out of your depth.’

  ‘Joshua, I’m almost always out of my depth in your world,’ said Nightingale. ‘So far I’ve got by on dumb luck.’

  Wainwright took a long thoughtful drag on his cigar. ‘So you have,’ he said. ‘You ever wonder about that?’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘I just thought my Guardian Angel must be working overtime.’

  ‘Could be. Could be it’s not an Angel, maybe something else. Something maybe doesn’t want you dead just yet. Maybe saving you for something big.’

  Nightingale wasn’t smiling now. He shuddered at the thought, since he had an idea who Wainwright was talking about. Or was she a ‘what’? As ever he avoided anything uncomfortable by another change of subject. ‘Have you ever met Mary’s husband?’ he asked.

  A huge, beaming smile spread across Wainwright’s face. ‘Boy, you do not keep up with the news, do you?’ he said. ‘Oh yes, I’ve met him. I like him. You will too. Maybe I’ll leave you that pleasure and not spoil it.’

  ‘Come on Joshua, I’m going into this blind as it is, don’t make it worse.’

  ‘Hah! Okay, take a look at this.’ Wainwright leaned forward, took a ten by eight photo from a yellow cardboard folder on the coffee table, and held it out to Nightingale. ‘There they are, The Ungodly, America’s top Occult Metal band since the early eighties.’

  Nightingale had no idea that ‘Occult Metal’ was even a thing, but looked at the photo. It featured a girl in a black leather leotard and long boots, flanked by four men, also mainly in black leather, with pretty much every exposed inch of all of them covered in a jumble of tattoos. Hair was uniformly black and very long.

  ‘That’s him on the right of the girl singer,’ said Wainwright. ‘Lead guitar. Jimmy Deadman.’

  ‘Fair enough name,’ said Nightingale. ‘So, Occult Metal then, does that mean he follows your path?’

  Wainwright laughed. ‘I doubt it, no more than the cast of Twilight are vampires in real life. I’ve met him a few times, he’s pretty much a regular guy.’

  ‘And you’d know?’

  ‘I’d know. With adepts we can recognize each other, there’s a change in the aura. I wouldn’t be so sure about the girl singer though, something about the way she looks, but then I’ve never met her, and I don’t think Jimmy sees much of her these days.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘So nothing unusual about Jimmy or Mary?’

  ‘Well, maybe. I think Jimmy is what we call a ‘sensitive’...there’s a little something about him, I think he felt something about me when we met, not that he’d have known what.’

  ‘A ‘sensitive’. So what, he could see ghosts?’

  ‘Spirits. I doubt that, but he might get a feel that there was something strange around. Depends on the degree of sensitivity. Anyway, it’s just a hunch, and it can’t have anything to do with what the kids are seeing, he wasn’t even in the house some of the time.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind, anyway. What now?’

  ‘I’ve got you a hotel room for the night, nothing fancy, I know you like to blend in. Fly down to Kansas tomorrow, I’ll get Valerie to arrange flights.’

  Nightingale sniffed.

  ‘You don’t have anyone else?’ he asked.

  Wainwright gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘Anything wrong with Valerie’s travel reservations.’

  ‘She always seems to get me a middle seat between a fat guy and a woman with a screaming baby.’

  Wainwright gave a huge grin.

  ‘No shit? I’ll have to talk to her about that. Someday.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m sure it’ll be top of your ‘To-Do’ list.’

  He got up and headed to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob.

  ‘So Mary thinks you got rich from property speculation,’ he said.

  Wainwright nodded.

  ‘I may have given her that impression.’

  ‘And how did you really make your money?’

  Wainwright gave the biggest grin Nightingale had ever seen from him and raised his glass in salute.
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  ‘Why, from property speculation, of course. How else, Jack?’

  * * *

  Another day, another airport, and Nightingale was feeling even less happy than usual on arrival at Wichita, since he’d needed to stop over at Houston for nearly three hours. It was another small airport, and the name reminded him of his Uncle Tommy, who’d been a Glen Campbell fan, though Nightingale still had no idea what a Wichita Lineman really was. He looked around the Arrivals area and saw his name held aloft on an iPad. He walked over and found himself looking at a pretty girl in her late twenties, a head shorter than him, dressed in jeans and a white shirt. She had shoulder-length brown hair and a far more welcoming smile than he’d ever got from Valerie.

  ‘Hi, Jack Nightingale? Sarah Wade. I’m the nanny, and today the meeter and greeter too.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Sarah. And you’re the chauffeur, too?’

  ‘Of course, woman of many talents, they don’t have a huge staff down here. Pretty much me and the cook. I’m parked out here.’

  They walked outside, and Nightingale saw a smoking area straight away. ‘Look, Sarah, would you mind if I stopped for a cigarette. I’m assuming Mary won’t want me smelling up her car, and I know how she’ll feel about it in the house.’

  She repeated the big smile. ‘Sure, we’re in no big hurry.’

  Nightingale put his bag down, found his pack of Marlboro and lit up.

  ‘You got another one of those?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Sure,’ said Nightingale, handing one over and lighting it for her. ‘I wouldn’t have pegged you for a smoker.’

  ‘Social only, and hardly at all these days, I think Mary would have a fit if she thought I was bringing “carcinogens and impurities” anywhere near the twins. Though the rumor runs she was on two packs a day when she was at her career peak.’

  ‘Yeah, the reformed ones are the worst,’ said Nightingale. ‘I hear models all smoke like chimneys and live off a lettuce leaf a day.’

  ‘Hah, well maybe, but I guess you won’t find any shortage of lettuce leaves if you stick around Peacehaven long enough.’

  ‘That’s the house?’

  ‘Yeah, none of the houses on Gable Street have numbers. Just names. Though it’s not much of a haven of peace lately. I guess that’s why you’re here? The twins? You’re a Ghostbuster?’

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale with a grin. He put out his cigarette. ‘Okay, lead on.’

  Sarah led him into the car park and to a white BMW X1, which looked brand-new. Nightingale hefted his bag up into the luggage compartment, then got in beside her. She pulled out of the car park and headed out of the airport.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is it Mary’s?’

  ‘Nope, mine. They bought it for me last month for my birthday.’

  ‘Wow, pretty decent fringe benefits.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. I got a vacation in Bora-Bora last year. Great people to work for. I sure struck lucky. Hey, there’s a CD of The Ungodly in the glove locker if you’d like me to play it.’

  Nightingale opened the compartment in front of him, but the first thing he saw was an automatic pistol. ‘Your gun?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh shit, yeah. For God’s sake don’t tell Mary, I forgot it was there. She’d go insane if she knew I had a gun anywhere near the twins. I’m a Texas girl, been brought up around them.’

  Nightingale reached gingerly over the pistol and found the CD. It bore a tasteful cover photo of a goat-headed man, embracing a blonde in long leather boots and very little else. He turned it over and took a look at the track list. Blood Pact, Spawn Of The Demon, Tormented Soul, March Of The Damned, Lust For The Incubus...

  ‘You want to put it on?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Maybe another day, I’m a bit tired and it doesn’t exactly look relaxing.’

  They were on the freeway now, and Nightingale saw a sign for Dodge City. ‘We’re not heading to Dodge?’ he asked.

  ‘That direction, but only around half way. Town’s called Little Bend, and it doesn’t have a commercial airport, just a private strip, Mary keeps her Cessna there.’

  ‘She flies? Another woman of many talents?’

  ‘Oh yes, not your dumb supermodel by any means, she’s one sharp lady.’ Sarah drove quickly. She seemed to consider that the speed limit only applied to other drivers, and to change lanes on some random pattern that only she understood. Nightingale was beginning to wish he’d taken a rental, but Mary had told Wainwright there were plenty of cars at Peacehaven he could use.

  The turn-off for Little Bend came up around forty miles later, and five minutes after that they were driving through a typical American small town. They drove along Main Street and he saw the usual fast-food outlets, a movie theater, stores, supermarkets, bars, a hotel, signposts for a library, town hall and sports centre. They turned onto Gable Street and two minutes later, stopped at a set of wrought-iron gates and high stone pillars, the name Peacehaven carved into the left-hand pillar. Nightingale assumed there must be a sensor somewhere in the car because the gates swung open as Sarah paused in front of them, and then they were driving up a wide tree-lined drive which ran for maybe four hundred yards before opening out into an extensive graveled area in front of the mansion.

  As they reached the graveled area, Nightingale gave an involuntary shudder, and felt a swift jolt of fear run through him. A few years ago, he’d probably never have noticed it, or just put it down to imagination, but these days he listened more to feelings and vibrations, and tried to heed their warnings. The feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come, as Sarah braked to a halt near the front door.

  As mansions went, Nightingale had seen bigger, but not many and not by much. It was obviously pretty new, but built in the style of a bygone era, all turrets and towers, with an overall Gothic feel, though the fact that it was all pink sandstone with blue detailing took away any sinister feel. Maybe they’d tried to combine elements of both their personalities. It wouldn’t have been Nightingale’s taste, but nobody was asking him.

  He took his bag and Sarah led him to the front door, pushing it open as it wasn’t locked. She held it open for him and he walked inside. The entrance hall was bigger than the whole of most houses, stretching upwards to the roof, which featured glass panels to make it as bright as the outside. Passages ran off left and right, and two huge sweeping staircases ran up to the second floor, one from each side. Everything was painted white, with gold details on doorknobs, balustrades, hand-rails and window frames. It all looked new and immaculately clean, Nightingale could almost smell fresh paint.

  A tall wiry man who looked to be in his late forties emerged from the right hand passage and walked towards Nightingale. His graying brown hair was cut short, probably to hide the receding front and sides as much as possible, and he wore large-framed red plastic glasses. The pink Lacoste polo-shirt and old navy blue shorts showed off his outdoor tan and runner’s frame. He held out a hand to Nightingale and gave him a warm smile. ‘Jack, great to see you, thanks for coming. Jimmy Deadman.’

  It seemed to be Nightingale’s week for shocks. The man was completely unrecognizable from the long-haired, leather-clad sinister figure in Joshua’s photo. And where were the tattoos? Lasered off, he supposed, but they’d done one hell of a good job, the man’s arms were flawless, not a scar or red patch to be seen.

  Deadman had picked up on his surprise.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve seen a stage photo?’

  ‘Joshua showed me one.’

  ‘You can’t always believe what you see, and we all change a lot in thirty years. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.’

  He led the way up the right-hand staircase, along the corridor and stopped at a door with a monogrammed B on the doorknob plate. ‘We’ve put you in the Beelzebub Suite,’ he said.

  ‘Say what?’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re joking, I hope.’

  Deadman laughed. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Actually we just put letters on our four guest suite
s so that people don’t get lost. A, B, C and D. I shouldn’t sweat the Occult stuff, we’re not Satan worshippers here.’

  ‘That’s a relief, I forgot to bring my virgin’s blood.’ He smiled. ‘Joke.’

  ‘Yeah, well, why not freshen up, then come downstairs to the studio and we can talk a little. Mary’s meditating in the orangery, so she won’t be around for an hour or so. You need to eat?’

  ‘No thanks, I had something on the plane. ‘Something’, as in I have no idea what it was meant to be. Where’s the studio?’

  ‘Basement, but this place is like a rabbit warren, so I printed off a map and left it in your room. If you get lost, shout and somebody’ll find you. Eventually.’

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Nightingale found the basement studio with the help of the map, and walked through the open door. The place was enormous, featuring a huge lounge, one wall of which was glass and looked into a control room with a vast mixing desk, and beyond that another room which looked to be where the recording took place. Every spare inch of the walls seemed to be hung with guitars, with more of them on stands dotted around. Jimmy Deadman was sitting on a black leather sofa, reading a guitar magazine, which he put down as he rose to greet Nightingale. ‘Hey, you made it,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Sure. A beer?’

  Deadman shook his head. ‘No can do, my friend, I’m afraid we run a dry ship here these days. Both Mary and I used to have some issues, so we just don’t keep the stuff around. Coke? Water? Alfalfa shake?’

  ‘Coffee?’ suggested Nightingale tentatively.

  ‘No problem, there’s a machine right behind you, but we have real cups not paper. Plus it’s on free, so you don’t even need quarters. Reminds me of long nights in cheap studios, way back.’

  Nightingale pressed the necessary buttons for what the machine called a cappuccino and sat in the black leather armchair facing Deadman. He smiled a lot, but Nightingale noticed the dark circles under his eyes. The man was stressed.