Back Bay, and then there were those places—Jacob Wirth, a restaurant called Stoddard’s—that were boisterous enough, and dark enough, that being alone didn’t seem to matter so much.
It was when I left Jacob Wirth, and began the cold walk home, that I felt sure I was being watched. Maybe I really have read too many books, but I felt it in my neck, an almost physical sensation that eyes were on me. I turned back, scanned the heavily bundled residents and tourists, but saw no one who seemed suspicious. But the feeling continued all the way to Charles Street, and when I turned up Revere toward my apartment, I looked back and saw a man, in the hazy light of the gas lamps, walking slowly across the intersection, his gaze in my direction, his face in shadow. The only distinguishing characteristic that I could make out was that he wore a hat, something with a narrow brim. He kept walking, a slow, rolling gait, and for a moment I almost considered turning around to confront him. But then he disappeared behind a building, and I changed my mind. Everyone walking along Charles Street glances up the residential side streets, especially in wintertime when they are at their prettiest.
When I was inside, I thought some more about the man on the street and decided that I was being paranoid. No one was literally following me. But that didn’t mean that I wasn’t being watched, somehow, that I wasn’t being toyed with.
Ever since Gwen Mulvey had arrived at Old Devils, asking me about the list of perfect murders, I’d been thinking about my shadow, the man (I always thought of him as a man) whom I’d met when he answered an anonymous message about Strangers on a Train. The man who killed Eric Atwell for me. The man who wanted Norman Chaney dead.
What if he’d figured out who I was? It wouldn’t have been too hard. Maybe he found me by doing some research into Eric Atwell. If he’d done just a little looking, he would have found out about Claire’s car accident, and the husband left behind, a man who worked at a mystery bookstore. Not only that, but a man who had once published a blog post about his eight favorite perfect murders, one of them being Strangers on a Train. It would have been easy to find me. And once he did, then what? Maybe he’d enjoyed killing Eric Atwell, and he wanted to keep on doing it? What if he decided to use my list as a blueprint for further murders? It would be a way to get my attention. It had, hadn’t it? Was it all some kind of game?
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Charlie, who’d staged the A.B.C. murders, and the train murder from Double Indemnity, and probably scared Elaine Johnson to death up in Rockland, Maine, was the same man who’d shot Eric Atwell for me.
He knew me.
And his actions had brought the FBI to my door. Maybe that was his intention, as well.
Charlie, what is it that you want?
I thought some more about Strangers on a Train. The book wasn’t about the people who were murdered. It was about Bruno and Guy, the murderers, and their relationship with each other. Maybe whoever I contacted through that website felt as though we were in a relationship as well. I remembered the commenter on my blog post, Doctor Sheppard. It was clear he wanted to know me, and that he wanted me to know him.
My cell phone rang. I looked and saw it was Gwen.
“Hello,” I said.
“Sorry I’m calling you so late. Were you up?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m up.”
“Great. A couple of things. I did some more poking around in the case of Elaine Johnson, the heart attack victim.”
“Right.”
“I spoke with the police detective who attended the scene, and she told me that the house was absolutely packed with books.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Gwen paused, then said, “I have a request of you. I know it’s strange, but I think it would be helpful. I’m driving to Rockland tomorrow afternoon. Could you come with me?”
“I suppose I could,” I said, “but I’m not sure I’d be any help. What would I be able to see that you wouldn’t be able to?”
“I’ve already thought about this,” Gwen said. “Maybe you’d see nothing, but maybe you’d see a lot. You knew her. I’m not sure it would be helpful, but I don’t