Shilo, Part 2

Shilo, Part 2

The hour was late as I walked out of the police station, but I figured I still had time to pay a visit to our dear Dr. Euler. The Charleston Mental Institute (CMI) was around downtown, and I had no difficulty in finding it. Actually, I was a little surprised that I had never noticed it before. It was a monster of a building, towering to what I believe was eleven stories. At the front desk there was – what do you know – a blonde receptionist!

“Hey,” I said, “I’m looking for Dr. Francis Euler.”

“I’m afraid he’s very busy, sir, do you have an appointment with him?” the pretty, dumb blonde rattled off the cliché with studied delivery.

No,” I said, “no appointment—”

“Well, then, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait. Won’t you have a seat, sir?”

Boy, I was really striking out with blonde receptionists today!

“Miss—” I started to say.

“Ms.,” she corrected me. “I’m Ms. Aften.” And she pointed majestically at her name-tag.

“Right, I’m sorry,” I said, a little flustered. “Ms. Aften, right. Well, you see, I need to talk to Dr. Euler about rather—important business.” I glanced dramatically around the waiting room. There was only a small old lady and a couple old men. I leaned in close to Ms. Blonde, and she took the bait. She leaned over the front desk too, and I whispered in her ear, “Police.” And I added a little wink, just to put the cherry on top.

I sure was lucky that I got a dumb blonde. If she had been a smart blonde, or, darn it, even a smart brunette, I wouldn’t have had a chance. If she had asked to see my badge, I don’t know what I would have done. Made an appointment, I guess.

But like I said, she took the bait, hook, sinker, and all, and she slyly winked back at me. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Mr.—”

“MacArthur,” I said, after the smallest hesitation.

Ms. Blonde looked confused, and I knew I had made a mistake.

“But there already was a MacArthur here,” she mused, “and he—”

“Oh, that must have been Lieutenant MacArthur! I’m Sergeant MacArthur. Funny how folks sometimes got the same name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is funny, isn’t it?” laughed Ms. Blonde the Parrot.

“Anything else I should tell him, Sergeant MacArthur?” she asked.

“Yes, tell him I’m here in relation to Melvin Wicks.”

Ms. Blonde winked at me again (I have no idea why) and slipped away to find Dr. Euler. She was back in a minute, with a smile on her lips but no Dr. Euler. I was a little annoyed, you will imagine, but she whispered to me, “Come on, I’ll take you to him now.”

She led me down several hallways and up two elevators until she suddenly turned and wrenched open a door on our right. “Wait here,” she said, and then she was gone again.

I stepped through the door into a small white cubicle. It was a perfect square, but very small and cramped, with nothing at all in it but a mattress on a spring-bed, a small, straight-backed chair, and a tiny desk along one wall. I hesitated in the doorway, paralyzed with an irrational fear. Those white, white walls, devoid of color, devoid of life...To be locked up inside one of these...I touched the door gently. Solid oak, braced with metal...How was this even legal? Or was I going insane...

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind me, “you are Sergeant MacArthur?”

Well, I can tell you I nearly jumped out of my skin, but when I turned around, my questioner’s appearance reassured me.

With a name like Francis Euler, I was of course expecting to see a dork. And I sure wasn’t disappointed. I was reminded for all the world of a tortoise, and not just any tortoise, but one of those Looney-Toon tortoises, with their outrageously long necks and their tiny heads. Add small circular glasses and a lab-coat, and you will have Dr. Francis Euler.

“You wanted to see me, Sergeant?” Euler’s voice could sure use an oiling. “About Melvin Wicks? I’m sorry, but I thought the case was closed?”

“Dr. Euler,” I said, “I’m going to level with you. I’m not a cop, but I am working with them. And my name’s not MacArthur, it’s Henry.”

“Henry?” I could see that the name rung a bell inside that small head. “You are—”

“That’s right,” I finished for him, “I’m the brother of Constance Henry.”

“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Euler. “The novelist? Yes, I’m sorry...Um, what can I do for you?”

“I want to know about Melvin Wicks.”

Euler hesitated. “Of course you realize that I cannot reveal confidential—”

I cut him off, “Listen, Doctor, my sister is dead and I think Wicks killed her. Don’t give me your crap about confidentiality! And don’t worry, I know plenty, I’ve read the interrogation transcript. I know about his diminished capacity. I know about Shilo.”

Euler looked very annoyed. “MacArthur told you this? That man’s unbearably unprofessional! He can’t—Look, Mr. Henry, I feel for you, I really do, but I cannot in good conscience—”

“Who is Shilo, Dr. Euler.”

The doctor bit his tongue mercilessly. “What did MacArthur tell you?”

“He told me it he was an imaginary friend.”

“An idiotic simplification!”

“He also said something like super-developed imagination, but he said he didn’t know what that meant.”

“It’s hyper-developed imagination,” Euler corrected me. “And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure exactly what it means either. I suppose...well, I don’t like it, but simply for the sake of comprehension, I guess we can call Shilo an imaginary friend...But I don’t like it!”

I nodded. “MacArthur told me that Wicks faints at the sight of blood.”

“Another gross oversimplification! It’s not a faint, it’s psycho-somatic shock! There’s a difference you know!”

I didn’t know, and Euler didn’t care to elaborate. Instead he said, “Melvin Wicks suffers from an acute case of vasovagal syncope—”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

“Har, har,” grumbled Euler. “This isn’t a joking matter, Mr. Henry. You of all people should know that.”

“Alright,” I said. “But what I want to know, Doctor, is what you actually think. Is it really your professional opinion that Wicks is incapable of murder?”

“Did MacArthur tell you that too?” Euler was enraged. “What didn’t that madman tell you!”

“Dr. Euler,” I said.

“Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten about you,” Euler was still grumbling. “If you must know – and it seems you already do – then I’ll tell you: Yes, it is my opinion, professional as well as personal, that Melvin Wicks is incapable of murder.”

“But isn’t it possible, Doctor? I mean, hypothetically, isn’t it remotely—”

“Perhaps you do not know what the word incapable means, Mr. Henry. Well, let me dumb it down for you then: It is literally, and I mean lit-er-al-ly, impossible for Melvin Wicks to murder anybody. I don’t want to get into the science of it with you, because you couldn’t understand, but here’s something maybe you can understand: Melvin Wicks did not murder your sister!”

“But – but in a fit of anger—?” I tried to protest.

“A man like Melvin Wicks, given his mental composition, is incapable of a fit of anger like the one you have in mind.”

“But—”

“Enough, Mr. Henry, good-bye.”

“But—”

“Mr. Henry,” Euler exclaimed, “perhaps you are in a worse mental state than Wicks himself! Why do you insist on denying the inescapable, why do you persist in the inconceivable? It’s because you can’t get away from your novels, isn’t it? Isn’t it! Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Agatha Christie, let me tell you something, Sherlock: This isn’t a novel! You mystery-writers get your very life-blood from the idea that, ‘oh, just anybody at all can commit a murder.’ How many times have I read that blatant lie published as fact in your moronic, unprofessional, and unrealistic books. Let me tell you this, Mr. Henry, it’s not at all like it is in your novels. Some people really are incapable of murder, and Melvin Wicks is one of them. I’d stake my life on it, my reputation, anything you like, because that’s the truth, and you, Mr. Henry, are incapable of convincing me otherwise.”

The white cubicle was silent for a long moment. I was of course unconvinced, but I could see I would get nowhere with Euler. Then all of a sudden I was struck by a thought, and just as suddenly I went with it. “Tell me about Shilo,” I said.

Now ordinarily, I expect Dr. Euler would have had a moment’s hesitation before opening up about something so “confidential.” But he was worked up right now, and eager to change the subject, and so he leapt at Shilo.

“Melvin Wicks,” he began, talking very quickly, “was born into, how shall we say, rather unpleasant circumstances. His father was a truckdriver who was rarely at home, and his mother was in and out of the whole picture. It was his grandmother, then – his father’s mother – who took care of him for the most part. He did poorly in school and was, I understand, bullied mercilessly. He had few, if any friends, and when the children played, he always seemed to be alone. And so, friendless, he turned to the only friend he could find...the one in his mind.

“Shilo was the perfect friend; he would always come when Melvin called, and the boy was never alone. As far as I can tell, Wicks never talked to anybody about Shilo, except to his grandmother. The old Mrs. Wicks, it seems, rather than discouraging her grandson’s imaginary friend, did quite the opposite. She thought that Shilo would be good for him, since his parents couldn’t spend time with him and his schoolmates were cruel rather than kind. She had of course noticed what one cannot help but notice about Melvin Wicks, that he is, um, not all there. But she saw that Shilo made him happy, so she encouraged him to dream, to imagine. She talked to him about Shilo, sometimes she even talked to Shilo himself. And Melvin grew up believing perhaps more strongly than other children that his imaginary friend was real.

“What happened next is frankly incredible. Melvin Wicks did not stop believing in Shilo. His grandmother died and that only strengthened his belief, because now that there was no real person left at all for Wicks to turn to, he was almost forced to flee back to Shilo. And then another peculiar thing happened, although it is not illogical. The longer Wicks believed in Shilo, the more real Shilo became. I mean, Shilo’s personality became more developed.”

“An imaginary friend’s personality?” I just wanted to clarify.

“Doesn’t every imaginary friend have some sort of personality? Admittedly, this personality is merely a reflection of the imaginer’s own, but this is why I called Shilo a ‘hyper-developed imagination.’ He has existed so long, too long, so that he has developed a personality entirely independent of Melvin Wicks.”

“Schizophrenia, then?”

“Where do you people get the idea that multiple personalities is a symptom of schizophrenia? It’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder, and no, that’s not what we’re talking about. As far as I can understand it, Wicks’s case is entirely unique. He does not have two separate personalities – but he believes in a personality that does not exist. He believes, in other words, that Shilo is capable of and responsible for his own personal thoughts and actions. For example, in my presence Wicks once accused Shilo of murdering your sister.”

“What!”

Euler smiled. “Incredible, isn’t it, but really it’s not too hard to understand. Shilo’s development happened without any effort on Melvin’s part. Wicks may have created Shilo, but then Shilo took it from there. You see, Shilo is much more clever than Wicks could ever be, and no doubt he resents being chained down in Melvin’s mind.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this!”

Euler ignored my interruption. “But Shilo must also realize Melvin is necessary. Independent as he is, he can only exist in Wicks’s mind. Which is why it was almost fatal when Melvin fell in love.”

“With my sister?”

“No,” said Euler, “with Julie Rothschild.”

“Who?”

“Julianna Rothschild was Melvin Wicks’s first love. The details of their romance I do not know, but it was a much more, how shall I say it, mutual relationship than the one he had with your sister. Julie, it appears, actually had some sort of feelings for poor Melvin. And for the first time in his life, Melvin Wicks forgot Shilo. I do not suppose for a moment that he actually denied the existence of his imaginary friend, but he did not talking to him or thinking about him. You can imagine, or maybe you can’t, how jealous that must have made Shilo feel.

“Well, Miss Rothschild betrayed him, I don’t know why. Maybe she just got bored with him, I don’t know. What I do know is that this breakup crushed Wicks’s very soul. In despair and desperation, he called for Shilo. But Shilo, to punish him, did not come. At least not for a long while. But when he did return, he had complete control over the heart, mind, and soul of Melvin Wicks.

“When Wicks subsequently fell for your sister, he tried to keep it hidden from Shilo. He was deathly afraid of Shilo, and yet loved him with all his heart. Something akin to Stockholm syndrome, I think. Anyway, Wicks cherished the idea that he could have both Shilo and your sister. But Shilo would not hear of such a thing. He remembered Julie Rothschild. When he discovered Wicks’s new obsession, he was infuriated. But now that your sister has passed, I assume Shilo is happy again.”

I had taken a seat on the bed during this long monologue of Euler’s, but now I stood up and began pacing the room.

“And Melvin accused Shilo of murdering my sister?”

Dr. Euler shrugged. “He did once. Other times he denied it altogether. Sometimes he said that Shilo hated your sister, and again that Shilo never knew about her.”

“Doctor,” I stopped in front of him, “you don’t actually expect me to believe this, do you?”

“No,” said Euler, “no, I guess I can’t expect that.”

“Do you believe it?”

Dr. Francis Euler shrugged again. “I don’t know, Mr. Henry...I don’t know.”

The next morning I called up Alan and explained everything as fast as I could. He seemed to have fully recovered from yesterday’s scene at Wicks’s apartment, and he accepted MacArthur’s solution immediately.

“He’s right, Eric,” he said, “I – I can’t understand what we could have been thinking yesterday. I know Wicks didn’t do it! I know it was an accident!” And yet behind his words I caught the lingering undertone of doubt.

Then I asked Alan to do a favor for me. “You got a friend who’s a private eye, don’t you? Could you have him locate somebody for me?”

I could hear Alan hesitate over the phone. “Look, Eric, I really think this thing’s gone far enough...”

“This is the last time I’ll bother you,” I promised. “Just do this for me, would you?”

“Well, alright...What’s the name?”

“Julianna Rothschild.”

“That’s some name! Who is she?”

“I’d tell you, but then you might not talk to your friend,” I chuckled.

“She has to do with Wicks, then?” Again Alan hesitated. “Alright, Eric, I’ll talk to Benny for you, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit...What she look like?”

I hesitated a minute, and then I went with an impulse. “She looks like Constance.”

There was a very long silence, and then Alan said, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I won’t bother you again.”

“Eric,” he said, “we’ll, um, still, uh, keep in touch, won’t we?”

“Sure, Alan,” I said. “Good-bye.”

What I did for the rest of the day is not worth mentioning. Mostly I just sat around the house. I did read a little bit – I had been struggling through War and Peace for a while now – but I found I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I tried writing a little bit too, but now everything, all my ideas and mysteries and plots, all of it seemed somehow fake and hollow. And ever and always my mind turned back to Melvin Wicks, and my eyes to my phone, waiting impatiently for Alan’s phone-call.

Finally, just about 4:30, Alan’s call came. Don’t ask me how his friend had managed to track down my mysterious lady so quickly. I may write about it, but when it comes down to it, I don’t know the first thing about detective work. And I didn’t ask questions either. I just took the information I got, thanked my informant, and hurried off, hardly stopping to say good-bye to my mother. Poor Mother – she couldn’t have had the faintest idea of what was going on.

By 4:45, I was at the hotel where Miss Rothschild was staying. I guess I should have considered myself pretty darn lucky that Julie Rothschild also lived, or at least was presently living, in Charleston. I had always just taken it for granted that she would, but really I had no reason to think so. She could have been living in Indonesia for all I knew. But fate had decreed that Julianna Rothschild was to be found in Charleston, South Carolina, and that is just where I found her.

I knocked several times at the door of her apartment. There was no answer, but when I tried the knob, it turned and the door creaked open. I glanced through the little crack in the doorway, but I saw nothing, just a decently furnished little living space. I opened the door all the way and stepped inside. The lights were all on, and I heard the sound of running water and saw a light gleam from under the bathroom door.

“Are – are you in the bathroom?” I asked. There was no reply. I repeated myself, louder this time.

Suddenly – I suppose it sounded more sudden than it really was – the shower turned off. “Be out in a sec!” I heard a voice yell. It was a husky voice, but unmistakenly feminine. A few seconds passed, and then the door opened. I stared for a second, and then I hastily turned away.

Julie laughed out loud.

“Um,” I said, not looking up. “I’m sorry...maybe I should come back later?”

“Nah,” she said. And she walked right across the living room in her towel to her bedroom. She didn’t even bother to close the door.

“You’re, uh, you’re Miss Julianna Rothschild?” I asked, pulling myself together. What a funny name, the thought suddenly occurred to me, sounds like something I’d make up for a book...

“Yep, that’s me,” she called out through the doorway, “but you can call me Julie, all my friends do!” I was just about to retort that I was not in fact her friend, when she stuck her head out the door, showing off her bare shoulder, and asked “And you are—?”

I looked down sharply again. “My—uh, my name is Henry, Eric Henry.”

“Eric Henry!” she cried, and I was afraid she would jump right out into the open. “Not the novelist?”

“That’s, uh, yeah – that’s me.”

“Wow,” she said, “now ain’t that something?” She came out of her bedroom, and she sure was something. I don’t think she was wearing much more than when she’d stepped out of the bathroom, but I guess that’s what girls wear now adays – or don’t wear, depending how you look at it.

“You know,” she continued, pretending not to notice my embarrassment, “I always did want to meet you. I just love your books! How do you think those things up?”

“Yes, yes,” I said, “I, uh, I see you do have a collection of my books.” I pointed to her tiny bookshelf, the middle shelf of which was almost entirely devoted to my novels. I got a sort of sensation – and not at all a pleasant one – seeing my books there. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen my books on other people’s bookshelves before. Why, it seemed like almost every place I went people were showing off their collections to me! No, it was seeing those books in this particular place, in the abode of this particular woman. I had already kind of gotten the message that Julie Rothschild was not a – um – a good woman. It occurred to me that nobody I had met here in Charleston – not Alan or MacArthur or even Dr. Euler – had really like my books. And the fact that this woman, of all people, was the first to compliment them was a very unpleasant fact.

Julie was still talking about them, “And I mean, the ending of that one – what was it called? – the Disappearing Woman—Oh, it was too good! I never would have suspected, never did suspect—”

“Miss Rothschild,” I tried to interrupt.

But Julie was already bored with the topic. She had moved over to her make-up table – I don’t know why it was in the middle of the living room, but it was – and began applying a thick layer of lipstick to her already bright red mouth. I guess I might as well add, although I don’t think it’s very important, that she did look extraordinarily like my sister. Oh, they were different people all together – my sister was a paragon of virtue, so far as I knew, and Julie...well, I guess I’m not in any place to judge. I was amazed that Melvin Wicks, even if he were a little slow, could have been attracted to two such different personalities. But, like I said, when it came down to looks, my sister and Julie were almost like peas in a pod for beauty.

I caught myself staring at the back of her head as she sat before me, looking into her mirror. I straightened up, wanting to start the conversation, but could not find the words. It was Julie who began. “So,” she said, and there was something in that “so” that I did not like, “to what do I owe the honor of a famous novelist coming to see me?”

For a moment, I could have sworn I did not know what she was talking about. Then, all at once I remembered everything, and I said, “I – I wanted to ask you about Melvin Wicks.”

“Who?”

My heart sunk. “I – um, Melvin Wicks, don’t you remember? You, um, you two use to be together...I had been given to know.” I ended lamely.

“Oh, Mel!” Julie laughed, and I thought there was something a little too harsh in that laugh. “Oh, yes, I remember...! But, say, why do you want to know?”

“I – um – I,” I found myself stumbling over the words. I couldn’t just come out and say that I suspected her former admirer of murdering my sister, could I? But I had to say something, so I said the first thing I could think of. Thank God, it was the right thing! “I’m doing a little sleuthing myself,” I explained. “Figured I might as well try to do what I’m always writing about.”

“Ooh,” said Julie, “what are you sleuthing?”

“Well,” I smiled, “that’s the secret.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling a mysterious little smile back at me. And that seemed to be enough for her, because she didn’t say anything more about it, but just started talking instead about Melvin Wicks.

“We weren’t ever serious – Mel and me – heck, no!” Julie laughed. “Although, I don’t know, the poor guy might have thought we were. Sometimes I actually think that he thought I was head over heels for him! You met him? He’s a funny guy! And that’s really all there was to it. I thought he was funny, I guess he thought the same about me...But, no, no, there must have been something more on his part. I – well, I don’t know, but sometimes I thought he was head over heels himself, if you know what I mean!”

“But you didn’t love him?”

“What! An idiot like Mel? Ha! No, no! Oh, I was nice to him all right...felt bad, I guess, that he didn’t have any friends. But love him, love him like that? Hell, no!”

“What, uh, what happened then – if, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all,” Julie smiled (I saw the reflection of her bright red lips in the mirror). “I just got bored with him, that’s all! You can’t blame me for that, can you? What, you don’t expect me to shackle myself down to someone like that, do you?”

“No,” I said, “no, I guess not...”

“You know,” Julie continued, “now that I think about it – I mean, I don’t know, I was a little tipsy at the time – but yeah, there was another guy asking me about Mel.”

“Another man?” I was suddenly alert.

“Yeah, tall and dark with such hard blue eyes...you know him?”

“Yeah,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. She was describing MacArthur.

“So,” she said, “that all you want to know?”

“Is – is that all you got to tell me?”

“That’s all there is about Mel.”

“You – you haven’t seen him for...”

“Oh, for years! I don’t know how long! Probably six, seven years?”

“Oh,” I said. For some reason, I had expected something more. “Well, um, thank you, Miss Rothschild, that’s all. I, um, well, I guess that’s all I got.”

“You know,” Julie turned towards me, “you sure are a funny guy, Mr. Henry.”

That phrase “funny guy” pricked me. She had used the same words to describe Wicks.

“You, um, are you going someplace, Miss Rothschild?” Why on earth did I say that!

She smirked with those blood-red lips of hers. “Who wants to know? Or are you still sleuthing, Mr. Henry?”

I blushed red and looked down. “Sorry, um, I – I’m sorry.” And I stepped towards the door.

But with my hand on the doorknob, I turned around on a gut-impulse, and exclaimed, “Miss Rothschild!”

“Yes,” she smirked again.

“I – I, I just wanted to say that, uh, I think you’re a very—beautiful woman, Miss Rothschild, er, um, Julie. And I – I think that, well, the fact is you remind me of someone I once knew...Someone I loved very much...Oh, no, it’s not what you think—she was my sister. I just, well, what I wanted to say was that, um, you’re pretty enough without the make-up. My – my sister, she could do without the make-up and, and so can you, I think. I – I think you’re a lot prettier without the – without all the stuff and I – I – well, I, um, good-bye!” And flushed and embarrassed, I awkwardly cut my retreat and closed the door on Julie Rothschild.

What had made me make such a fool of myself, I guess I will never know. The words just sort of jumped to my tongue and I went as the spirit listed. But what were the results of my words, what became of Miss Rothschild, well, I don’t know that either. For some reason, though, I can’t help remembering that brief scene I had with her.

Like I said, romance had never really been my thing. The confirmed old bachelor, that’s me. But Julie...it wasn’t anything silly like that, but somehow that meeting with her stirred had up some long dormant memories. The twirl of a dress; the smile on gentle lips; a laugh; a cry—Just small things, really, but they meant something to me...the touch of a warm hand, a tear-stain on a blushing cheek...

Well, so that was Julianna Rothschild. So I had wasted half an hour. And all of a sudden, it became abundantly clear that the only thing left for me to do was to confront Melvin Wicks himself. Melvin Wicks – a being more shadow than man. A ghostly figure who had continuously haunted the background of my life for the last three days. A man I had never met, never even seen (I didn’t know he was the man at the funeral, remember?), and yet a man whose existence had suddenly become an obsession for me. Who was this phantom of a man? Who was Melvin Wicks?

I had the book I had stolen from his apartment in my big coat pocket as I knocked on the door behind which lived the man named Melvin Wicks. The pudgy fellow downstairs had told me for certain that he was at home. The thud of my fist against the thin wood echoed down the narrow hallway. I waited for a moment in silence. It was only a moment – two seconds, no more, as the clock ticks – but for me it was an eternity. And then, through the thin door, I heard a sound, the flush of a toilet, the creak of the bathroom door. I heard, or thought I hear, the sound of his footsteps coming towards the door. I could have counted them if I wanted to. One...two...three...four...how slowly, how infuriatingly slowly he walked! Five...six...seven... And then the footsteps stopped, and the knob turned, and door opened, and I saw, for what was the second time in my life, the watery blue eyes of Melvin Wicks.

I recognized him immediately and inadvertently caught my breath. But, strange to say, he did not know who I was. Or at least, I thought it was strange. Here was this man, who at my sister’s funeral had disregarded every unspoken law of propriety and had weirdly touched my face – and now he did not even know me.

“Hello,” I said, “may I come in?”

Melvin Wicks did not respond. He just stood there a second looking at me, and then he nodded slowly and moved aside. I stepped once more into his apartment. It was at that very moment, just as my foot crossed the threshold, so to speak, that I remembered what I had forgotten. The window! I had drawn the window-blinds open when Alan and I had searched his bedroom. What did that mean? It meant Wicks, if he had any deductive reasoning at all, knew that I had been there...But he was an idiot, wasn’t he? That’s what everyone was telling me, MacArthur, Alan, even Miss Rothschild...

“My name is Henry,” I told him.

Then I saw the light of recognition gleam in his dull watery eyes. “Yes,” he said, repeating word for word what he had said to me at the funeral, “you are her brother...” He even half reached out as if to touch my face again, but his hand fell back again to his side.

In the dull light of his apartment, I scrutinized this strange, phantom-like man. He was nothing spectacular, nothing to look at at all. A short, stocky redhead with balding hair and those pale, watery eyes...

“So, I suppose you want to give me back my book?” he said suddenly.

That darn—so they had told me he was an idiot! I realized in that moment what I should have realized long before, that everyone had underestimated this strange, small man with the watery eyes. Oh, he was strange all right, there was no use denying that. And sure, he wasn’t always as clever as Alan or MacArthur or I. But there was an undeniable gleam of intelligence in his eyes. And so he had noticed the window and the missing book.

I fumbled with the book as I drew it out of my pocket. I saw his eyes light up when he saw it and he made a snatch at it with his hands, but I held it away from him.

“Where did you get this?” I asked him, as though I weren’t the one who had stolen it from him.

“She gave it to me,” Melvin Wicks replied. I did not need to ask who she was.

“And the photograph?” I persisted. “The one on your bookshelf? She gave that to you too?”

He nodded.

I found it a little strange that he did not offer protest to my interrogations. After all, it was his house – or his apartment – and he didn’t have to stand and take this questioning from me. But Wicks seemed resigned to this fate, almost as if he expected the questions and granted me the right to ask them.

“I’ve just come from Julie’s,” I said. “You know who I’m talking about?”

He nodded slowly, sadly I thought. “Julie...” he mused.

“Tell me about her,” I commanded more than asked. I sat down on the love-seat, the one place to sit in the whole living room. Melvin Wicks continued to stand, but when he spoke, it was as though he spoke to himself only, as though he were all alone, not just in this room, but alone in the whole wide world. To him, the famous mystery novelist Eric Henry – along with everybody else – simply did not exist.

“I met Julie...a young girl with fire...Something said she understood...,” he smiled at a memory as it flittered by his brain. “It – it was as though I – I wanted to fly and she, well, she made me feel like I flew...Well, I suppose I let her take me, as blind as a child, but – but all I saw was the way that she made me smile...she made me smile...” Again he seemed to remember something, and a smile lit up his features, only to die away. Then suddenly he turned to me, and the look on his face was pitiful to see. “I – I had a dream, and it filled me with wonder...! But, but she had other plans...She said, ‘I got to go, and I know you’ll understand...’ I – I guess I understand...”

He fell silent, and so there in silence we sat – or rather I sat while he stood, and the smiles and frowns danced by turns over his features in correspondence to the bliss or gloominess of a memory.

“That’s when Shilo found me again,” Melivn Wicks said at last. “Shilo, when I was young...” But he trailed back off into silence.

Softly, I asked, “Who is Shilo?”

Wicks’s features, all at once, were pale, and he looked hastily around him, as though making sure that nobody else was there. Then he leaned down and his face was suddenly contorted and crazy, as he hissed into my ear, “I hate him!”

I leapt up revolted and confused. Melvin Wick’s face was hardly a face anymore, but a mask of anger. “I hate him, I hate him!”

“You – you hate Shilo?” I was hopelessly confused. “But – but I thought that you loved him.”

Melvin flopped himself down on the love-seat I had just abandoned and burst into tears. I stood over him, more frightened than anything, not knowing what to do or what to say. I was petrified, whether with terror or pity or just plain morbid curiosity I do not know. I wanted to say something, although I don’t know what I would have said. But my tongue refused to work and my brain reeled back in horror.

It was Melvin who spoke first, and his voice had shrunk into a whisper. “You know he killed her, don’t you?”

“W-what?” I gasped, unable to comprehend what he was saying to me.

“Shilo, that’s what I mean...Shilo killed her. Would have killed Julie too if I’d given him the chance. That’s why I had to give her up...that’s why—” He stopped suddenly and looked at me. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

At that moment I did not know what I believed. I did not know what was up or what was down, I didn’t know what was real and what was fake, whether it was day or night. My mind was a convoluted mess of ideas and images, fragments of conversation, and I don’t know what else. “Sh-Shilo?” I stammered the name. “Shilo killed my sister...?”

Melvin Wicks nodded.

Was the room tilting, or was I fainting? I straightened myself, caught my breath. And then, in that dingy apartment, alone with that strange, little man, looking into those dull watery eyes, the thought occurred to me for the first time that this mysterious Shilo might actually be a real person. A person the police had overlooked or missed altogether; a person lingering in the shadows, direction the course of events from behind the facade of the idiot Melvin Wicks; the person who had killed my sister...

“I want to meet Shilo,” I told Wicks.

Melvin squirmed at the idea. “I – I don’t know...Shilo wouldn’t like it...”

“I thought you hated Shilo.”

“I do, I do...but – but I’m also afraid of him...He – I hate him and I love him...I – I don’t know!”

Stockholm syndrome, the term flashed through my head, or something like that. But whatever the technical term, I persisted. “Melvin, I must see Shilo!”

He succumbed to my demand. “Alright, I’ll – Come back tonight. Eight o’clock...He’ll be here.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded, trembling. “He is always here...”

And so I left Melvin Wicks, a man so strange and mysterious I doubted if Shilo himself – whoever he was – would compare. I had left The Disappearing Woman there, promising to return around 8:00, and meanwhile I had to find something to do. Nothing came to mind – I guess my mind was too full already. I contemplated calling Alan, maybe even bringing him along to Wicks’s. But, and I don’t know why exactly, I dropped the idea almost immediately. Maybe it was because Alan had doubted all along that Wicks had anything to do with it; maybe it was because, deep down, I still didn’t really like Alan, although I couldn’t have told you why; or maybe...I don’t know...

It was closing in on 6:00, maybe a quarter till, when I came down towards the river. This was my favorite spot in Charleston, a place where I had often walked and talked with my mother, with Constance, and sometimes even with Rudy...when he was around. So I was walking along the river, waiting impatiently for 8:00, my mind filled with the most fantastic thoughts, when I noticed a woman leaning over a railing nearby, gazing out over the water. She was dressed in a long black coat that looked plenty warm, with her thick brunette hair thrashing in the chilly evening air. I only caught a glimpse of her face, pale but pretty against the glossy brown of her hair, but that was enough. I recognized Annie Calloway, the dear friend of my sister Constance, the one who had found the body. And suddenly, seeing that familiar face, I realized that what I really wanted was to talk. Talk, not about Shilo or Wicks, but just talk, even if it were about nothing at all. I went up to her and set my hand on the railing beside her. She saw it, but she did not look up. She must have been lost in thought as she looked out over the cold waters, far, far away in spirit if not in truth.

“Annie,” I said softly.

She started and looked up at me. Then she smiled, shrugged, and looked away again, back over the river. “Oh, hi, Eric,” she said.

We stood there in silence for a long couple of minutes, each occupied with our own thoughts, I suppose, as the river ran and the chill breeze blew. “What you thinking about?” I asked after a while.

She looked at me again. “Constance,” she said, and this time she didn’t turn away from me. She seemed to want to talk as much as I did. “She and I, you know, we’d come here pretty often and just look. Maybe we’d talk about life, about work—about love,” she added awkwardly, “but mostly we’d just look. This was her favorite time of the year, you know, in the fall, when the weather’s getting cold and the trees are bright with leaves...just before the wind blows them all away...”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, looking into her eyes. “Guess there was a lot I didn’t know about Constance...or about you...”

She laughed. “There’s not much to know about me. Constance, she was always the interesting one.” And we laughed together, not because there was anything funny, but because we both felt at that moment that we needed to laugh, that we hadn’t laughed together for a long time.

I’d known Annie before all this, of course. She and Constance had been inseparable as children, and I guess they’d never really grown out of that. Everything they did, they did together. Me? Oh, I guess I’d always kind of thought of Annie as a sister. She talked too much, and she sure could be annoying too, but I don’t figure she could help it. I’d never really considered her much of a beauty either, but that was probably because she always hung out with Constance – and Constance could have vied with the sun...But now, as we talked together about nothing at all, I couldn’t help but admire Annie’s prettiness. At that moment, even if Constance had risen from the dead in her full beauty, I doubt if I would have bothered to turn my head. I felt drawn to her that evening like I’ve never felt drawn to anybody ever before. As we stood there together, gazing at the sun as it set over the river, we could not help feeling thrown together by a common calamity, by the death of my sister, but perhaps by something more...something new...

“You know,” she said suddenly, “I was the first of us to meet Alan...we were even together for a little...”

“Really?” I was surprised, but then I wasn’t. Who wouldn’t give everything he had just for an hour alone with this woman? “What, um, what happened then?”

She smiled as she shrugged. “Then he met Constance...it was my own fault really. Should have known, I guess...”

“Did, um, did you and Constance...?”

“What, fight? Goodness, no!” she laughed sadly. “Though maybe that’s the closest we ever came to it...No, I – I gave up,” she shrugged again. “I could never get angry with Constance.”

Well, maybe Annie couldn’t, but I sure could. At that moment I would have cursed my own sister in her grave if Annie had told me to. But more than anything, I felt anew my ancient loathing for Alan. How could he? How could Constance?

“Alan,” Annie continued, and I was all ears, “he, um, he even talked to me after the, um, the accident. He – he said he was sorry for what he’d done, and I believed him, and he—”

“You’re – you’re not getting back to—” I started to say, but Annie laughed her sad, gentle laugh.

“No, no,” she said. “I got over that long, a long time ago...though that’s the gist of what Alan wanted. But no, I couldn’t do that...I don’t want to do that...And how about you, Eric, have you ever been in love?” she asked suddenly.

“Me? I – well, no, I mean, I don’t really know...There was a girl once, a long, long time ago...Beth, that was her name, Beth. We, uh, we danced, that was about it – met at a wedding or something. She – she was beautiful...but no, I – I don’t think that was love...But what about you?”

“What about me?” she smiled that sad smile of hers. How well it suited her!

“Will you – will you ever love again...do you think?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Eric, I don’t know...Not a man like Alan, that’s for sure. No, but I think I could love again, perhaps...”

“What kind of man?” I asked, while I held my breath and the whole world stood still.

“A man I can laugh with,” she said slowly as she gazed once more over the river, “and a man I can cry with...”

And she looked up at me, into my eyes, and at that moment I longed, not for the revelation of Shilo, not for the truth of my sister’s death, but to be that man, that man with whom she could both laugh and cry.

Where does the time go when we least want it to fly? At some point I glanced at my watch, and saw that it was already nearing the appointed time. I did not want to go, did not want to leave Annie Calloway to look alone over the river. But something called me away, something deeper and stronger than what held me there with Annie. What was it? Was it duty...? But why waste words in describing the indescribable?

The thought occurred to me as I was taking my leave of Miss Calloway, that maybe I should tell her all about Wicks and MacArthur and Shilo, tell her that I was finally going to clear up the mystery, that I was going to meet Shilo himself. But I decided against it, instinct working more than reason, I suppose.

It was Annie, not Shilo, who filled my thoughts as I drove through the night to the apartment complex where Melvin Wicks awaited me. But the moment I stepped onto the creaky wooden staircase, the woman vanished and only the shadowy figure of the man remained. Shilo.

My watch read 8:02 as I knocked for the second time that day on the door of Melvin Wicks. It opened slowly, just a crack, and I saw Wicks peer out at me from behind it.

“So you have come,” he said, “I did not think you would...”

He did not bother to explain this last comment, but hurried me into his apartment. There was nobody there. I felt almost betrayed.

“Well,” I said, “where is he?”

“He’ll be here, he’ll be here,” Melvin hissed in a whisper.

“When?” I asked.

“Soon, very soon,” Wicks was visibly nervous. “He – he will not like it that you’re here—”

“Well, he’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Would you—” he paused, unsure of the words or maybe embarrassed to continue, “would you mind, um, hiding?”

“Hiding?”

“Just when he first comes in,” Melvin assured me hurriedly. “Then – then you can come out.”

I didn’t like it, I can tell you that much, but Wicks was in such a nervous state that I let him have his way. I went into his bedroom while he stayed pacing the living room. I cracked the bedroom door so that I could see everything in the main room, including the front door. Melvin Wicks kept on pacing nervously, wringing his hands in front of him and behind him, sitting down from time to time on the love-seat, only to spring up the next second and continue pacing. The antique clock on the side-table ticked away the time. I had a clear view of it from the bedroom.

Then, at exactly 8:09 – so read the antique clock – Melvin Wicks stopped dead in the middle of the living room, his back to the love-seat and the clock, slightly turned away from me, facing the TV. At 8:10, he lighted up a cigarette. And then, just as the antique on the side-table was striking 8:11, Melvin Wicks said, “Hello, Shilo.”

His sudden words startled me. I glanced hastily around the room. There was nobody there, and then I hit myself on the forehead. Of course there wasn’t anybody there; the front door hadn’t even opened! What was this Wicks fellow trying to do? But just as these thoughts were racing through my mind, I felt a tingling chill in my spine. And then I heard The Voice.

It was a Voice which seemed to have its utterance from the very depths of Hell, a guttural noise, low and dripping with deceit. “Good evening, my friend.”

I looked hastily around once more, but still there was no one. I should have come out, I wanted to, but a strange horror kept me frozen in place. “Well,” said the Voice, as though sensing that something were amiss.

“He’s here, you know,” said Melvin. “Her brother.”

“I know,” said the Voice, and I felt my legs go weak under me. How – how did he know? And who was he? And where was he? I kept looking around, knowing it was useless, but looking nonetheless, looking for something, anything, to explain away the horror that possessed my body and soul.

“Shilo,” said Melvin Wicks. I could hardly see his face from where I stood hidden, but his voice betrayed that he was plucking up his courage. But if I could tell that, how much more could Shilo? “Shilo,” Melvin repeated, wetting his lips. “He knows, Shilo. He knows you killed her. I – I told him.”

And then Shilo began to laugh, and his laughter seemed to me to be the very horror of Hell. “You told him I did it? You told him I killed Constance?”

“Don’t say her name, Shilo, don’t you dare say her name!”

“Why not? Why can’t you stand to hear her name spoken, even to speak it yourself? Is it because you know just as well as I do that it was you, not I, who really killed Constance!”

“I said don’t say her name!”

“You killed her, you killed her!”

“I didn’t kill her, Shilo,” Melvin almost screamed, “you did, Shilo, you did!”

“Did I? Don’t you remember, Mel, don’t you remember how you went up the elevator – faced your fear of elevators – all the way up to Constance’s room—”

“Don’t say her name!”

“And then you knocked, knocked so gently, and she opened the door and there was horror in her eyes – can’t you see it?”

“Stop it,” shrieked Melvin, “stop it!”

“And when she saw you, she offered you money, offered you her jewelry, just to go, to get out – oh, she would have screamed, she almost did, but you put your hand over her mouth and stifled her—”

“No, no, I didn’t! I don’t believe you! You did it, Shilo, you did!”

“And then you grabbed her by the back of the head, grabbed her thick blonde hair, and then you hit her against the bookshelf—”

“No, I didn’t, you did!”

“And you pounded in her brain, and hit her again—and again—and again!”

“No, no, I didn’t! Stop it,” screamed Melvin.

“And then you messed up the rug, made it look like an accident, and so you killed her, you killed her, you killed her!”

“Stop it!”

“You killed her!”

“I did not!”

“Constance!”

“Stop it!”

“Constance—Constance—Constance—!”

And all at once, Melvin Wicks turned, and just as Shilo was uttering the syllables of the last “Constance,” I saw that Wicks’s lips were forming the same words, were making the same sounds, but in a voice, totally, unutterably not his own. And I felt a stifling scream of horror about to erupt from my own throat as I realized the truth.

I leapt from the bedroom, but Wicks grabbed the antique clock, and just as the last echo of Shilo’s “Constance” died away, Melvin shrieked, “I hate you! Die!” And he flung the clock with all his might. It shashed against the TV with a terrific crash, sending broken shards of glass, wood, and screen flying all over the place. Then I was upon Melvin Wicks and I had pinned him to the floor, but this was a useless precaution. The last thought in Melvin’s mind now was to resist. Instead, he looked at the smashed TV and at the shattered pieces of clock, and whimpered in a small, almost sing-songy voice, “Shilo...come back, Shilo...Shilo...Shilo...?”