Mr. 8

Chapter 28: Something Wrong in Bexhill

The Buick skidded to a stop in front of Mansfield Hall. Getting out, Denton's foot sank into the snow. Already a full inch had fallen. Except for the two rapidly vanishing tire treads, the parking lot was a pristine sheet of white.

The wind found the gap between skin and coat and pushed icy flakes down his neck when he stood to his full height. Denton turned up his collar and trudged towards the Arts Building.

The walk through the unshoveled paths was slow and he was glad for the thick treads of his hiking boots. Before today, they had barely been worn. He'd bought them years ago, shortly after the move, with the good intentions of getting into shape and exploring the countryside. They were comfortable, but still he lamented the fate of his other pair. They had been expensive and purchased just the month before, but one of the first things he had done when he got home from the hospital was throw them in the trash. They were still damp from his hike to the lodge, but otherwise no worse for wear. They just needed to dry out and they'd be fine. But he knew he'd never put them on again.

The overcoat almost went in next. He had it in his hands, ready to stuff in the bin, when he remembered the tailor.

The elderly Italian man had barely spoken English. He was a relic from another era—a time when people went to tailors instead of malls. Denton could see himself standing in the full length mirror, the little man next to him with his wisps of gray hair plastered neatly to his head. He ran a hand over the front of the coat, smoothing out the luxurious wool, while looking into the reflection with Denton.

"It will last you a lifetime," he said.

He had been so proud of his work. That was back in New York— back in another life.

Passing by the security guard in the lobby, Denton said, "Hey, Wes. I left something in my office. I'll just be a minute."

Wes nodded and didn't ask him to sign in, letting protocol slide.

With his office door closed, there was only the minimal light of his desk lamp and the soft glow of the snowy night from the window. Denton sat at the desk and carefully removed the list from his pocket and went through it reading each name slowly. At the top was Alfred Reynolds in a large neat script. Great care had been taken with it. The next several were hard to read, partially because there was a double line crossing them out and partially because they were done in a messy scrawl. Near the bottom the writing changed and the names were no longer crossed out. Maggie Biscamp's name marked the transition, being both written with neat penmanship and crossed out.

Denton stopped and spent a long time examining it. He wasn't being methodical. It was a fearful hesitancy that possessed him. Denton dragged his eyes back and forth across it, as though he were hoping it would transform into something benign, like a list of groceries.

When he finally put it to the side, he had no more doubts. It was a list of the infected. There were sixteen names on it. Eleven of them had been crossed out. Ten of those were all the known victims of the Bexhill Guerrillas. Kaling's name was not on the list. But then he had written it. Or some of it.

Denton's first assumption was that the list documented Kaling's personality changes as much as it did the infected people of Bexhill. But Biscamp's name convinced him that Stephen had taken it over from her. Likely, he wrote down the name of his deceased girlfriend and struck it out in the same breath. Assuming the people who were crossed out were dead.

If that were the case, how did the other person die? Did the Guerrillas do a better job of disposing of his body? Did he die a more natural death? Or was there another killer out there? And why didn't Alfred Reynold's name have a line through it?