The Dead Caller from Chicago by Jack Fredrickson Page A

boat.
    Dark spots moved in a paper-thin ribbon of light that showed at the bottom of the door. Someone was home and had come to the other side of the door. I beat on it again, yelling, “It’s Dek Elstrom, damn it. If you know me, let me in before I die.”
    The door opened, and a high-powered handheld searchlight beam shot onto my face. I shut my eyes tight against the glare.
    There was no shutting out the sound of a woman screaming.

 
    Twelve
    â€œIs he—?” she shrieked.
    A cough began rumbling deep in my lungs. I doubled over, hugging my arms, unable to speak for the shakes, and the rumble.
    â€œDo you know this man, Endora?” another woman called out from back in the cottage.
    â€œOf course, of course,” Endora’s voice shouted.
    â€œThen stop blinding the poor bastard and let him in out of the rain,” the other woman said, her voice getting louder as she came closer.
    I stepped inside, and someone, perhaps the other woman, slammed the door behind me.
    The glaring light dropped away, and the world outside my eyelids darkened from bright orange to a soft red. I opened my eyes enough to see into the soft gloom of a room lit with stubs of candles stuck in ashtrays, furnished sparsely with straight-backed chairs, a braided rug, and a table made of pine planks. An ancient cast-iron stove stood in the corner, its door open, sending out heat and a little more light.
    The woman standing beside Endora possessed her height, slimness, and beauty. The only real difference was her silver hair. That, and she was holding not a high-powered searchlight but rather a snub-nosed revolver, aimed at my chest.
    â€œShe knows me, Mrs. Wilson,” I managed, through manly chattering teeth. My eyes were wide open now. Behind me, the storm raged against the door.
    The gun dropped, pointing at my crotch. It was small improvement.
    â€œYou’re sure he’s all right, Endora?” her mother asked. The gun moved restlessly in her hand, as though anxious for explosion.
    â€œOf course, of course,” Endora said again, almost inaudibly. She wore faded jeans and a man’s flannel shirt and stood stock-still, staring down at the big-lensed searchlight in her hand, unwilling to look at my face.
    â€œLeo’s not here?” I asked.
    She raised her head slowly. “He’s not dead?” she asked softly.
    â€œLeo? Dead?” I said, confused, too.
    She shook her head. “I thought that’s what you came to say.”
    Theodea Wilson put the revolver into a leather holster clipped to her belt. “This man knows nothing, Endora. That’s good news.”
    She motioned me to sit in a ladder-back chair directly in front of the wood-burning stove. “You may shed your wet pants if you’d like, whatever your name is.”
    â€œDek Elstrom, Mother,” Endora said, her voice a little more alive.
    â€œThat oddball friend of Leo’s who lives in a castle?”
    â€œA mere part of one,” I said, taking off my two coats. Incredibly, the blue button-down shirt underneath was dry.
    â€œA part of which?” Theodea asked. “Part oddball, or part castle?”
    I remembered then that her neighbor back in Blenton told me Theodea Wilson was a teacher. Certainly she possessed her daughter’s fast intellect, along with Attila the Hun’s directness.
    â€œPerhaps both,” I stammered through my still-chattering teeth. I went to stand by the stove.
    It was then that I noticed Ma Brumsky. She sat in almost total darkness in the far corner of the room. I couldn’t see her eyes. Her head was down. She’d not said a word since I came in.
    Noticing me noticing Ma Brumsky, Endora said, “She’s been like that since we got here. She’s frightened and isn’t saying much.” We sat, I in the chair by the stove, she across the table. “Tell me about Leo,” she said.
    â€œI thought I’d find him here with