interesting going on.”
“Which is probably rare. Killing is primordial.
That’s why serial killers can’t control themselves. The rush, they say, is
unbelievable. Nothing else comes close. And then, when blood lust gets all
mixed up with sexuality, you’ve got a real fiend on your hands.”
“Were you in Nam?”
“Yes, I certainly was. I was also in Cambodia.
Bomber pilot. I started out flying for LBJ, and then I flew for Nixon. I was a
patriot, in those days.”
“And now?”
“I’m not so sure. I’m just an old man on a hilltop
trying to make sense of it all. The only reason I’m not crazy is because I
didn’t see my victims. I was too far away and there was too much smoke in the
air. Sometimes I look back on those days and wonder if they ever really
happened. But of course, I know they did.” He paused and his eyes drifted off
to some ancient regret. He pulled himself back and smiled, “Can I get you a refill?”
“Delighted.”
He brought me the lemonade and looked at me,
intrigued. “So, Mr. Crane, here’s what I can tell you.” He spoke slowly,
tapping his right index finger into the palm of his left hand as if to
punctuate his points. “I rented this house through a management company. They
were exceedingly circumspect and gave no hint as to the identity of the actual
owner. All they said was that he had moved to another location. Didn’t say
where. The rent is high, but the lease was for two years. I just re-leased it
last month for another two.”
“Have you gotten to know your neighbors?”
“Does anyone, ever, in Los Angeles?”
I grinned. “I know what you mean.”
“There is one peculiar condition in my lease. Back
in the fifties, the owner of this house had made a fortune manufacturing
shipping containers, but struggled with mental illness. He built an underground
fortress extending from the basement, halfway down the hill. It is apparently
terraced, to match the contours of the hillside. When fear struck, he would
disappear down there for weeks at a time, or at least that’s the way the story
goes. Under the terms of my lease, I have no access to it. The door in my
basement has been walled off with masonry. The leasing company was obligated to
reveal the presence of the underground chamber for safety reasons, particularly
as it could, in theory, undermine the house foundation if there was flooding or
an earthquake. The structure is held up by steel columns and I-beams, and is
thought to be of sound construction.”
“So that explains the stainless steel door in the
rock face.”
“That’s the other entrance, presumably what the
owner would use if he wanted to get in. The structure is roughly in the shape of a large three dimensional “L,”
like the Knight’s move in chess, only the board would be three-dimensional,
descending in steps, like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I’ve actually got a
copy of the blueprints, if you‘d like to see them. I found them tucked up on a
shelf in the basement when I was arranging my wine cellar.”
“I’d love to. Thanks.”
Reggie rose stiffly. “One moment.” He took the
open stairway to the second floor and returned a minute later, laying the
blueprints out on the table.
“Amazing.”
“Indeed. It’s a bit of an engineering triumph,”
said Reggie. “There’s enough concrete and steel down there to reinforce a
good-sized building.”
“Aren’t you ever curious about what’s there?”
“I was at first, but at my age I’ve learned not to
torture myself with what I cannot change, unless, of course, I’m writing about
it. The basement door is solid steel, six inches thick, apparently secured by
steel crosspieces attached to the wall with huge lag bolts, and that’s behind
the masonry wall. No one’s getting in there.”
It crossed my mind that the other door could be
breached with the right cutting tool, or maybe even a bump key, but I said
nothing. “Does the owner ever enter by the other
“Which is probably rare. Killing is primordial.
That’s why serial killers can’t control themselves. The rush, they say, is
unbelievable. Nothing else comes close. And then, when blood lust gets all
mixed up with sexuality, you’ve got a real fiend on your hands.”
“Were you in Nam?”
“Yes, I certainly was. I was also in Cambodia.
Bomber pilot. I started out flying for LBJ, and then I flew for Nixon. I was a
patriot, in those days.”
“And now?”
“I’m not so sure. I’m just an old man on a hilltop
trying to make sense of it all. The only reason I’m not crazy is because I
didn’t see my victims. I was too far away and there was too much smoke in the
air. Sometimes I look back on those days and wonder if they ever really
happened. But of course, I know they did.” He paused and his eyes drifted off
to some ancient regret. He pulled himself back and smiled, “Can I get you a refill?”
“Delighted.”
He brought me the lemonade and looked at me,
intrigued. “So, Mr. Crane, here’s what I can tell you.” He spoke slowly,
tapping his right index finger into the palm of his left hand as if to
punctuate his points. “I rented this house through a management company. They
were exceedingly circumspect and gave no hint as to the identity of the actual
owner. All they said was that he had moved to another location. Didn’t say
where. The rent is high, but the lease was for two years. I just re-leased it
last month for another two.”
“Have you gotten to know your neighbors?”
“Does anyone, ever, in Los Angeles?”
I grinned. “I know what you mean.”
“There is one peculiar condition in my lease. Back
in the fifties, the owner of this house had made a fortune manufacturing
shipping containers, but struggled with mental illness. He built an underground
fortress extending from the basement, halfway down the hill. It is apparently
terraced, to match the contours of the hillside. When fear struck, he would
disappear down there for weeks at a time, or at least that’s the way the story
goes. Under the terms of my lease, I have no access to it. The door in my
basement has been walled off with masonry. The leasing company was obligated to
reveal the presence of the underground chamber for safety reasons, particularly
as it could, in theory, undermine the house foundation if there was flooding or
an earthquake. The structure is held up by steel columns and I-beams, and is
thought to be of sound construction.”
“So that explains the stainless steel door in the
rock face.”
“That’s the other entrance, presumably what the
owner would use if he wanted to get in. The structure is roughly in the shape of a large three dimensional “L,”
like the Knight’s move in chess, only the board would be three-dimensional,
descending in steps, like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I’ve actually got a
copy of the blueprints, if you‘d like to see them. I found them tucked up on a
shelf in the basement when I was arranging my wine cellar.”
“I’d love to. Thanks.”
Reggie rose stiffly. “One moment.” He took the
open stairway to the second floor and returned a minute later, laying the
blueprints out on the table.
“Amazing.”
“Indeed. It’s a bit of an engineering triumph,”
said Reggie. “There’s enough concrete and steel down there to reinforce a
good-sized building.”
“Aren’t you ever curious about what’s there?”
“I was at first, but at my age I’ve learned not to
torture myself with what I cannot change, unless, of course, I’m writing about
it. The basement door is solid steel, six inches thick, apparently secured by
steel crosspieces attached to the wall with huge lag bolts, and that’s behind
the masonry wall. No one’s getting in there.”
It crossed my mind that the other door could be
breached with the right cutting tool, or maybe even a bump key, but I said
nothing. “Does the owner ever enter by the other
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