[Oxrun Station] The Orchard

by Charles L. Grant

  "Uh-oh." Denise yanked him to a halt. "This, Father dear, is as far as we go."

  They made an abrupt and clumsy about-face, giggling as they hurried back up the street, creating several definitely unpleasant scenarios that would be played out very loudly in public when his son turned around, saw him, and accused his father of being his shadow.

  "You would not be long for this world," Denise had told him.

  He had tried not to laugh when she pinched his waist, ducked away from a slap when he pinched her back-and ended up facing east, just as Les and the girl reached the top of the slope on the other side of the road. His son was already pushing through a gap in the bramble hedge; Amy had turned to face the village.

  She was caught beyond the reach of any streetlamp, and the trees on Mainland's eastern side blocked any house light from spilling across.

  But the moon that night was high, and it gave her silver light, seemed to touch only her and not the brush around her.

  She saw him.

  He knew she saw him.

  And he didn't have to be any closer to see the look on her face-only a year or so older than Les, but at the moment, before Denise had grabbed his arm and pulled him on, he would have sworn she was a hag, less out of the movies than out of a bad dream.

  Then a cloud hid the moon, and she vanished in black.

  Foolish, he thought now as he reached the end of the block and moved on; the kids had only been doing what he himself never had the nerve to do, and Denise had finally teased him back to the Mariner Lounge with promises of free drinks.

  But the moon, and the look . . .

  Remembering how his next few nights had been filled with shadowed dreams. He had been unable to call them back when he woke in the morning, but the sweat on the sheets, the clammy feel of his skin, let him know what he'd been through, even if he hadn't understood.

  It was the look, and the moon, and, he supposed, an aftermath of the murder.

  A week ago, the day after he'd seen Les and Amy. A young girl, a close friend of his son's. Brett had met her and hadn't much liked her, as he hadn't liked any of the girls Les went out with these days. They were too modern for his taste, too forward, too blunt. Though he knew that someday one of those young women would take the boy away, he hoped Les had more brains than glands and wouldn't be fooled until he was good and ready.

  He turned another corner, heading nowhere in particular, and realized suddenly he was listening to the night, for the sounds he'd been hearing- footsteps, quiet footsteps, just within range, the maker just out of sight.

  He told himself it was only caution, natural in a cop, and it was, after all, only someone else strolling around a near corner, the summer night air carrying the tread and muffling it.

  Someone else. Nothing more.

  It wasn't Amy; it wasn't the moon.

  Thirty minutes later, still wandering, he felt an unseasonal chill seep through his jacket. He held his arms closer to his sides, hunched his shoulders a bit, and looked around to get his bearings. A lopsided smile. He was on Denise's street and wasn't surprised, rather hoped as he sped up that it was some sort of omen, or a signal from his unconscious that he wasn't nuts, only lonely.

  "Aw, poor fella," he said, laughing at himself as he turned into her yard.

  She lived in a small two-bedroom cottage squeezed between two large mock-Tudors whose hedges seemed determined to absorb the smaller house. He took the slate walk at a run, took the steps to the porch in a single leap, and had his finger on the doorbell before he could change his mind.

  She opened the door as if she'd been waiting.

  "Hi!" he said brightly, thinking glumly that even Leslie could be more clever than that.

  She was pleased to see him, it was obvious, but she was also puzzled. The freckles across her forehead almost vanished in a frown, while the dimples on her cheeks deepened when finally she smiled.

  "Well, hi. You selling something?"

  A jerk of his head over his shoulder. "A walk?

  It's a nice night. We could stop for a burger someplace. Maybe catch the late show? It's a spy story, I think."

  She laughed and waved him in. "Hey, Brett, don't you believe in telephones?"

  It wasn't a refusal, but here, in this house crowded with furniture and soft lights, he felt abruptly claustrophobic. The unease must have showed, because she grabbed a sweater quickly from the newel post and took his arm.

  "Lead on, good-lookin'. Tonight I'm all yours."

  Halfway down the block in silence, and she tugged at his arm. "Something the matter?"

  Her hair was short and auburn, her face and figure round, and in her jeans and sweater she looked a full decade younger than his own thirty-nine.

  "Something bothering you, cop?"

  He denied it with a shake of his head. "Just restless. I took a chance you were home." He winked. "I got lucky."

  "You sure did. I was supposed to spend the weekend in Hartford, at some stupid banking conference. I changed my mind at the last minute because, don't you know, bankers are so damned boring."

  She was an officer in the Savings and Loan on Centre Street, destined it was said for the presidency one of these days. That surprised him. Most bankers he had known in the past were singularly conservative, and Denise definitely was not of the same mold; they also grew cautious the more time they spent behind the desk, and if anything, she was even more enthusiastic than the day she'd first walked through the door. All that energy was amazing to him, and he didn't know where she got it.

  "Me, too," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "I can't for the life of me figure out what hold all that money has over me." She turned away, but he saw the smile. "I guess I'm just naturally greedy."

  "Right."

  "I mean, it's dirty, you know. That money is absolutely filthy."

  "Sure."

  "You wouldn't believe what I look like when I get home."

  "I know."

  She stopped, made him turn. "Brett, I'll enjoy the burgers, and I'll enjoy the film, and I'll probably enjoy the conversation, too, once I get used to being fed one word at a time."

  He rubbed his temple, his chin, and felt more than a bit silly. "Sorry."

  They walked again and decided on the luncheonette for their meal. And as they ate, he found himself responding to the most innocuous questions with baleful stories of his life, particularly how he had married Grace Black when they were juniors in college, had Les a year later, and little Alice five years after that.

  "Too young," he said. "Once we grew up, we grew apart."

  Three years ago, Grace had left him, with Alice. And on the road to her mother's a truck had skidded, and the car she was driving slammed into it, and under.

  He closed his eyes, set his mouth.

  "How did Les take it?"

  ''I don't know. Really." He chuckled and raised an eyebrow. "In the beginning, he wouldn't let go of me for fear I'd leave him too. Now it seems to be the other way around. I can't let go, and he wants his own place."

  She gave him a look he didn't quite understand. "You have to let go, Brett, you know. Sooner or later, you'll have to let go."

  "Yeah. But . . . yeah."

  A long silence made him uncomfortable, made him think about living in that suddenly big house all alone.

  "You ever consider getting married again?" she asked.

  "It's crossed my mind."

  "Three years is a long time these days."

  "You're right. But I have Les to think of, too."

  He paid the check and they walked down to the theater.

  "You love him, don't you."

  He looked at her, puzzled. "Of course. Did you ever think I didn't? I mean, don't I show it?"

  She wrinkled her nose at him. "Yes, if you're worried about it. I was just asking."

  Funny question, he thought, but said nothing more, though it kept coming back, even during the film. It made him nervous. Was she proposing? He had a curious feeling tha
t one more word, one pleasant look, and she would think he was accepting. When he squirmed, she kissed his cheek and told him to knock it off before she called the usher and had him thrown out.

  And later, in the lobby, he walked over to the concession counter to get a pack of cigarettes, turned, and saw her talking to a woman a bit taller than she, white-blonde hair, tight jeans, and snug blouse. He swore silently and wished there was a back exit handy, forced a smile on his lips when they saw him and waved.

  Victoria Redding, the only policewoman on the force. He had taken her out several times over the past winter, enjoyed himself, and beyond their meetings at the station, hadn't seen much of her since. From a large farm in Vermont, she fit right into village life with scarcely a ripple, and he was surprised when he wondered why he hadn't taken her out again.

  "Brett!" she said happily when he joined them, and made no bones about giving him a kiss that lasted a fraction longer than politeness required. "You like the picture?"

  He talked at such length that the women started laughing, and he realized with a swallow how nervous he was, how he'd been expecting her to say something like, "Where have you been?" or "Call me sometime," and then have to answer while Denise was listening.

  It bothered him, too, that he almost wished she would.

  They chatted as they walked outside; Vicky kissed him again quickly and headed for home, claiming early shift the next day. He watched her walk away, then took Denise's hand and went in the opposite direction.

  "She always like that?" she asked at last.

  "Like what?"

  "Like every other word being 'shift' and 'apprehension' and 'busts' and stuff like that."

  His smile was wry. "She's trying hard, Denise, she really is. It isn't easy being a woman cop in a small town like this, no matter where she came from. I think, sometimes, me and Stockton are the only ones who like her."

  "That's discrimination.''

  He shrugged. "Maybe. But some of the guys are too old to change and don't trust her, and some of them just think she ought to go around naked."

  A half a block later: "And you?"

  "I'm too old, and she'd look great naked."

  She slapped his arm, hard, and it was difficult to produce a laugh to show her he knew she was kidding.

  They turned off the avenue and he slipped off his jacket. The temperature had begun to rise, and there was fog growing in the trees-little more than a thin mist now, just enough to haze the light and set dew on the grass.

  When they passed his house, the car wasn't in the drive. He said nothing, but his hand tightened on her arm, and he watched the length of the street as casually as he could despite a silent order to stop worrying about the boy.

  "It must be hard," she said quietly when they'd moved on.

  "Hard?"

  "Seeing that girl last week. The one who was killed, I mean. And having Leslie."

  He nodded. It was. It was damned hard, and he could tell she wanted him to talk about it, share some of it, ease the concern by shifting some of the burden. But he couldn't. He had, over the course of their friendship, told her virtually everything else, but trying to explain what it was like to be a parent would have to wait-because she couldn't know, she couldn't possibly know how it felt whenever his son walked out of the house and left him alone.

  Victoria understood, he thought then, with a suddenness that confused him, made him frown. Her own son lived with his father in California. But the difference there was, that boy had left and hadn't returned.

  On the porch they kissed goodnight, but he sensed it wasn't the same as it had been other times.

  Denise, and Victoria.

  Y'know, he told himself on the way home, you could wind up in a hell of a lot of trouble, pal, if you don't watch your step.

  But was he ready for another wife? And if he was, would it be her?

  He paused in midstep; for a disconcerting moment he didn't know which woman he meant.

  "Oh, boy," he whispered, not sure if he felt pleased or on edge. "Oh, boy, Brett, you're asking for it now."

  He turned left at the corner, listening to his shoes on the pavement, listening to the nightbirds stir through the mist, slowing three doors from home when he found himself listening to something walking behind him.

  Quiet steps, muffled, as the mist thickened to fog and sifted down across his face, making his skin feel clammy, making his shirt feel as if it had just been washed and not dried.

  Arrhythmically, then in cadence.

  Just as they had been on all the other nights.

  He didn't turn around; he didn't sense imminent danger. But that didn't prevent him from stopping at his front walk and reaching down to flick a dead leaf off the flagstone while he looked back up the street and saw nothing but the fog blowing through the streetlight.

  Nice move, cop, he thought as he hurried to the steps and took them two at a time; nothing like being a little obvious, huh?

  He was reaching for his keys when he heard them again, and this time knew he was wrong; this time there was someone out there who didn't like him at all.

  He spun around, dropping into a crouch, his jacket slipping with a hiss to the damp porch floor.

  The walk was empty; there was no one in the yard.

  Nerves, he decided when he finally went inside. Those women have got you thinking about things you'd best forget. He poured himself a drink and looked out the window, shuddering when he saw the moon glowing in the mist, nearly dropping the glass when the night filled with sirens.

  Rising like a nightflower against the full of the moon, lifting slowly to a grey silhouette that raised its head high, that held its forelegs still, that turned a red eye to the land spread below and listened for the sound that would signal its charge . . .

  On Monday morning, Brett decided he was going to run away and join the Foreign Legion. He knew, he just knew this was going to be one of those days.

  The Saturday night sirens had only been a signal for a fire on the Pike, but the state of his nerves had him call Denise for an hour's mindless talk. And no sooner had he hung up than Victoria had called; she'd been looking at a picture of her son and needed to hear someone's voice. Another hour passed, and he met her for lunch the next day, and took a Sunday stroll in the park. Not once did she ask him how Leslie was doing. Not once did he feel guilty about not being with Denise.

  And last night, he'd been up late, waiting for his son, who had insisted that going out on a Sunday wasn't the end of the world; besides, he was only going to do some studying with Evelyn. Brett had paid for the permission with unaccountable worry, but Les on his return hadn't been sympathetic. He accused his father loudly of not trusting him, of treating him like a child, that it was bad enough having a cop in the family, and now he couldn't even walk in the door without having his whereabouts questioned.

  "For god's sake, Dad, when the hell are you gonna ease up?" He had clenched his fists, and he looked ready to cry. "She's right, you know. She really is. I ought to get a place of my own where I could at least have some peace."

  "Who's right? Who are you talking about?"

  "None of your business," Les snapped. "Just leave me alone."

  The outburst had been a shock, and the "she" could only be Evelyn Zayer.

  This morning, Les had gone to school early, without saying goodbye.

  Yeah, he thought, the Foreign Legion sounds great. Sand and camels and no kids to figure out.

  Pushing away from the desk, daring those who passed his office to come in and annoy him, he rubbed his forehead with the heel of one hand, trying to drive off a headache that had lodged there since he'd wakened. It felt like someone had tied an iron clamp around his head and now, in malicious delight, was trying to crush his skull without crushing his brain.

  "Gilman," he said to the beaded glass on the door, "you are in bad shape. Real bad shape."

  The telephone rang three times before he picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and returned it to
the cradle.

  "Please, God," he said as he reached for his sport jacket, "please, let it be a simple breaking and entering, with lots of fingerprints and footprints and the guy's wallet at the scene. C'mon, God, how about it?"

  He didn't need a car. He crossed Chancellor Avenue, hurried past the Mariner Cove, and cut through the parking lot to a small blacktopped area behind the Regency Theater. Two patrolmen were standing near the building's corner, keeping a handful of people from going in back; a third met him as he approached.

  "What is it, Nick?" he said, already feeling his stomach tighten, his throat begin to dry.

  Officer Lonrow, his face blotched and his hands quivering, only pointed behind him.

  The theater's back wall was unbroken by any doors, and in its center squatted a large green dumpster whose lid had been thrown up against the brick. Brett started for it, and hesitated when he saw a hand dangling over the side. A young hand. One silver band. A silver bracelet. A thread of dried blood from the hump of one knuckle.

  He stopped for a moment and drew his lips between his teeth with a hiss, took several deep breaths, and listened to a woman moaning, a man's voice raised in excited curiosity, a car grinding gears as it turned a far corner.

  Then he took a look inside, blinked, and turned away as slowly as he could. Lonrow joined him, and they studied the thick line of trees that separated the theater from the houses behind.

  "How did you find her?" he asked.

  "Just doing my rounds, as usual," the younger man said between harsh clearings of his throat. "I saw the lid up and was going to close it when I saw ... the hand. I called you right away."

  "Do you know who she is?"

  Lonrowshook his head. "Do you?"

  "Yeah," he said. "Evelyn Zayer. She's . . . she was a friend of my son's."

  "Oh, boy," the man said, but Brett made no comment, only poked into the trees and held his breath when he saw indentations that might have been footprints. He knelt, frowned and squinted, and could find only two, with maybe a third. They were clearly not made by shoes or bare feet, and faint as they were on the hard ground and fallen needles, they could have been made by anything from a dog to a prowling cat. He wasn't surprised; why the hell should things get easy now?