[Oxrun Station] The Orchard

by Charles L. Grant

  He wasn't sure what to say, didn't know what she meant and called himself a damned fool for just standing there and smiling.

  Then she tilted her head to one side, her lips slightly parted, colorless, and dry. "Have you ever been to the orchard, Mr. Phillips?"

  "Huh? What are you . . . what orchard?"

  "There's an orchard. On the other side of Mainland Road, on the old Armstrong farm. Some of it's dead, some of it's not."

  He shifted to step around her, to move up the aisle back to the others. He hadn't the slightest idea what the hell she was talking about, but he was afraid she had changed too much for him to know her.

  "It's really nice there," she said still whispering, taking a sidestep to block him. "I had a picnic there once."

  "Picnics are good things," he told her, wincing at how inane he must sound. "I used to go on them myself when I was younger." Thinking: She's on something, that's why she's not in school anymore. What a hell of a thing to happen to such a nice kid. A hell of a thing. "But I have to admit I've never-"

  "It's cold there," she said. "Really cold."

  He looked over her shoulder for someone to help him, and unconsciously pulled his raincoat closed against the chill that still worked the theater.

  "Toni, look, why don't we-"

  "Be careful," she whispered then. "I wasn't kidding before. Things are different now, Mr. Phillips. Things aren't ever going to be the same."

  And before he could move away, she leaned against him and kissed his cheek, released his hand, and ran away.

  Leaving him in the flickering twilight of the auditorium, one finger touching the cold mark of her lips while thunder whispered in the black above his head.

  Seconds later, realizing he had been left alone, he rushed into the lobby, paused to let his eyes adjust to the light, then turned left and stepped into Davidson's small, cluttered office beside the concession stand. Seth was waiting glumly by the door. The old man was lying on a leather couch, his overcoat for a blanket.

  "Did you call the police, a doctor?" he asked.

  Davidson shook his head and pointed to his desk. "Phone's out. Someone will have to go for one."

  "He's going to have a hell of a headache when he wakes up," he said, nodding toward a faint bruise on the old man's temple. "He must have hit the wall, or an armrest, on his way down."

  "Great. A lawsuit is just what I need."

  Ellery hesitated, unsure what to do next. He could offer to wait with Callum until someone came, but he barely knew him, and Davidson's size-well over six feet, with the weight to go with it-made him feel uncomfortable. He smiled weakly, looked again at the unconscious man on the couch, and went into the lobby as the manager began suggesting that Seth, if he were a truly good human being, should volunteer to fetch the doctor.

  When the door closed behind him, he headed for the nearest exit, buttoning his coat, preparing to leave. But he stopped when he saw Katherine Avalon, part owner of the record shop, standing in the middle of the floor, head back, staring up at a huge chandelier whose teardrop crystals were reflecting and amplifying the light from the candelabra set at each of the concession counters and on two of the low Sheraton tables between the couches and chairs.

  "Wow," she said excitedly. "Hey, look at this. God, they look just like stars!"

  No one moved, and he noted with a puzzled frown that if all the people in the lobby were the only ones who had come to the late show that night, the theater had been a lot more empty than it felt.

  There were only six, including a couple sitting on the center couch, and another pair much younger on the far staircase, sharing a cigarette.

  Something was wrong.

  He glanced back at the office.

  Something . . . and he saw it. In the glass doors that led to the street. The black outside.

  Jesus, he thought, and walked over to take a look.

  In the candleglow that stretched weakly to the curb, he saw the rain-sheets and lashes of it exploding on the pavement, driven in hard slants and silvered cyclones by the wind charging down Park Street, sweeping around the corner, spilling over the theater roof, and slamming against the doors. At times it rattled against the glass like pellets of ice, sending white webs to the frames and obscuring the street; then the wind took another direction, and he saw black rivers rushing high in the gutters.

  He turned, pointing behind him in amazement, and let his arm drop.

  That's what was wrong.

  Not the rain-the people. No one had their coats on; no one was leaving.

  Flustered for a moment, and blaming his reaction on Toni's odd behavior, he forced himself with a deep breath to relax, understanding that those who stayed behind were probably hoping the rain would ease soon, or the wind calm down, to give them a chance outside without drowning on their feet. Cozy, he thought then; just like in the movies, where everybody gets to know everybody else, secrets are spilled, murders are committed, and when the sun shines again, the hero and heroine walk off to a new life. He chuckled at the images that formed and re-formed, and decided that he might as well do the same. He took off his coat and wandered over to the nearest refreshment stand, grunted when he saw the clerk had already gone, and jumped when a hand lightly tapped his shoulder.

  "Nerves, El?" Katherine said.

  He laughed and leaned back against the display case. "Just had a sudden attack of the hungries, that's all."

  She patted his stomach and shook a finger at him. "Hungries, at your age, will get you a pot."

  "At my age, I'm lucky to get the hungries at all," he answered, not at all sure he was making any sense, and knowing he seldom did when she was around. Ever since he had taken the job to manage Yarrow's a year ago, he had not lost a single opportunity to get a glimpse of her whenever he walked to the luncheonette for his noon meal; he had even, for a stretch of three weeks during the winter, tried to time his arrival on Centre Street with hers. It made him feel like a jerk. And he felt even worse when he twice asked her to dinner and was twice refused-politely, even regretfully-but he hadn't found the courage to ask her out again.

  A sudden splash of rain against the doors made her turn around. "I think I'm on the Ark, you know?"

  Then Seth came out of the office, bundled in a green plastic poncho, a floppy-brimmed hat, and holding an umbrella a dazzling red. He grimaced comically when Ellery lifted an eyebrow, ignored good-natured jeers from the others, and stood at the exit. Waited. Lifted his shoulders and pushed through, and they flinched at the wind that sailed into the room. Several candles went out, and the rest danced unpleasant shadows on the floor and the walls.

  The usher hadn't gone two steps before the storm yanked the umbrella from his hands. There was a brilliant burst of blue-white that turned the rain to silver slashes as he hurried to the curb; and in the afterimage, after Seth had vanished, Ellery was sure the boy had thrown up his hands.

  "Christ, will you look at that damned rain," a man said from the couch.

  The woman beside him shifted uneasily. "I think we ought to leave now, Gary. It doesn't look like it's going to get any better." She blinked then when she realized the others were watching, and a faint blush darkened her already darkly rouged cheeks. Her husband leaned toward her and lay a hand on her leg. She sat back, her fingers busily twisting a handkerchief, her eyes on the chandelier.

  Ellery looked away, embarrassed for the woman's fear and understanding it perfectly. Storms like this were better suffered at home, not in the company of strangers. He leaned his forearms on the top of the glass case and stared at the empty popcorn machine.

  Katherine mimicked his stance and whispered, "Paula Richards."

  "What?"

  "That's Paula Richards," she said, lowering her voice still further.

  "No kidding? Of the Richards?"

  She nodded.

  "I'll be damned."

  He had never seen any of that family before, knew them only by reputation as a somewhat reclusive clan, and by their addres
s on Williamston Pike, assuming it was one of the estates that lined the road out to the valley. Once a month, at least since he'd worked there, one of the household staff dropped by the store and ordered over a hundred dollars' worth of books. All sorts of books. All in paperback. And once a month, another staff member came by to pick them up.

  A quick guilty glance, and he nodded to himself. She was slender, and rather pretty in spite of the severe tweed suit, the unruffled white blouse, the shoes almost large enough to be brogans. The effect was, in fact, almost pathetic, straight out of a Forties' film, the plain-jane clerk waiting for Cary Grant and getting instead the man he'd guessed rightly was her husband, himself in a dark blue tailored suit, and a pair of sneakers that had seen better days.

  Again he turned around, leaned back, stuffed his hands in his pockets. Katherine said something before turning as well, and he stared dumbly at her.

  "As a cat," she repeated with a gently mocking smile. "As in 'as nervous as.' That's you."

  "It shows?"

  A wink for a nod. "Bad day?"

  "Bad day. Bad week. Bad month. I think I'll go outside and throw myself into the gutter.''

  Understatement, he thought. The owners of the bookstore had been watching him closely for the past few weeks, doublechecking his bookkeeping without being obvious about it, suggesting more than once-and kindly, he had to admit-that perhaps he might like to take the vacation time he'd accumulated over the year. But he couldn't leave. From home to store to home again he was safe, prevented by his work and his solitude from making the mistakes that had brought him here in the first place. The bumbling, foolish errors that had cost him his previous job, his previous lover, and all jobs and lovers before them. A therapist had told him-no charge, El, you're a friend-he was tailoring his own excuses for running back home from a world that didn't know he existed. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter. He was home, after twenty years, and nothing had changed.

  Katherine lay a hand on his arm, stroked it once, and gave him sympathy with a look. Then she tilted her head toward the office door. "Who's the old guy?"

  "I don't know. He fell."

  "Is he all right?"

  "Toni says so. Just hit his head. Seth's gone for-"

  "Toni?" she said, eyes wide now and the smile broad. "Toni who?"

  "Toni Keane," he answered peevishly, not liking her tone, thinking she knew of his infatuation and was rubbing it in. "She's Doctor Keane's-" He scanned the lobby for her and frowned. "Guess she's in the ladies' room."

  The couple on the balcony steps were whispering and passing another cigarette back and forth, and he watched them for a minute, envious of the boy's hand draped casually over her shoulder, the tips of his fingers just brushing across the top of her breast, envious of the girl's self-assurance that didn't force her to drive them away with a pout for convention. The sexual revolution, he thought glumly; only they didn't come by and draft me. The rats.

  Davidson stalked out of the office then, scowling, his raincoat on. "Phone's still out," he announced as he slapped a hat on his head. "Seth's not back. I'll head over to the police, okay, folks? Don't worry about a thing. See you in a minute."

  And he was gone before anyone could say a word, the door wind-slammed behind him, rain spattering in on the carpet, the candles dancing and dying again.

  Though Ellery waited for it, half expected it, there was no bolt of lightning. The manager strode through the light, into the black, and all they could hear was the hiss of running water.

  "I'll be damned," said Gary Richards as he pushed off the couch and walked to the door. "Can you beat that? He just walked out, just like that. God, some people, you know?"

  His wife stood as if to join him, saw Ellery and smiled shyly. When he returned the smile, she walked over hesitantly, nodded politely to Katherine, and said, "Excuse me, but you . . . you're the man from Yarrow's, aren't you."

  "And you're the lady who's keeping us in business."

  Her laugh was high and quiet, though it didn't quite reach to her eyes. "I like to read," she said apologetically. "There isn't much else to do, really." A movement of her hand. "Gary's always busy with this and that and the business. I-" She paused, ducked her head, lifted it again. "He thinks I'm going to ruin my eyes."

  "Never," he said. "Look at me. I read all the time, and I'm only half blind."

  Paula Richards stared, then laughed again. "I guess we'd better go. We, uh . . . it doesn't look like it's going to stop anytime soon."

  "Think of this as a dream," he said as she turned to leave. "Your head or mine."

  Again she blinked. "I read about them, you know. Dreams. It's very interesting."

  "Yes, you are," and he smiled, wider when she put a hand to her cheek and looked as if, before she turned away, the one thing in the world she wanted to do most was wink at him and grin.

  As she walked away, Katherine nudged his side with a soft elbow. "That was very nice."

  "She seems like a nice woman."

  "So am I when you get to know me," she said, and headed for the ladies' room on the lobby's other side.

  He gaped, not caring that he probably looked as if he'd just been punched in the stomach. He wasn't so dense that he missed her intent, but the courage to follow her was blocked by a loud round of swearing. Richards was standing by the lefthand exit, his hands on the glass. Paula was behind him, a palm on his shoulder, pulling him back gently.

  "No, damnit!" the man said angrily. "I will not calm down!" He turned to the others, face dark and eyes wide in indignation. Even the couple on the staircase looked at him curiously. "It's locked," Richards announced, kicking back with one heel. Then he pushed his wife to one side and tried the other door. "Damn! I don't believe it! Both of them! I mean . . . that stupid manager's locked us all in."

  Ellery doubted it. In the first place, it didn't make any sense to do something like that. In the second place, Davidson simply hadn't had the time; he had just walked out into the storm without stopping, without even turning around. But when Richards saw the expression on his face and challenged him with a look, he tried them himself, leaned down and peered at the tiny gap between door and frame.

  "What did I tell you?" Richards said over his shoulder. "The stupid sonofa-"

  "It isn't locked," Ellery said, and pointed. "The bolt's not over." When he pushed, however, it didn't give. He pulled, and pulled harder. Pushed a second time and watched as Richards did the same on the other side. "Maybe all the water's warped the frames or something."

  "They're aluminum," the man said sarcastically. "How the hell is that gonna warp? Jesus."

  "What about the fire exits?"

  They turned at the question, saw the boy on the staircase coming down toward them.

  "You want to break a leg going in there, Scotty?" Richards said sarcastically as he pointed to the auditorium doors. "It's pitch black, for god's sake. But go ahead, I don't care." He looked at Ellery and rolled his eyes. "The kid's a jerk. He works for his old man, gardening and stuff. The old man couldn't grow sand in a desert."

  Ellery said nothing. He didn't know the boy, and right now didn't much care for Gary Richards. He checked the doors again to give himself something to do, knowing it had to be a warp of some kind because doors didn't lock without a bolt turning over, and they sure as hell didn't lock on their own.

  Another push for good measure, another pull that nearly wrenched his shoulder, and he went into the office in hopes of finding some sort of clue as to the doors' closing, maybe something to do with new turns in electronics. Scotty was taking the usher's flashlight from a shelf on the wall. They exchanged a look that condemned Richards and, at the same time, forged no abrupt alliances. Then he was gone, and Ellery scratched the side of his nose, rubbed its tip, and knew he was wasting his time. A single candle burned feebly on the desk, and as far as he could tell, there was no exit here. The old man was still on the couch, still unconscious, and snoring. Ellery grinned at him, wished him luck, and returned to the lobby
.

  The far doors to the auditorium were swinging slowly and soundlessly shut; the young girl was still on the staircase, and she waved to him, grinned, and made a face at Richards. He grinned and waved back, took another step and rubbed his palms briskly. It was getting cold in here, the same flat cold he had felt earlier, and by the expressions on the others, they felt it as well.

  The doors stopped swinging.

  A fresh fall of rain slapped against the glass, and Paula jumped away as if she'd been drenched. Her husband swore and glared at the pavement, threatening Davidson in absentia and damning the storm in the same breath.

  There was thunder. No lightning. The creak of a floorboard, the squeal of a hinge.

  Ellery pulled at the bottom of his sport jacket, pulled at his shirt as if he were wearing a tie too tight for his throat. And he watched in amazement as the candles on the refreshment counter across the lobby began to sputter, to smoke, and one by one flare out. It left only six burning, on a table by the wall, and he stared at them, too, waiting for them to die and leave them all in the dark.

  As it was, the room pulled in on itself, the light barely reaching the exits, not touching the rain at all. All he could hear then was the hiss, and the slap, the ghosts of the storm scratching to get in.

  Ellery pulled back his jacket sleeve and looked at his watch; it was just past eleven. Davidson had left for the police nearly thirty minutes ago, and Scotty had been in the auditorium for just about ten. He considered checking on the boy, but Katherine came out of the rest room and stopped, a hand waving briefly in front of her face until she realized what had happened to the rest of the light. By then he was beside her, explaining quickly about the doors, ignoring the increasingly loud curses Richards was spouting despite his wife's gentle pleading to please stay calm.

  Then he heard another voice, plaintive and small. "Scotty?"

  It was the girl on the staircase, and without thinking he climbed three steps to sit in front of her, Katherine climbing two more to kneel at her side.

  "Hi," he said. "I'm Ellery Phillips."