Cross, a fat, balding man who thought fashion began and ended with the three-piece grey-pinstriped black suit, sat in the living room, Phil at his side. Gloria sat on the arm of the couch. Nelson Toomes, the first coin dealer consulted, and Murray Parenson, the antiquarian, were sitting in chairs on the other side of the coffee table.
Darren looked at the papers that summarized the find. At last he said, “To all appearances, this is something of a major find, I take it.”
Parenson, thin and afflicted with a chronic nervous smile, said, “That is certainly the case. Some of the coins in Mr. Hastings’s possession may be one of a kind. There are sixteen that are unique. For that reason their values are hard to determine—we’d only know their true value after seeing what they’d fetch at auction. But despite those small oddities, the bulk of the coins in question have some clear historical value. That value varies from trivial to profound, but there are fewer than a dozen coins worth only slightly more than their gold weight. Those are a few of the more common American and British coins minted in the early part of this century.”
Toomes, the coin dealer, interrupted. “Those may not have historical value, but they have collectors’ value.”
“What’s the bottom line?” asked Phil.
“The bottom line is that you’re a very rich man,” said Cross. “Before, you were simply well off. Now you can retire if you choose.”
“How much rich?” asked Gloria.
“We shall have to bump heads with the IRS. They will treat this as found money, much like gambling winnings.
They will also closely audit the sales figures. And the market will fluctuate slightly.” He glanced at Toomes.
“Very slightly. There are not enough of a single coin, same year and minting, to affect its market value in any significant way.”
“So, for the moment, we’ll accept these figures.” He passed the paper to Phil and pointed at the bottom numbers.
Phil read, blinked, and reread it. Softly he said, “Two million dollars?”
“And some change,” said Cross. He pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose. “About three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of change. After taxes, closer to one point four million. Though we can shelter a bit of it, and set up a corporation for you and stick some more in a tax-deferred pension. But you’ll give almost a quarter to Uncle.”
Phil said, “How do we do this?”
It was Toomes who answered. “There are several major firms across the country who can buy up to a million on the spot. By setting up a syndication of four or five of them, we could take the entire find off your hands for a lump price. The other option is to sell on your behalf, brokering for a fee. You might realize a small price advantage, but it could take a great deal longer, perhaps up to a year to dispose of all the coins.”
Gloria said, “Darren?”
“Sell it in a lump, Gloria. You’ll lose less than 10 percent by a quick sale, and regain that by investing advantageously over the time it would take to sell it by the piece. Also you’ll have it off your hands and off your mind.”
“Can you do that?” Phil asked Toomes.
Toomes said, “I’ll need permission to forward copies of the inventory we’ve created, but we’ll have no trouble establishing a syndicate. We should be able to agree on a price within a week and make an offer.”
“There’s no offer,” said Cross. “You have the inventory. We’ll discount 20 percent for cash. For the sake of simplicity, call the change three hundred thousand. We’ll ensure some provision for changes in the market over the next ninety days—the period of time the police will insist the gold be impounded pending any claim. Assuming no such claim is forthcoming, on day ninety-one deliver a check to my client in the amount of one million eight hundred forty thousand dollars and you can send the Brink’s truck to pick up your gold. Otherwise, we’ll pay your appraising fee and contact your competitors and see who else is willing to establish a syndicate. I assure you, gentlemen, the more work I do, the higher the final price. Should we go to auction, you know the end price will be at least 30 percent higher than the price we will take today. But you must agree now.”
Toomes didn’t look pleased, but he said, “That should be acceptable, I expect.”
Cross smiled a small, tight-lipped smile. “Anything else, gentlemen?”
Parenson said, “There’s the matter of those unique coins I mentioned. May I urge you to consider withholding them from sale. By donating them to museums, you could realize some tax advantage, and they’ll be held in trust for the public rather than buried in some private collector’s vault.”
Toomes seemed on the verge of protesting, but Cross cut him off by saying, “I see here that no value was established for those coins, because of their uniqueness. It seems, then, we were speaking of the value of the collection less those … ah, sixteen coins.” Toomes was clearly becoming irritated. “We shall let you know, gentlemen,” Cross said. “If we choose to sell the coins, Mr. Toomes, we shall ask a price adjustment. Otherwise, we shall consider your suggestion, Mr. Parenson. Now, I thank you for your good works, gentlemen, and I’ll have a car round to return you to the airport.” He glanced at his watch. “You should be leaving within ten minutes if you’re to catch your planes.”
They left, and Cross said, “I depart tonight, Phil. I’ve let far too much work go idle on the Coast while we’ve played treasure hunter. I think all is well in hand here.”
Phil said, “I don’t know how to thank you, Darren.”
“You don’t have to thank me. You’re about to pay for my grandson’s college education. And he will go to Harvard, I expect.” Phil laughed. “Now I will go pack, while you call the police. They will want to send a car, and you will insist we bring the gold in ourselves. They shall send a car and escort us as a compromise. We shall provide an inventory and they will want their own property-room people to match the coins to the inventory, which should prove amusing. Then we shall have a final dinner, and I will go back to California. These chilly nights are bothering my arthritis.” Without further remark, he trundled up the stairs to pack.
Gloria said, “I’m glad it’s over.”
“You’ve been quiet all week, kiddo. Troubles?”
Gloria said, “It’s been Alice in Wonderland time around here for two weeks. And I’m worried about Mark. He’s been gone a lot longer than Gary expected—Gary won’t say so, but he’s getting worried, too. I’m afraid something may have happened. And I’m still worried about what Gary said.”
Phil hugged his wife. “It’ll all work out. Now we’ve this gold business over, we can get back to normal. Loud kids, leaky roofs, a wedding next spring—you know: regular stuff.”
She sighed and hugged him back. “Hope you’re right. Oh, there’s a school Halloween party the boys want to go to. They need some permission slip signed.”
“No problem.” He stopped and thought. “Halloween’s only five days off, isn’t it? We’d better stock up on candy.”
“Nope. No trick-or-treaters. Some trouble a few years ago with bad candy, so now they have the school parties—one at the primary school for the little guys and another at the high school for the big kids. All we have to do is deliver them and pick them up.”
Phil said, “That’s simple.”
Gloria felt another chill of anticipation, the same that had been troubling her since the gold had been found. Shrugging it off, she said, “Well, we still have to eat. Lunch?”
He smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.” Phil slipped his arm around his wife’s waist and walked with her toward the kitchen.
10
The police car’s motor rumbled, being slightly out of tune. The two officers were relaxed but alert as they observed Phil and Jack lift the wooden strongbox into the trunk of Phil’s car. Moments later, Phil and Darren were inside the car and it was crawling down the drive toward the road. Gloria watched it pull away and turned back into the house, closing the door behind her.
From
the woods another pair of eyes watched the cars as they moved along the narrow drive to the edge of the property. Phil’s car hesitated at the road as cars passed. When the way was clear, it swung out into traffic and picked up speed, the police cruiser following closely.
With a note of satisfaction, echoing menace, the watcher in the trees whispered, “The Compact is broken!” With a spin and a glimmer, he vanished. His companion, hanging from a bare branch above, watched with glowing yellow eyes as the cars disappeared over the hill. The Bad Thing didn’t understand all its master’s concerns, for it was a simple creature, its intelligence blunted over the years by pain and perversion. But it knew its master was happy, and that was good. That was very good. Perhaps now the master would let him have the dog, or the girl, or better yet, one of the two boys. With a slight sigh, and nursing odd visions of murder in its twisted heart, the Bad Thing crawled up the side of the tree, vanishing in the russet-colored foliage above.
THE FOOL
11
The twins tried to settle in and fall asleep, but couldn’t. The wind outside was making odd sounds. The weather had turned cold and blustery in a way alien to them. It was a mean and stinging wind, sucking warmth from the body when it struck, despite the new quilted down jackets purchased from Sears over at the mall. The wind seemed to have started blowing within moments of their father taking away the gold that afternoon. And there was an electric quality to it, a sizzling hum as it tormented the leaves and branches of the tree outside the window. It made Sean feel as if he was holding his breath, waiting for something to happen, as if something was coming closer every minute and now almost upon him. In the upper bunk, he absently rubbed the fairy stone Barney had given him, comforted by its presence. Putting aside his disquiet, he softly called his brother’s name.
“What?” came Patrick’s sleepy reply. “What you going to wear?”
Patrick knew Sean was speaking of the Halloween party the following Saturday. In the chaos surrounding the discovery of the gold, no one had talked to the boys about costumes. Then, suddenly, Mom had remembered. They were to have made up their minds by breakfast, and no changing once decided, no getting upset because the other’s idea sounded better. There was a momentary pause, then Patrick said, “Dunno. What?”
Sean understood his brother. “Pirate. Captain Billy Kidd.”
Patrick laughed. “You dumbass. It’s Captain Kidd. Billy the Kid was the outlaw.”
Sean lay back staring at the ceiling, feeling slightly embarrassed. “You know what I mean. What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know,” answered his brother, his voice betraying an odd irritation. “I was sort of having this dream when you woke me up.”
“You weren’t asleep,” replied his brother, refusing to allow Patrick the opportunity to cast blame.
“Was too,” insisted Patrick, but instead of pressing the argument, he said, “In the dream I … saw this guy in a neat knight’s suit. You know, armor and swords and a horse. Maybe I’ll go as a knight.”
Sean said, “Dream?”
“Yeah, a creepy one. But the knight suit was neat. It had these horn things, you know, like deers’ve got, on the head. And the guy rode a neat horse. And he was shining.”
Sean didn’t answer. He had lain awake while his brother had the dozing dream. But in Sean’s imagination he had seen the alien knight, despite his attempts to turn his thoughts away from the figure. He had watched in silent darkness as the figure had become more concrete in appearance, more distinct every passing minute in his mind. But Patrick was wrong about the dream, or vision, as Sean thought of it. It hadn’t been creepy. It had been terrifying. Sean almost audibly sighed. Patrick was often amused by what frightened Sean. The more timid brother hid those things from Patrick, for it was the one area where Sean felt inadequate. He might be more sensitive than his twin, but like all children everywhere, he felt the need to avoid being labeled different by anyone in his peer group. There’s nothing worse than being called “wimp,”
“spaz,” or “nerd” by your classmates.
The twins lapsed into silence. Soon Sean was in a half-dreamy state, lulled in part by his brother’s rhythmic breathing as Patrick quickly fell asleep. But each time sleep approached Sean, a change in the wind, an odd noise—the house creaking, perhaps—something would yank him awake again. For a long time this condition persisted. Sean forced himself to close his eyes. For a while he lay silent, attempting to sleep, but he only managed a restless half-doze. The fluting wind outside heralded something approaching, getting closer by the minute. Sean tossed fitfully, unable to rest, for each passing minute the feeling grew stronger. Something was coming.
Sean’s eyes snapped open and his little heart pounded as he sensed the inpending arrival of something terrible. Then a gasp of fear jerked him rigid, as he was struck by a suddenly overwhelming sense of danger. It wasn’t coming! It was here!
It was the same terror as the night the Bad Thing had come into their room, but it was now ten times worse. Sean lay frozen, afraid to look, barely able to breathe. There was an odd sound in the corner, a movement, a slight scrape of weight shifting against the wall, but it also echoed with an overtone like music, alien and terrifying. Then the smell of flowers and spices reached Sean. With a sharp intake of breath he pulled his covers up to his face, peeking over to look across the room.
Someone stood in the corner.
Hidden in the darkness of the farthest corner, he was motionless, but his outline could be faintly seen. Then he moved slightly. A hint of silver-blue shimmers, like luminosity on a warm ocean tide at night, flickered across his body, as if the act of moving released energies. Instantly after being seen, the luminosity faded and the shape faded into shadows, motionless, silent, and unseen, but there.
Sean felt him there. Cold terror clutched at the boy’s chest. He fought to will breath into his lungs, so he could shout, but sound lay beyond his ability. He could not move. Time ceased to pass and in the boundless space between moments he lay trapped, motionless, petrified by the knowledge that something waited across the room, unmoving, soundless, invisible, but its presence made known by an aura so chilling it froze the boy’s heart. And it stood only three strides away. Sean’s teeth began to chatter and his hands shook as he clutched the blanket under his chin. Then, with a sound little more than a strangled sigh, the thing in the corner moved.
Sean could make out no detail of appearance; he could see only the faint blue shimmer briefly across the thing’s body, as if dim phosphors were painted on a featureless black mannequin. The silhouette was of a tall, thin man, his body moving with the controlled flow of a dancer, his muscles as smooth as unrippled water. Details of appearance, color of hair and eyes, tone of skin, shape of face, were obscured by either inky blackness or bluish glow. All this was insignificant to Sean. He only knew the man was there for the boys.
And he knew one other thing: This blue-glowing, dark man was an evil far beyond the Bad Thing.
The dark man moved to stand in the middle of the room, his face almost but, maddeningly, not quite seen. The shape of his head was long, the chin somehow too narrow, but no detail of eye or lips, hair or brow showed. He laughed, a distant, wind-hollow echo, a sound from ages past. Sean lay motionless, the covers pulled up to his face, as his stomach knotted at the sound. He followed the movement of the dark man as he slowly walked toward the door near the head of the bunk beds. The boy following with his eyes until the dark man was at the limit of his field of vision. From the corner of his eye, Sean suddenly caught a glimpse of a face. He turned to look again and detail vanished, as if to look straight at the man lost one the ability to see him. Sean sat up, terrified that his movement had somehow betrayed him, but unable to remain motionless. Still he could see only the hint of a figure in the room. In silent fear, Sean turned his head away. As he did so, the man’s face reappeared for an instant. Sean tried to avert his eyes, as if not looking would make the faintly glowing, spectral figure go away, b
ut he couldn’t. His gaze was trapped and held by a terrible fascination. He sat motionless save for his trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his teeth chattering. For an instant he could make out features in the dim mask, as the man smiled. His teeth were perfect, meeting in a grin like a skull’s, seeming to glow in the black face. And in that death’s-head grin Sean saw terror and madness come to steal Patrick and himself away, before the features vanished again.
With a silent gasp, a gulping of breath, Sean flattened his back against the wall, halfway between the foot and head of the bed. He tried to close his eyes and will away the vision, but couldn’t. All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hide in a warm safe place. But he could not move. He was held motionless by something alien to his child’s nature. He was frozen by hopelessness.
The dark man stepped forward, closing the distance to the bedside, as if to get a better look at the boys. Other shapes moved at his feet, as if smaller creatures accompanied him. Sean forced muscles locked with rigor to move and slowly turned away, his cheek and side pressed against the wall, watching the terrifying man from the corner of his eye. “Patrick,” he barely got out in a hoarse croak. Then the man stood beside the bunk beds.
Softly, with a voice like a thousand whispers, the man spoke. “Two.” It was a hot summer night’s breeze giving voice to a word and that word was despair.
To Sean it felt as if a hand had reached into the pit of his being and seized him in a searing grip that would never let go. Then came the small, mad chuckle and Sean’s eyes watered with tears of fright. His stomach knotted again, as if he was going to vomit, and he swallowed hard, forcing back the sour taste rising into his mouth. He wished nothing more than to scream for Mommy and Daddy, but no sounds came forth. The scream was trapped within, fighting to escape. He couldn’t take his eyes from the figure by the bedside. Seen this close, the man was glowing, surrounded by a faint nimbus of silver-white light, cut with blue energies, his features still unseen. But now Sean could see the suggestion of eyes in the black face.
Faerie Tale Page 28
