by John Saul
“Well, for heaven’s sakes,” she said. “Look who’s here! Come on in.”
But her welcoming smile faltered when Gina asked if Randy was home. “Oh, yeah,” she said, jerking her head toward the hall. “He’s still in bed, sleeping it off.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You weren’t up on the mesa with him last night, were you?”
Gina hesitated, then nodded.
“Hmph,” Margie snorted. “Thought you were better than that.”
“I—I really need to talk to Randy,” Gina said.
Margie Sparks shrugged carelessly. “Suit yourself,” she said. “But I warn you—he’s acting kind of weird this morning. Not that he’s getting any sympathy from me—the idea, a sixteen-year-old kid waking up with a hangover. Well, like father, like son, I always say.”
As Margie moved off toward the kitchen, Gina made her way down the hall until she came to a closed door that she assumed was Randy’s. She knocked, and when there was no response, tried the door. It was unlocked, and when she opened it a crack and looked inside, she saw Randy lying in bed, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. “Randy?” she asked.
His head rolled over and he gazed at her blankly.
“It’s me,” Gina said. She stepped into the room, and Randy finally sat up. “Your mom says you’re sick.”
Randy shrugged. “I’m fine,” he said.
Gina cocked her head. There was something weird about Randy today. His eyes looked strange—empty—and his mouth seemed to have lost the sneer he usually affected.
“Well, you shouldn’t be fine,” Gina said. “Not after what you did last night.”
Randy made no reply. Instead he simply sat up in bed, staring at her.
“You broke the windshield on Mr. Arnold’s truck, you know,” Gina said. “Or don’t you remember?”
Randy nodded. “I remember.”
It was the tonelessness of his voice that finally made Gina mad. It was as if he didn’t even care. “Well, what are you going to do about it?” she demanded.
Randy only seemed puzzled. “What am I supposed to do about it?”
Gina glared at him. What was wrong with him? “Well, the least you can do is pay for it!” she exclaimed. “Why should Jed have to pay for it? He didn’t do anything to you.”
“All right,” Randy said.
Gina stared at him, shocked. She couldn’t imagine he wasn’t even going to argue with her. Now she eyed him suspiciously. “It costs two hundred and fifty dollars,” she said. “I called the Ford dealer in Las Cruces this morning.”
She’d expected Randy to start laughing at her now, but instead he got out of bed, stark naked, and went to the chest of drawers that stood against the wall under the window. Too shocked even to speak, Gina simply stared at him Randy pulled the bottom drawer completely out of the dresser, then reached in and fished out an envelope that had been taped to the inside of the dresser’s frame. Opening it, he counted out $250, then replaced the envelope and the drawer. Handing Gina the money, he climbed back into bed.
Stunned, Gina gaped at the money in her hand, then turned to gaze at Randy again. “Wh-Where did you get this?” she asked.
Randy shrugged. “I stole some of it I made the rest selling drugs at school.”
Gina felt her knees start to shake It was crazy—all of it She’d expected him to laugh at her—in fact, she’d expected him to flat-out refuse to pay for the windshield. She thought she’d at least have to plead with him, maybe even threaten to tell his mother what had happened.
But she’d never expected what had just happened.
And now Randy was just lying there in bed, as though he hadn’t done anything strange at all. “L-Look,” she stammered. “I’ve got to go, okay?”
Randy said nothing She wasn’t even certain he’d heard her. He was just looking off into space again, with the weird, empty look in his eyes. Stuffing the money into her pocket, she hurried out of the Sparkses’ house, not even stopping to say good-bye to Randy’s mother.
Twenty minutes later she was outside the hospital, wishing there were some way she could avoid going in. She hated hospitals, hated the smell of them, and the whole atmosphere of sick people. She could remember vividly the time when she was only five and her mother had brought her here to visit her grandmother. She had barely recognized the old woman lying in the bed, her eyes—eyes that had always before twinkled so merrily at Gina—now dull and lifeless. Her grandmother had held out a hand to Gina, and though she hadn’t wanted to take it in her own, her mother had made her, and finally she’d touched the old lady’s damp and clammy flesh, then let go immediately, hiding her hands behind her back. Ever since that day, whenever she had to come to the hospital she remembered her dying grandmother, and felt again her strange, cold touch. Still, she had to see Jed. Taking a deep breath against her apprehension, she pushed open the door and went into the waiting room.
Jed was slumped on the sofa, staring into space, and it wasn’t until she sat down beside him and took his hand in her own that he finally noticed her.
“What’s happened?” Gina breathed, though she was certain she already knew. “Your dad didn’t …” Her voice trailed off as she found herself unable to utter the word.
Jed bit his lip, then shook his head. “He’s not dead,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. Then his eyes met hers. “But he might as well be. He—He’s in a coma.” Jed’s eyes flooded with tears. “He’s just lying there, Gina. He doesn’t move, and when you touch him, he doesn’t react, or anything.”
Gina squeezed his hand, uncertain what to say. They sat silently for a few minutes, then Jed turned to look at her. “Oh, Jeez,” he said. “I was going to come over this morning, wasn’t I?”
“It’s all right,” Gina told him. And then she began telling Jed what had happened at Randy’s house. “It was weird,” she finished, almost fifteen minutes later. “He just did what I told him to do. And when he got out of bed, it was like he didn’t even know he was naked.”
Jed gazed at her. “You sure he wasn’t stoned?”
Gina shook her head. “Uh-uh,” she said. “It was like he was dead. It was like something had gotten into his brain and killed it.”
Chapter 20
Rita Moreland was upstairs in the room she’d shared with Max, slowly going through the painful process of sorting through his things. The windows were opened wide to catch the afternoon breezes, and when she heard the crunching of tires on the gravel drive, she felt relieved to have an excuse to take a break from her work.
She arrived at the foot of the stairs just as the front door opened and Judith Sheffield stepped in.
“You’re home,” Rita said, starting down the stairs. But then, as she saw Judith’s ashen face, she paused. “It’s Frank, isn’t it?” she breathed. “Has he died?”
Judith closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a few seconds, trying to gather her thoughts before she spoke. How could she tell Rita what she was thinking? Finally she shook her head. “No,” she said. “He’s not dead. But he’s had a series of—” Her eyes met Rita’s then. “He’s had a series of strokes, Rita.”
Rita froze on the stairs and her face paled, but then she recovered herself. She came to the bottom of the stairs and took Judith by the arm. “You look like you need a drink,” she said. She guided Judith into the living room, steered her into a chair, then went to the bar and took out the decanter that contained the last of Max’s favorite bourbon. Pouring an inch and a half into each of two tumblers, she handed one of them to Judith. “Drink this,” she said. “Then tell me what’s happening.” Her eyes, clear and unfrightened, fixed on Judith. “There is something happening, isn’t there?” she asked.
Judith nodded, feeling the tension in her own body easing in the face of the older woman’s cool control. She raised the tumbler to her lips. The whiskey burned her throat as it went down, but as it hit her stomach, a reassuring warmth spread through her body, and the chill that had seized her as she’d driven d
own from The Cottonwoods began to loosen its grip. Slowly, she began to tell Rita everything that had happened, everything she was thinking. The only thing she left out was the single common denominator.
Greg Moreland and his shots.
“I know it sounds crazy,” she said when she was finished. “I know I must sound just as paranoid as everyone claims Frank is.”
For a long time Rita said nothing. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes leaving Judith to study the glass in her hands, which she began slowly rolling one way and then another. At last, as if she’d come to some kind of internal decision, she faced Judith once again.
“We don’t all think Frank is paranoid,” she said. “Certainly I don’t. But there’s something you’ve left out, Judith.”
Judith gazed warily at the elderly woman.
“You haven’t mentioned my nephew.”
Judith’s breath drew in sharply. “I didn’t—”
“You wanted to spare my feelings,” Rita said, her words clipped. She rose to her feet and began pacing the room. “I keep finding myself wondering at what age it is that people decide they must begin sparing your feelings.” She sniffed dismissively, and the fingers of her left hand flicked at the air as if brushing an insect away. “Well, of course it doesn’t matter, does it. The point is, you do think Greg has something to do with this, don’t you? After all, he was Reba’s doctor and Max’s doctor. He was also on duty when Frank had his accident yesterday, and I’m certainly well aware that it is Greg who coordinates all inoculations for the school.” Judith remained silent, certain that no response was necessary. Rita turned away, and moved to a window, where she stood looking out, her back to Judith. But finally she turned around again. “Did you know I’ve always found my nephew to be something of an anomaly?”
Judith frowned.
“It’s true,” Rita went on. “When he was young, he was quite an insufferable snob. Oh, he was smart, and handsome, and had plenty to be proud of, but with him it was more than that. There was an arrogance about him, as if other people only existed to serve him.” She smiled ironically. “He thought Max and I were fools when he was young, you know. Every year, after Max’s brother died, and Greg started coming out to spend a month or two with us each summer, he used to try to convince us to move away from here. Thought we ought to live in New York, where his mother was, and have a mansion with a staff. ‘Clodhoppers’ is what he used to call the people around here.”
Judith’s frown deepened. “But you’ve seemed so proud of him.”
Rita took a deep breath. “Oh, I have been. Ever since he came back that last summer, after poor Mildred died, too. That was the year he stayed. And he’d changed so much. To begin with, I was suspicious of it—I thought he must have some dark ulterior motive. Frankly, I always half suspected that he was trying to make sure Max and I didn’t forget him in our wills. But over the last five years, I decided I was wrong.” Now her eyes met Judith’s. “But perhaps I wasn’t,” she said, her voice trembling for the first time since she’d begun to speak. “Perhaps nothing about Greg ever changed at all.” She fell silent wishing she didn’t have to go on, but knowing she did. “There’s something about Greg that I’ve never told anyone before,” she continued, her voice barely audible. “When he was a little boy, he—well, he suffocated a puppy once, just to see how long it would take to die, and to find out if he could revive it again.”
“Dear God,” Judith breathed. For several minutes the two women simply sat staring silently at each other, and then there was the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. A moment later the front door opened.
“Aunt Rita?” Greg Moreland called out.
Rita shot Judith a look of warning. “In here, dear,” she called back. “Judith and I are just having a drink.”
Greg Moreland appeared in the doorway, his face grave as he faced Judith. “I talked to Bob Banning this afternoon,” he said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Frank.”
Judith gazed at him, trying to read something—anything—into his expression that would give the lie to the sincerity of his words. But there was nothing. His eyes were large and sympathetic, and his smile gentle.
She was wrong—she had to be.
And then she remembered Rita’s words of only a few seconds ago.
He suffocated a puppy once, just to see how long it would take to die.
She rose shakily to her feet and managed to force a smile. “Thank you,” she said, then set her glass on the coffee table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few phone calls to make.”
Without waiting for a reply from either Rita or Greg, she hurried out of the room.
She imagined she could feel Greg’s eyes on her back, watching her speculatively as she left.
Or was it her imagination?
At ten o’clock, as had been her habit for more than twenty years, Rita Moreland began preparing to go to bed. She moved through the house slowly, locking the doors and windows, following the same routine Max himself had always carried out until the day he’d died. Rita found the ritual comforting, in an odd way. It was almost as if, as she moved through the rooms on the lower floor, Max was beside her, giving her quiet instructions.
“Check the French doors twice,” she imagined she heard him say as she went into the dining room. “That lock never worked quite right.”
She twisted the lock, then rattled the doors in silent compliance with Max’s equally silent instructions. Satisfied, she moved on to the library.
Max’s presence was stronger here. His desk was covered with papers—even yesterday, when she’d worked at the desk herself, she hadn’t disturbed Max’s things. A book still lay open, facedown, on the table next to his favorite chair. Rita paused for a moment, fingering the volume, then abruptly picked it up, closed it, and returned it to its place on the walnut shelves that lined the room.
She crossed to the windows, checked their latches, then pulled closed the heavy damask curtains. When she returned to the door, she paused a moment, looking back into the room before she switched out the light.
A vague feeling of apprehension swept over her, and for a moment she thought she might cry. Resolutely, she flicked the switch, plunging the room into darkness, then pulled the door shut.
At last she went upstairs, but she went through the house on the second floor, opening the windows to let the cool night air drift through the rooms.
Finally, in the master bedroom, she began folding the clothes—Max’s clothes—that were spread out on the bed, and packing them away in the boxes Greg had brought her yesterday.
Greg.
She felt an icy chill as she remembered the conversation she’d had with him after Judith had left the living room. She’d done her best to mask her emotions, but she was almost certain he’d known something was wrong.
Still, nothing had actually been said. They’d simply made small talk for a while, and she’d assured him she was doing just fine. No, she wasn’t lonely.
No, she hadn’t thought any more about selling the house.
Yes, she’d heard about Frank Arnold—Judith had told her.
She’d searched his face as they’d talked about Frank, looking for any sign that would tell her his concern was anything less than genuine. But even as he’d finally said good-bye, he’d spoken once more of Frank. “It’s a shame,” he’d said, his voice filled with what sounded to Rita like genuine sympathy. “He could be a pain in the neck sometimes, but no one deserves what’s been happening to him today.”
Rita had searched his eyes as he spoke, but they had revealed nothing. When he left, she went upstairs to talk to Judith again.
“I don’t know,” she’d sighed, perching on the edge of Judith’s bed. “Perhaps we’re wrong—”
“We’re not,” Judith had insisted. “I called my friend in Los Alamos. He doesn’t have any answers yet, but he promised to keep trying.” She glanced at her watch, then her eyes shifted back to Rita. “Look, I promised Jed I’d meet him at the
hospital, then take him out for dinner. Why don’t you come with me? I don’t think you should be alone here.”
Rita had brushed her words aside. “Don’t be silly,” she’d said. “I didn’t say a word to Greg. And I need some time to think about all this. It’s just … well, it just seems so unbelievable. You go ahead, dear. I’ll be fine.”
She’d fixed herself a small dinner, but had been unable to eat it.
She’d tried to work on some needlepoint, but her hobby hadn’t soothed her either.
In the end she’d spent most of the evening simply sitting in front of an unlit fire, thinking about Greg and the experiment he’d carried out on his puppy.
And suddenly she was certain she knew the truth of what Greg was doing now.
Once again he was carrying on some kind of experiment. Only this time it wasn’t a puppy that was dying.
This time it was people.
Tomorrow, she would find a way to stop him.
Tiredly, she put the last of the things on the bed into the boxes, then undressed and put on a robe. She sat at her vanity, pulled the pins out of her hair, then began giving it the hundred brushstrokes it had received every night since she was ten years old.
Usually, the ritual brushing of her hair relaxed her, made her put the worries of the day aside, but tonight it didn’t seem to work, and when she was finished with the task, she still felt nervous.
She wandered restlessly to the window and looked out into the night.
The moon was high, and a silvery light danced on the face of the mesa. She could see bats darting through the night, and heard the soft hoot of an owl as it coasted on the breeze, searching the ground for mice.
She was about to turn away when she thought she saw a movement in the shadows outside the house, but when she looked again, there was nothing there. At last she turned away and slid into bed.
She read for a while, but the conversation with Greg kept replaying in her mind, and she had to go back over the pages again and again, the words holding no meaning for her.
At last she drifted into sleep.
