The Grave - An Oxrun Station Novel (Oxrun Station Novels)

by Charles L. Grant

  Stanworth was refilling the kettle when he joined him, the two of them grunting nonsense while cups and saucers, sugar, and a jar of instant coffee were set out on the table. When it was done, the room redolent, Stanworth took a chair and loosened his tie. "I figured," he said, "it was about time I saw you."

  It took Josh a second to identify the thread. "I just hope you and Randy have worked it out, that's all."

  Stanworth passed a forefinger lightly over his scars. "It's been miserable, Joshua, I can tell you that. But yes, I think we understand each other better. Now, that is."

  Josh sipped at the coffee, wincing at the light burn at his tongue. "I have to admit, Lloyd, I was rather . . ." He grinned. "Pissed when I saw you two together at the inn that night. I thought for a minute Randy was right." He ignored the pain in the doctor's eyes. "Andrea, however, managed to set me straight."

  Stanworth nodded, and glanced around the room. "I assume it's over, then. All the misunderstandings, that is."

  "As far as I know, Randy had the misunderstanding."

  "Yes."

  Josh could feel the warmth from the back-door window spread over his back. He shifted. He said nothing; Stanworth, he was sure, had not come here to talk about something that was clearly well buried. But his puzzlement grew when the man would not meet his gaze. Instead, he continued to examine the room as if he had never been here before, the lines about his eyes tightening and relaxing, a corner of his mouth pulling back in what would have been a smile if the rest of his face had accommodated itself accordingly.

  "Hot day, isn't it?" Josh said at last, pushing the sugar bowl toward Stanworth's hand.

  "Rotten. You'd think it was the middle of the summer."

  "Know what you mean. Been a damned crazy spring."

  "Good for the grass, though. The crops. I spend more time on that fool lawn of mine than I do in the office. Sometimes I think I ought to be a gardener."

  The warmth reached the back of his neck, and he rubbed at it impatiently, trying to erase it. The refrigerator snapped oh, a beetle cracked against the windowpane, Stanworth's spoon clicked unnervingly against the inside of his cup. Josh glanced toward the telephone, wondering if Andrea had stopped talking, returned his gaze to the doctor with a smile he hoped was friendly and inviting. When it produced no visible result, he cleared his throat loudly.

  "Didn't see your car," Stanworth said then. "I thought maybe you were out. Working."

  Josh explained what had happened to the Buick, his voice trailing into a puzzled silence when it was evident the doctor was not at all interested. The coffee in both their cups cooled. Stanworth sipped at his anyway; Josh pushed it to one side with a slow shake of his head. He would have to change his seat; the sun was boiling through the doorpane, tightening the flesh at his nape in an uncomfortable reminder. Again he smiled; again he cleared his throat; and he frowned suddenly when he heard a muted angry sound like that of a lawn mower on the far side of the block. It sputtered, grew louder, stopped abruptly for several seconds before resuming.

  A chill surged from his stomach to his throat. Moisture fled his mouth. He saw Stanworth's mouth open and close, a fish gulping air, and a sheen slithered over his vision. Suddenly, he jumped from his seat and put the table between himself and the door. Stanworth gaped at him, stretched a hand for his wrist but Josh snatched it away.

  The single pane in the door was uncurtained, unshaded, clear to invisibility as it framed the grass and the screen of trees beyond. In the upper left-hand corner a wasp walked across the glass. Dropped away and batted itself harshly against the obstruction before settling again. Its frustration filled the room. Its abdomen coiled to strike, its antennae searched vainly.

  Josh knew it had seen him, knew it was only a matter of time before it tired of its game and launched the assault. But he could not move. The backs of his hands were drenched in perspiration, his neck taut and trembling. The jungle the tree the bolts of fired lightning. He licked at his lips and blinked rapidly, tried to swallow and found a barrier there that also caught his breath. His lower lip quivered; he wanted to speak, to tell Lloyd not to just sit there but do something damnit before it was all over and the wasp escaped. Attacking flying lipping through flesh to the blood beneath. The room was so hot. It shouldn't have been this hot. He knew, then, it was the wasp that was raising the temperature. The voice it had, the rasping drone that worked to deafen him, that's what was doing it, that's what was turning the whole house into an oven. The air conditioning had failed, and there was nothing he could do but wait until it moved.

  The wasp crawled to the center of the pane, momentarily blending into the dark of the trees, breaking out again as it moved toward the bottom and the lighter green of the grass bleached by the sun. A black spot black water that shimmered at the edges.

  A magazine, he thought; and without moving his head he tried to locate a weapon within reach. It would have to be within reach; at his first move the wasp would know that he finally knew and it would flee to the thousands of corners, of dark places, that existed in the house. Would bide its time. Would wait until he wasn't looking before sweeping toward his neck . . . or his arms . . . or his unguarded eyes.

  Calmer, now. There was no question he would have to approach it because anything thrown would act as a warning. That ruled out the sugar bowl, the saucers, the cups, the jar of coffee. The hand towel draped over the rim of the sink—he nodded. He would have to inch his way over there and draw it up, fold it in half and be prepared to snap it at exactly the right angle, with exactly the right speed. A miss, and he was dead; too soft, and he was dead, unless he were lucky enough to stun it to the floor. If he erred, however, the wasp would forget about hiding, and waiting, and stalking—it would come straight for him, and he would be defenseless.

  The towel. It was the easiest thing, the handiest.

  He blinked again, and felt a drop of perspiration fall to his cheek. Slowly, he pulled his hands from the edge of the table and dried them against his shirt. A deep breath, calming, filling him with the confidence he needed to make his first move.

  And he almost cried out when a sudden, large black shape filled the room. Hands up to cover his face. A grunt, the crack of glass near to breaking, and hands soon after took hold of his arms and lowered him into a chair.

  "Christ, Joshua!"

  "Is it dead?" It was all he could think of to say.

  Stanworth rummaged through the cabinets until he located the bourbon, filled a shot glass, and pressed it into his hand. He looked at it stupidly, nodded to himself, and drank. The liquor was like the slow sting of a wasp, and he shuddered, forcing himself not to vomit. Another sip, and he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, noting the professional in Stanworth taking over, from the smothering of a sense of urgency to the quick, precise works of his hands as they mopped his face and neck with a cool cloth, monitored his pulse, pinched at his cheeks and temples for signs of blood loss that might prelude a fainting. When the man was satisfied Josh was comfortable and would not pass out on him, he sat again and faced him, his hands clasped together on the table, elbows at the edge, back straight, and gaze competently steady.

  "Do you always react so violently when you see a wasp?"

  Josh shook his head. Then he began a rambling, and he knew not always coherent narrative of the childhood afternoon when he'd been poking around in his backyard jungle and discovered the wasp nest instead of the treasure. Whenever he felt himself dropping while he spoke, he locked onto Stanworth's gaze and used it for an anchor. By the time he was finished— adding a quick précis of the dream he'd had—he could hear his voice settling, could feel the saliva return to his mouth.

  Stanworth nodded when it was over, a thumb thoughtfully at the point of his chin. "I see."

  Josh laughed, not bothering or wanting to stifle the sound, and the feeling it produced as the specter of the wasp faded. Tears filled his eyes, an aching blossomed in his chest, and he allowed it all to drive the last of the demons from h
im as Stanworth rose and dumped the magazine he'd used to kill the wasp into the trashcan by the door. The laughter subsided, broke every few seconds into a bubble of giggling. His sleeve dried his cheeks.

  "I'm sorry, Lloyd," he said, biting his lips to keep from grinning. "God, I'm sorry."

  Stanworth gestured it away: don't worry about it, it's not important.

  "Lord!" He gulped, asked for a glass of water, and drained it slowly. "God, and you still haven't told me why you came."

  "That's all right," Stanworth said. "What's important is that you're okay now. I trust . . ."

  "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine."

  "The dream was the main thing, you see. That wasp was only a catalyst, the trigger. I imagine you've killed wasps before without such extreme reactions."

  "Sure. Every one I can. Brother, I must have looked like some kind of nut."

  A smile now, shadow-brief. "Hardly a nut, Joshua, hardly a nut. Phobias aren't always signs of impending nuthood."

  "Nuthood?" He laughed again, this time cleanly. "You amaze me, Lloyd, you really do. Nuthood." He shook his head and fetched himself another glass of water. The room was cool again, the sunlight back to its bleaching of the outside. Before he returned to the table he tore off a strip of paper towel and washed the doorpane of the smear the wasp had left behind. When he took his seat, however, he was disturbed by the expression that settled over Stanworth's face.

  "What."

  "You," the doctor said. "This isn't like you, you know. We all have nightmares now and again, but this . . . this type of response isn't like you at all." He paused. "Joshua, this isn't Randy talking, it's me—is there anything wrong that I can help you with? I mean, I might as well be frank. The few times I've seen you over the past couple of months you haven't exactly been yourself."

  "I haven't?" Josh frowned, unsure himself of how he should respond.

  "I don't mean you go around muttering to yourself," Stanworth said quickly. "You just seem . . . preoccupied." He sniffed, and smiled halfheartedly. "At first I thought it was because of Andrea. Young love and all that. Maybe it is, but I get the feeling there's more. The business all right? Your health?"

  "Sure," he said, though not emphatically. Lloyd was not his closest friend, nor was he a confidant—he had none of those, or none he could think of—but the man's manner was tempting, the concern he'd shown an invitation to an opening. He decided to take it one step at a time. "I . . . I can't deny that there've been times lately when I've wished for a miracle or two, though."

  "Your family all right? They live where, Nevada?"

  "Colorado, and they're fine the last I heard from them. None of us are great letter writers. No, it's not that, Lloyd. And it may not be anything at all. I guess you could say that I've just had my share of confusion this spring. Nothing big. Nothing to air out the rubber room for, if you know what I mean." Stanworth did not smile. Josh shrugged. "I just can't seem to stick to one thing for more than a little while. Except for Melissa's—Mrs. Thames'—hand plow. And even that's a lost cause. Hell, I didn't even know it showed."

  "It doesn't, really. I just noticed something bothering you around the edges, so to speak, and wondered if it were serious. I can see it's not, though. You're not any more confused than most of us are these days."

  "Thanks," he said sarcastically.

  Stanworth accepted the left-handed gratitude with a wink. "Now, look, this isn't—"

  The telephone rang. Josh immediately scrambled to his feet and snatched up the receiver, waving Stanworth back to his chair when the doctor half rose as if to leave. "Hello?"

  There was a few moments' harsh static, a buzzing.

  "Hello? Can you hear me?"

  The static cleared. "Joshua?"

  "Mrs. Thames, good morning!" He grinned as he looked over Stanworth's head to the outside. A leaf swept by; another. With the air conditioning keeping all the windows down, he hadn't noticed the rise of the wind.

  "Nothing good about it. You should see it from where I'm standing."

  The maid's cottage, he thought; devastated again by dust that dared creep in through the chimney. Then he snapped his fingers and grimaced.

  "Damn, I forgot! Hey. Melissa, happy birthday. Many happy returns. Whatever you want to hear."

  "I want to hear what you found out from Dr. Stanworth, Joshua. You were going to ask him about . . ."

  The static returned, a faint and sweeping howling somewhere beneath it.

  "Melissa? Hey, Melissa, we've got a lousy connection, at least from my end. Can you hear me?"

  ". . . Joshua . . ."

  "Look, I've got Lloyd trapped here in my kitchen even as we speak. Why don't I—"

  He frowned, as much at Stanworth leaving his chair as at the renewal of the interference, and at the reduction of Mrs. Thames' voice to a hollow, drifting whisper.

  "Melissa, listen, this isn't going to do any good. Can you hear me? I'm not getting anything at all. Tell you what—"

  ". . . Joshua . . ."

  "—I'll do, I'll hop in the car and . . . damn! I forgot. The tank is in the repair shop. They were supposed to deliver it—"

  ". . . help . . . no . . ."

  He stopped, his frown deepening, his free hand darting toward Stanworth to keep him from leaving. "Mrs. Thames, what's the matter?" Silence. "Melissa?" The static crackled, the howling increased. "Melissa, are you all right?" He half turned to the wall and slapped a finger at the receiver's rocker, once, twice, not ridding the line of its disturbance until, suddenly, he was listening to the dial tone. He stared, then rang off sharply and headed for the study.

  "Joshua, what's—"

  "Come on, Lloyd, I need your help. There's something the matter with Mrs. Thames. I need you to get me out there."

  Stanworth followed slowly. "From what I heard it's only a bad connection, Josh."

  Josh waited at the front door, holding it open, and beckoning impatiently while he squinted at the street. "Where the hell's your car? Jesus, Lloyd, did you walk over?"

  "No, it's at the corner. I—"

  Josh grabbed his arm and pulled him down the steps to the walk. He cursed at the man's reluctance, cursed at the heat that had his shirt plastered to his back and chest before they reached the curb. If Lloyd had balked more forcefully, if he'd demanded an explanation, Josh knew he would only be able to give him stutterings and vague sensations; as it was, however, he was able to strong-arm the man behind the wheel and slip into the Jaguar's passenger seat without having to do much more than scowl.

  "Joshua, really," Stanworth said, one last attempt to make him see reason. "You know her as well as I do. One little—"

  "Damnit, Lloyd, will you please drive this goddamned thing?"

  Stanworth gave him one look of exasperation before pulling away; and Josh punched at his leg, listening to the old woman's voice like a worn tape in his mind.

  And then he remembered how afraid she had been.

  Chapter 19

  Despite the size of the automobile and Stanworth's insistence on keeping well within the speed limit, the wind buffeted the vehicle unmercifully, swerving it jarringly from side to side in its lane. Josh gritted his teeth against the assault, swearing his impatience silently as the Jaguar took the two blocks to Park Street and made its turn. The street's namesake was on the right, the trees above the fencing lashing at the air while a number of Saturday strollers huddled at the ineffectual protection of the gates as though they were being whipped.

  Another right turn and they were on Williamston Pike, caught now behind a station wagon that drifted over the center white line whenever the wind shattered down from the leaves.

  "I don't believe it," Josh muttered, biting at the words and flinging them to one side. He tried to find a way around the wagon, but the verge was too narrow, the traffic coming in the opposite direction timed just wrong. Stanworth, he noted with increasing frustration, was acting as though they were in no hurry at all, his hands just so on the steering wheel, his lips
pursed in a quiet, tuneless whistling.

  "For god's sake, Lloyd!"

  "Relax, relax, we're almost there."

  Three quarters of a mile past the reconstructed Toal mansion they turned into a drive that began between two ten-foot concrete posts topped by rearing stone lions. Josh leaned forward, trying to see through the debris that rained across the windshield, his hands hard on his knees when the white-and-brown of the Tudor finally split through the trees. He didn't wait for Stanworth to set the handbrake; as soon as the car slowed almost to a halt he was out the door and racing up the flagstone walk to the porch. The steps were taken two at a time. He faltered only for a stride before lunging through the open front door.

  "Melissa!"

  Leaves scuttled in behind him, joining a swirling pile that bunched against the foot of the staircase. The wind took to the ceiling and rattled chandeliers, dropped dust from rafters in a grey-white shower. Lampshades trembled, skirted beds rippled, a magazine left in the master bathroom flapped its pages weakly as he raced in and out with only a glance at the empty tub.

  As he took the stairs down again, one hand burning along the banister to keep him from falling, he shouted to Lloyd in the doorway to get to a phone and call the police. Then he was around the newel post and into the corridor that took him to the back.

  The kitchen was empty, utensils on their wall hooks swaying and clanking; the library door was closed, deathly silence inside. He was on the back porch, hands on his hips while he tried for easy breathing and stared over the immaculate back lawn to the maid's cottage in the rear. There was no phone in the small building, but he ran to it anyway, thinking she might have gone there for protection; he didn't dare ask himself against what.

  Halfway back he slowed to a walk, realizing the wind had died and the heat had returned. He kicked at a tangle of twigs blown from the trees and punched a fist into a palm, kicked the back door open, and punched at the wall as he hurried back to Stanworth.