“That’s not nice, Lucas. Larry was wounded badly.”
“According to John Webber,” he said, unrepentant, “Larry no more needs that sling than he does another pot of gold. It’s sympathy he’s after, if you ask me. Sympathy for a cripple since no one cares much for him any other way.”
“Lucas!”
He shrugged an insincere apology. He had no use for either of the Drummonds. Their ailing father had made the family fortune, then took himself abroad to find cures for his sicknesses which, it was said, were considerably more than legion. In his absence, Bartholomew was unarguably diligent in keeping the financier’s company profitable and was respected throughout the state as a worthy successor to the old man; in Lucas’s view, however, he was still nevertheless a reprobate, known as well for invading the homes of half the widows and single women within three day’s travel. His charm, of course, kept him out of trouble, but as far as Lucas was concerned, he was not much better than his more open brother.
Johanna giggled. He looked up, realized he was glowering, and forced his brow to smooth over.
“I think you’re jealous,” she teased.
“And I think you’re out of line, young woman,” he snapped.
She giggled again, and reminded him that out of line or not, she was still concerned about her uncle. Her aunt, she said, was ready to scalp him, especially after their fight the night before.
“Ah,” he said, relieved she had changed the subject, relieved too that this, at least, was a simple domestic matter, “then he’s hiding. I would too, if I were married to your aunt and she was after my scalp. A formidable woman Delia is, and you know that’s the truth.”
Her eyes lowered, but her lips quivered in a ghost of a smile. “She . . . can be intimidating, yes.”
“Intimidating, hell, she ought to be in the army. They could have used her at Seven Pines.”
The smile broke.
“Well, then,” he said explosively, startling her into looking up, “I’ll have the boys keep their eyes out. We’ll have him back, no fear, Johanna. Unless, that is, he comes crawling back on his own.”
She could not help a laugh. “Are you always so positive, Lucas?”
“As positive as I have to be,” he said wryly. “When the occasion calls for it.”
A sideways glance, and she rose, fanning herself with one hand. “Devilishly hot. Lord, I wish the weather would break.”
“More tempers will before the temperature does,” he predicted, walking with her to the door. He towered over her, but felt as though they were the same height, a sensation he was not sure he approved of, and definitely did not understand.
A hand rested on his arm, and he covered it with his own, snatched it back when he saw the twinkle in her eye.
“You will find the boy, won’t you?” she asked.
“Of course. Barrows, for all his bluster, is a good man, and Charlie’s there to keep an eye on him. Between the two of them, the lad’ll be in my hands by dark, you can be sure of it.”
“Where will he go?” she wondered aloud, stepping into the hall into the rolling voices from the front. Before he could respond, she turned and clasped his upper arm. “Lucas, he has no family now, the poor thing. Bring him to me. We’ll take care of him.”
“I’ll consider that generous offer, Jo, believe me. You’re a fine woman, a damned fine woman.”
She flushed with embarrassment, had turned to leave when, on impulse, he asked if she were free to dine with him this afternoon. The look on her face made his stomach turn over.
“I’m sorry, Lucas,” she said quietly. “I have promised to join Bartholomew at the Inn.” She brightened for a moment. “I could always decline, you know. It would be —”
“No,” he said. “It’s all right. I was just . . . well, I’ll probably not have the time anyway.”
“But Lucas, really —”
He took her arm and turned her gently but firmly around, gave her a slight push. “Get on, Jo, before he thinks you’ve stood him by. Another time, if that’s agreeable to you. When there’s less trouble, and I know we won’t be interrupted.”
She took two paces down the hall, looked back and gave him a broad wink. A second one, and a come-hither roll of her shoulder made him clear his throat and pray no one was watching.
He was still standing there five minutes later, knowing he was smiling like an idiot, and not giving a damn, and hating the thought of Bartholomew Drummond holding her hand.
He was wrong about the weather.
A dark cloud was spotted shortly before midafternoon. It climbed ominously over Pointer Hill, a boiling grey frigate whose keel churned black, spreading to obliterate what blue there was, what sun there was, splitting aside the heat with the thunder of its black prow. The wind kicked, gusted, spun more than a few parasols out of astonished hands and into the streets, flapped awnings like desperate wings, spawned dust devils in the gutters that sent horses to rearing and chased yelping dogs to cover.
The temperature dropped.
Shadows forged edges as sharp as blades. In the distance there was thunder.
Farley Newstone had just about had it with whining women and red-faced men. The poor dogs were doing this, the cursed dogs were doing that, my god you’d think the whole world was coming to an end just because some hound got it into his skull to bay at the moon.
He sat at the front desk and scribbled nonsense on the report sheets Stockton had commanded be written for each complaint. They were all the same anyway; he would copy them over later. Right now, he was peeved at not being on the streets. The wind was blowing cool, and he could feel its salvation whenever the doors opened and someone else entered with fire and brimstone in their eyes, and acid on their tongues. He wanted to be out there, reveling the coming rain, watching the dimming light, preparing himself for a quick visit to Charlotte as long as Charlie was busy keeping Don Barrows in line.
The noise in the room grew.
His collarless tunic seemed tighter than usual.
Suddenly he could stand no more. At the top of his voice he ordered them all back of the railing, take a seat, he’d be with them in a minute, thank you very much for your patience.
Then he rose, held up the ink pot to show them all it was empty, and ducked into the storeroom to his left, closed the door and leaned against it. His eyes shut momentarily. A hell of a day. First there was waking to the furnace outside, then finding blood of all things on his brand new boot. It had taken him an hour to polish it off, and even now, when he looked down, he thought he could see the stain spreading from the sole, up over his heel.
And once he had seen the crowd inside, and once Stockton had grabbed his arm and shoved him behind the high desk on the platform, he had prayed that Charlotte would be in top form tonight.
Then thunder rattled the building, and he bit down on his lower lip. Too hard. He tasted blood, and immediately began gagging.
The Inn was uncrowded, the dining rooms upstairs elegant in their simplicity. The casement windows were open to the cool breeze, and linen napkins fluttered on the square maple tables. A waiter hovered by the staircase landing, another carried a tray of wine glasses down the back stairs to the kitchen.
Johanna sat nervously, watching as Bart finished his brandy and slumped with a sigh in the high-backed chair. His pale eyes had not left her once, and though she was flattered, she could not help a constant comparison between the financier and the chief of police; Aunt Delia would be horrified, she thought, to know who had won out.
Still, it was better than being in the shop, ducking away from Crenshaw’s grasping, pinching fingers, straining smiles at the matrons who fluttered in, and fluttered out, treating her as if she were less than the straw their carriage horses ate. For a time she was able to relax, to listen to Bart’s marvelous stories of his trip abroad, how he suffered a mild affliction that forced him to temporarily wear kid gloves, and grin at the strange customs he had come across in his travels.
�
�And is one of those customs,” she said with a laugh, “not eating your lunch?” The serving girl had taken away almost a full plate, and he had chosen not to taste any of the fresh fruits or candied sweets.
“It is the custom of my stomach,” he said with a slap to his abdomen. “I seldom eat out, and my stomach knows it.”
“Then —”
“Because of you, my dear,” he said gallantly. “It has been a while since I’ve spent time with someone as delightful as you.”
“Bart, please,” she said, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard.
“But it’s true!” he protested gaily. “Good Lord, Johanna, I’ve thought of you daily since leaving this place.”
“You didn’t write,” she told him.
He was abashed, and looked away. “I know only figures, my dear. Letters are quite beyond me.”
“A note, then.”
A sideways glance. “You’re teasing.”
She covered a grin with her hand. “A little.”
“And flirting?”
Her eyes widened. “Sir, you presume!”
“Indeed I do, Johanna. It is how I manage to keep the fortune going despite my brother’s expenses.”
She sobered, and scolded him for his constant carping at Larry, reminding him of the man’s sacrifices and in the same tone accusing him of possibly using the trip as an excuse not to join the fighting. A faint line creased his brow, and he would have retorted angrily, she was sure, but a sudden peal of thunder made the glasses sing. He jumped, almost stood, and a sheen of perspiration broke across his brow.
“Bart, are you all right?”
He took a deep swallow of water, mopped his brow with his linen, and finally nodded. “Startled me, that’s all.”
She didn’t believe him, and seeing himself exposed, he merely shrugged and asked the waiter for an accounting. When the sum was. achieved and the money paid, he rose and took her elbow, guided her down the stairs and out the door.
“May I escort you back to the shop?” he asked, though he clearly did not mean it.
“No, Bart,” she said. “Just . . .”
He watched her closely. “Is it your uncle?” And shook his head when she shook hers. “Ah.” He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked his heels. “The Drummonds, am I correct? Ardent swains once, now mysteriously cool and distant. You wish to know what has happened.”
“I am curious,” she admitted.
“It is best you don’t know,” he said after a long moment. “I would only repeat that my affection for you has not dimmed, and it won’t be long before I’m . . . before I’m my old self again.”
He leaned over and kissed her then, just as Lucas came round the corner.
Chapter 6
The room on the second story was small. Once used for sewing, all the carpetbags and material chests had been removed to make room for a narrow wardrobe and a plain brass bed. The only window was tall and narrow, scarcely more than a slit in the blank white wall, framed by white curtains now gone yellow and brown with dust and age. Beside it was a rocking chair, its back covered by a faded patch-quilt that dangled limply to the floor.
A man sat there, staring blindly into the backyard. His alarmingly thin legs were buried beneath a lumpy mound of worn blankets without color; his frail arms, more sticks than limbs, poked out of a brown jacket much too small for his size. He wore slippers whose soles were in dire need of a cobbler, a sweater so thin it seemed part of his soiled shirt.
He coughed violently, and the chair rocked. Tears of pain filled his rheumy eyes, slid down harshly creased cheeks, dropped from a jaw too sharp at the chin. He sighed, and coughed again, strands of dirty white hair falling over his brow.
He spat phlegm into an already darkened handkerchief, and leaned back to gulp for air.
A glass of tepid water sat on a rickety table beside the bed. It was too far to reach; it had been years since he had walked.
As the afternoon light slipped away ahead of the racing cloud, his fingers began to jump. One. Another. As if trying to leave the parchment hands and reach for the bell cord that hung just out of his reach. The chair rocked in sympathetic time to his frustration; the rockers squeaked over the carpet, in time to the meaningless cries that slipped between bloodless lips. And when the door finally opened on the heels of thunder, he froze and turned his head; and for a moment his frailty was gone, the strength returned to his blue eyes, the power to his voice, the authority to a bearing long since vanished with time.
“Why are you here?” Thin, high, creaking with his chair.
“1 just wanted to see if you were all right, Father. 1 worry about you, you know.”
“If you were worried, you wouldn’t have left me.” A spasm bent him over, saliva dribbled down his chin. He gasped, and clutched at his chest, his lungs begging for air. “You wouldn’t have left, you sonofabitch.”
“A bad way to talk about a loving son, Father.”
The shadows had lowered draperies over the doorway; he could not see the man’s face, but he could hear the scorn in his voice.
“You’re no son of mine.”
“Mother would disapprove.”
“Your mother is dead, and I thank God for it.”
A laugh, low and somber. “If God is listening, he’s decided against you.”
The old man tried to rise, but his legs failed him, his arms collapsed, and he could not lift a finger when hands came around the sides and pinned his shoulders to the chair.
“Sit still, Father, sit still. I’m only here to tell you that you will be alone this evening. I do not think my dear brother and I will be around until after midnight.”
The old man coughed, and choked.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
The old man nodded.
The glass was handed to him, carefully, solicitously, and a hand held a blanket corner under his chin to catch the dripping.
Thunder, and the storm clouds forced the trees to recoil.
The glass returned to the table, the blanket was smoothed on the old man’s lap, the chair turned just so in order that he may view the storm more fully.
He did not turn around when he heard the door open, and he did not make a sound when he heard the curses fill the hall. He did not care. His sons were a continual disappointment to him, as was their mother before she passed on. And he was not so far gone that he didn’t know they were plotting against him. Together, or as one, it didn’t matter; they were against him.
They would learn, however; they would learn that Claude Drummond was not a man to be crossed.
Even as he sat here, alone, forgotten, their downfalls were plotted, were already set in motion.
Lightning filled the window.
Claude Drummond smiled.
Lucas made an about-face so abrupt he almost tripped over his own feet. It was damned embarrassing, coming on Jo and Drummond like that. But he supposed he should have known better. He had the position, and he had the respect, but the one thing he didn’t have was the lure of good money.
He marched up the street, more angry at himself than at Johanna, and turned into the stationhouse. There were still quite a few people sitting on the curved benches ranged along the walls, waiting on Constable Newstone to listen to their complaints. They greeted him with solemn or sullen nods, and he counted himself lucky he was able to get through the railing gate before someone took his arm. Newstone was just coming out of the storeroom with an ink pot in his hand when Lucas stepped onto the low platform and looked down at the desk.
“Trouble, Chief?” the policeman asked, his voice clearly daring him to offer criticism or comment.
“Nope,” he said, liking the sound of the title and wondering if he would ever get used to hearing it attached to his name. “Have you gotten word from Charlie?”
“Not a thing. If I was him, I’d find a cave and fast before I drowned.”
He nodded absently, flipped through the papers and scratched the
side of his neck. “You hear that wolf last night, Farley?”
“Nosir, I didn’t.”
“You see what happened to George Tripper and MacFarland?”
“Nosir, I didn’t.”
“You hear anything about Jerad Pendleton, where he might be?” He held up a hand to forestall the chorus. “If you do, get to me right away, you understand?”
“You got it, Chief.”
He straightened, and stared at Newstone, at the pockmarked face and the vain attempt the sandy mustache made to cover some of the damage. He also stared at the sneering in the man’s eyes, at the contempt in his stance, and with a glance to the waiting people he leaned closer and crooked a finger.
Newstone, puzzled, stepped around to his chair, pushed it aside and looked down at the papers in the chief’s hand.
“Farley, it’s getting late. I’m on my way over to the Drummond’s to find out about Jerad.”
“What the hell for?” Newstone blurted without thinking. “Jesus, Lucas, he’s only a drunk.”
“I’m going over to the Drummonds,” he repeated without raising his voice, “and if you so much as think about leaving here and going over to see Charlotte, I will personally take both your ears off and shove them down your goddamned throat.”
He smiled at the choking that overcame the smaller man, slapped him on the back, and waved for the next complainant. As he walked out the door again he knew he shouldn’t have done it, knew his mood had soured because of what he’d seen at the Inn.
But it felt good. Damned good. And it helped for a moment to drive back the concern over George Tripper’s boy, and the animal that had hunted in the valley the night before.
Now if he could only find Jerad and drag him back to his house safe and sound, it would at least give him something to be proud of on this already miserable first day on the job.
Ten minutes later he waited patiently on the Drummond house stoop. He had already knocked twice, was now half-turned to survey the street with faint amusement. The number of pedestrians seemed to have doubled in the past half-hour, all of them seemingly eager to taste the welcome cool air; the children fresh from their schooling played with autumn vigor, and the horses strained against their traces in their haste to find shelter from the coming storm in their stalls.
The Universe of Horror Volume 2: The Dark Cry of the Moon (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 4
