Night Relics

by James P. Blaylock

  He found a can of lamp oil, and for one wild moment he considered setting the house on fire, pouring the oil over the wooden floor and setting it aflame. That would put an end to it forever—the ruins of their marriage, the irony of his building her this house in its idyllic setting, a place where they would make each other happy forever. He laughed out loud, the laughter nearly doubling him over.

  Then he saw the key, hanging on a nail inside a cupboard door. He plucked his watch out of his pocket—just past nine o’clock. She’d still be there. He forgot about the lamp oil and methodically checked to see that the windows were not only shut but locked. The thought of bringing his rifle occurred to him, but instantly he knew he wouldn’t need it. That wasn’t the way it would happen….

  An image sprang into his mind: a door blowing open, swirling leaves, the man rising before him on the white sheets, his face welling blood. He looked about him at the dark furniture, at the dancing shadows on the windows. The wind howled, rattling the front door, moaning through the eaves. Lurching forward, he threw the bolt to lock the front door, then turned to go out the back again, into the night, locking that door, too, and pocketing the key. The boy was gone, the little bastard, for good and all. The house was ridded of his presence, of Lewis’s presence. That was the beginning of putting things right.

  Lewis’s face appeared before him again like a ghostly projection against the trees, drawing him along the trail, into the darkness of the woods.

  27

  POMEROY SWUNG THE CAR INTO THE LOOP FOR THE THIRD time—out Portola to Alicia Parkway, hooking up onto the San Diego Freeway south, then off at El Toro and all the way up to Cook’s Corner, where he turned up into Live Oak Canyon, drifting past the mouth of Trabuco Oaks and up the hill again. Sometimes he did his best thinking when he drove. He wanted to be doing something, but he didn’t know what, besides drive, waiting for instructions. Something would suggest itself if he was open to it—the stars, the wind, the pattern of headlights coming toward him on the highway.

  Something in the wind was lonesome and empty tonight, and the quiet interior of the car was a barrier against it—that loneliness, and although it wasn’t something you wanted to think about, aimless movement was better than no movement at all. Tomorrow morning Klein would get the letter and cassette in the mail, but Pomeroy had no patience with tomorrow. Today had been too curious, too full of suggestion for him to let it end early. The night still held promise.

  Klein had reacted hard to the mention of the woman in the black dress, clearly lying about her being related to the damned maid. Hell, the maid was a Mexican, and this woman was as white as snow, literally. There was something here to take advantage of, but he didn’t know what.

  On impulse he pulled into the parking lot of a Ralph’s grocery store. An idea had come to him—something so evident that he was astonished it had only now occurred to him. He got out of the car, holding his hair flat with both hands as he jogged to the double doors, which swung aside to let him in. In the produce section stood a wooden cart covered with potted plants and surrounded by bouquets of flowers.

  He didn’t want anything cheap, like one of the bundles of daisies and fern leaves. The roses were sorry-looking, which was too bad, since roses had romantic connotations. Finally he settled on a mixed bouquet, mostly purple and yellow with a lot of iris and marigolds, already arranged in an attractive glass vase.

  The checker smiled at him, obviously aware that the flowers were for someone special. He smiled back after counting the change, then plucked a violet-dyed carnation out of the bouquet and handed it to her. “A pretty lady like you is one of God’s little flowers,” he said, winking broadly, and strode out smiling and self-satisfied. She’d remember him for that—the gallant stranger who thought enough of another stranger to show her an act of kindness. What he had said sounded like poetry to him. It had just come to him—an inspiration. Maybe later this evening he would tell Beth about it, playing it down a little bit so he didn’t sound conceited. Or maybe it would be better just to say it to her, as if he’d just then made it up. That was a side of him she didn’t know about, a sensitivity that would be attractive to her, she being a woman and all.

  Twenty minutes later he passed O’Neill Park, which was dark and deserted. The post office slanted past on the left, and he could see the sign for the steak house ahead and the little cracker-box general store beyond that. He slowed down, making up his mind finally and forever.

  It would be stupidly dangerous going back up to Beth’s tonight and just hanging around, waiting. She might expect that, be listening for it. If she caught him outright it might mean the end of their relationship. She wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. And if she brought the police in, the whole deal with Klein would be in jeopardy.

  The flowers, though, would be his ticket. That had been the idea that had struck him on the highway, right before stopping at Ralph’s. What he had to do, obviously, was knock on her door, not as a stranger but as a friend bearing a thoughtful gift. There was no law against that. He would explain that he happened to be in the area, and that he was still interested in hearing about the place owned by her boyfriend. That was good—his using the word boyfriend. He wasn’t any kind of threat that way. The flowers weren’t meant as some sort of romantic ploy; they were a gift from one seeker after beauty to another. If he could merely talk to her, she would see what it was he felt, what he was willing to sacrifice for her.

  He pulled off to the side of the road a block below her house and cut the engine. Very neatly, in his best hand, he wrote “From an admirer” on the little square card that thrust up out of the bouquet on a plastic prong. Immediately he regretted it, thinking that probably there was something better, something that implied more of the deep feelings he had for her. But it was too late, and he climbed out of the car, walking up the road and carrying the vase full of flowers, trying to shield them from the wind. Her son would be already in bed. The two of them could have all the privacy they needed. Still, he looked behind him down the street, relieved that as usual it was empty.

  He realized he was nervous, that it had been years since he’d come calling on a woman like this—making love to her, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Perhaps a little bit of nervousness on his part would appeal to her—a woman liked a man who was shy, a little unsure of himself. But his hands were shaking, and that wouldn’t do. It looked too much like fear. And he had to have something in his mind to say—something quick and good. What? The thing about the flowers? What he had said to the checker at Ralph’s? He tried to get the sentence right in his mind, to be able to say it in a way that sounded spontaneous.

  He decided that it would be good to check things out first, have a look around, see what lights were on, what she was doing….

  In a moment of uncertainty he loped across the lawn and into the shadows along the driveway. His heart pounded, and he broke out into a cold sweat, like a teenager asking a girl out for the first time. Part of his mind warned him that he was risking it all again, that he had to control himself, that there was a right and natural way to do this. But he took a couple of steps down the driveway anyway, then, despite the danger, he stepped out onto the moonlit gravel to see whether the light was on again in her bedroom. It wasn’t. The house looked dark, as if she weren’t home. But her car was there in the drive; she had to be home.

  He hurried down toward the backyard, keeping to the shadows, until he could see past the corner of the house. Moonlight bathed the backyard, and in order to stay in the shadows he was forced along the wall of the garage toward the back fence and the shelter of the big avocado tree. Somehow his certainty that she would appreciate a late-night caller had abandoned him. How late was it, anyway? He looked at his watch—nearly ten.

  Then he saw that there was a light on, after all—in the kitchen. She was up and about still, probably doing domestic chores. He angled up along Klein’s fence, thinking that maybe he could see her through the kitchen window, just get a
glimpse of her…. He knew right then that there was no way he could deliver the flowers himself. That was presuming too much this late at night. He would leave them for her—a bit of romantic mystery.

  There she was, moving in front of the window, working at the sink. The window was elevated above the narrow side yard, and the angle made for a bad view. She evidently hadn’t changed into her night clothes yet. If only he could get up onto the fence… It was possible, but he’d be too damned visible in the moonlight. She’d see him, and that would be it. What was she wearing? He didn’t recognize her blouse, but it clearly was too masculine for her. And the colors were all wrong. He shook his head. That was something he could share with her—his knowledge of colors vis-à-vis one’s astrological sign and basic physicality.

  She moved away, out of the window, and he stood for several minutes holding the flowers and staring at the kitchen cabinetry above the stove, waiting for her to return and worried that by waiting he would miss something going on in some other part of the house. She might even have gone into her bedroom…. He hurried out of the side yard, pressing himself along the wall of the house, ducking under the curtained service porch windows and running quickly through the ring of porchlight. He stopped, in the shadows again, his mind flying at the sight of the back door. He set the vase down and got down onto his hands and knees, crawling across the grass to the porch, up the concrete steps. With a trembling hand he reached up and tried the knob.

  The door was locked. He pushed on it a little to see if it would give, careful to make no noise, but it was firm now, no play at all. A wave of relief swept through him, the knowledge that the lock had prevented something from happening that shouldn’t happen, something that was dangerous, that wasn’t at all what he wanted to happen. He started to picture it in his mind while he crawled backward into the shadows again: Beth coming out of the bedroom carrying her night things, heading, probably, for the bathroom, surprised to see him, but pleased….

  Then all at once he realized that he hadn’t covered his hands when he tried the door. Fingerprints! Hell! Crouching in the shadow of a pair of bushes, he fought to control his sudden panic. The worst damned mistake! Jesus, he had to watch it! Another slip like that…

  He decided to take the chance of wiping the knob clean, but just then the light came on in Beth’s bedroom, and he stood up carefully, pressing his lips together, suddenly light-headed. He must see her tonight. He’d spent all this time, taken risks! He picked up the vase and tiptoed across to the back porch again, setting it down at the corner of the landing. It was fairly well sheltered from the wind. She’d find them in the morning, and if she was as bright as he knew she was, she’d put two and two together. Maybe it would be the perfect icebreaker after all.

  He would chance one look through the window. Nothing risky. With blinds like that there was almost always a place to see through; he knew that from experience. This time he’d be careful. No more surprises. He started out, moving in a crouch, the wind blowing his hair back. The bedroom light blinked out. Damn it! He bit his lip in frustration. Momentarily another light blinked on—the bathroom? Could he reach the bathroom window? It would mean revealing himself in the driveway, but he was willing to risk that. He looked around for something to stand on, then remembered the couple of broken-down redwood chairs beneath the avocado, and set out across the yard after one.

  At that moment a light came on in Klein’s yard, and then just as quickly went off.

  He scrambled into the shadows behind a low-hanging limb. Damn Klein! If the bastard was out snooping around again and screwed this up … The flowers! Christ, he’d find the damned flowers and wreck everything!

  He listened, watching the fence hard. There was enough moonlight so that he’d easily see someone moving beyond it. Was there movement? The sound of voices? He was suddenly certain that whatever Klein was up to had nothing to do with him, that this had to do with what he’d seen that afternoon—the hippie woman in the black dress. He eased out of his hiding place, scuttling along the fence to the side yard again, where he could get a better view of Klein’s. Carefully, very carefully, he stood up, peering over the top of the redwood slats.

  Klein stood near the pool, his hands grasping the wrought-iron fence, looking out onto the windblown hillsides. Beyond him the hills were alive with moving shadows. He stepped toward the gate, unlatching it and swinging it open just as the woman in the black dress appeared, obviously having made her way down along the trail from the ridge. She hesitated momentarily—perhaps the two of them were speaking—and then she followed him down the concrete path toward the darkened poolhouse. Together they went in, closing the door behind them.

  Pomeroy licked his lips, thinking for a moment. Then he turned around and ran, moving as quietly as he could, straight past the bedroom and bathroom windows, both of which were dark now. There was a light on in the kitchen again, but it didn’t attract him. Another brilliant idea had come to him, and he needed a telephone, right now.

  28

  HE STRODE UP TOWARD THE RIDGE ALONG THE WEED-EDGED track of sand and rock, sweating despite the wind that swept down off the ridges and filled the night with a rush of sound that had an almost physical presence, like the shifting of rocks deep in the earth. The forest canopy danced against the moonlit sky, and the trail was littered with the brittle, broken-off limbs of alders and sycamores.

  Soon he climbed above the trees. The chaparral on the hillside was a jittering sea of dry vegetation glowing silver in the moonlight. He saw the canyon stretching away behind and below him, swatches of it dark with trees, the road a dusty ivory. His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, and his shoes bit into his feet. The trail slanted downhill, and he broke into a run, slipping on the loose dirt and scree, falling backward and catching himself on the palms of his hands, barely feeling the rocks rasping against his flesh. He scrambled to his feet and went on, running again, dark within himself, his mind open to the night and the wind like a derelict, roofless house.

  The village of Trabuco Oaks lay below the ridge, a half dozen lamplit houses clustered near the general store. A narrow dirt lane wound between them, turning into the carriage drive that led to the gates of the Parker ranch. The ranch house itself was dark, and the sight of it unlit filled him with suspicion. Was the old lady even home, or was she away in Los Angeles on one of her outings? The bunkhouse sat at the edge of the orchard, a short distance behind the house. It was a rough structure of unpainted pine boards, with long eaves overhanging a porch. A light shone through the side window—the flickering glow of candles.

  His bones felt dry and brittle, like sticks, and dry leaves swirled around his feet as he hunched forward, half running and half sliding down the slope. It was as he had feared. All of it true. By Christ, it would all come to an end now! He looked at his hands. The moonlight made his flesh look ghostly white, and for one vague moment he wondered why his hands were empty. He ought to be holding something. Whatever it was he could almost feel it there, pressing into his palms. He looked around, possessed with the dreamlike feeling that he had been there before, stumbling down this rocky slope toward some awful destiny. In his mind he could see the shadow of that destiny—a man’s profile against a candle-lit wall, a scream in the darkness….

  The moon and wind seemed to make the nighttime flicker, and he saw things in a fluttery half-light. Leaves jerked past and the landscape wavered in a staccato dance. He found himself at the edge of the garden, his feet half-sunk in the newly tilled soil. He heard a horse whinny and fought against dizziness as he crept past an irrigation stand-pipe half-full of moonlit water. He leaned against the rough wooden wall of the bunkhouse. There was the sound of a woman’s voice within, low, almost a whisper, yet audible above the wind. He strained to hear what she said, but heard a man’s laughter instead.

  Stealthily, he crept to the window and peered into the bunkhouse through a narrow gap in the curtain. There were three beds, two of them empty. The floor was strewn with clothes.
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br />   Esther lay on the center bed, partly covered with a sheet, her hair pulled back in a red ribbon. Lewis kneeled on the wooden floor, leaning over her, his hand under the sheet, his lips on her neck. She shifted on the bed, moving one of her legs so that her foot touched the floor. Her hand played across the back of his head. He heard their sighs and their breathing, the two of them moving in the lamplight as the wind blew in a perfect frenzy now, hammering against the sides of the bunkhouse, slamming at the bolted door. She bent at the waist, pulling herself toward him, her hand snaking around his shoulders.

  He flung himself away from the wall of the bunkhouse, striding toward the ridge, screaming at the wind that blew into his face. A shovel stood tilted against a leafless fruit tree, its blade caked with dirt. He closed his hand around the wooden handle, feeling the familiar, weather-raised grain against his palm. Hefting it with both hands, he turned slowly toward the bunkhouse again, hearing their voices in his mind, stepping up and across the wooden porch, his feet echoing on the floorboards, and raised the shovel over his head, driving it against the wooden door with all his strength as the wind shrieked behind him, filling him with rage and desperation.

  29

  THE PHONE WOKE LORNA FROM A DEAD SLEEP. SHE SAT up in bed, still only half-awake, thinking it was the alarm clock and that Lance had set it for some reason. It was on his side, so she reached across to shake him and found the bed empty. It rang a second time and she remembered: he was asleep on the couch. The telephone was ringing. She fumbled it out of the cradle and said hello.

  “Hello, Lorna?” a voice said. She recognized it—him again. Instantly she was awake.