Night Songs

by Charles L. Grant

  Garve looked astonished. "You talking about the weird that's come over this town?"

  "Weird?" Peg said.

  "That's what Annalee calls it."

  "Annalee, huh?" Colin said, wide-eyed and innocent.

  "Yes," Garve said. He reached for a pile of message slips and waved them briefly at the phone. "She says Doc's been working her tail off all afternoon. A million people coming in with complaints that don't exist, I got a million calls here from folks who've decided to go away for the weekend and would I keep an eye on the house. El's at the ferry now, as a matter of fact. The second fender-bender this afternoon. Lord, if they had water wings, they'd stick 'em on their bumpers and try to drive across, the jerks. Sterling's probably making a fortune." He glanced up at the round clock fixed over the door. "Four now. If this keeps up, we'll be the only ones left by sunset."

  "The storm," Colin suggested. "You said there might be one of those Carolina somethings-"

  "Screamers."

  "Yeah. That could be it. And Gran, and… well, I guess a night on the town is just what they need."

  "Sure," Garve grumbled as the telephone rang. He listened for a moment, looked heavenward for mercy, and muttered a few words Peg didn't hear. Then he dropped the receiver and spread his palms in the air. "I was waiting for it."

  "What?" she asked.

  "Reverend Otter. That goddamned Doberman's been keeping him from his beauty nap. Jesus, if I've told Hattie once, I've told her a hundred times to keep that fool animal inside. God!"

  Peg laughed, more from abrupt relief than from thinking the situation comic; as long as these two had felt what Garve had called the 'weird,' then it really was possible she'd overreacted to Cameron's visit. She nodded then when Colin reminded her of the promise of a ride, glad for the chance to be alone with him for a time. When they reached the door the phone rang, and Tabor swore. When they reached the sidewalk, a mud-spattered jeep braked loudly at the curb. Alex Fox was driving and Matt was huddled in the seat beside him.

  As soon as Peg saw the dazed look on her son's face, her throat went dry and her skin turned cold. She rushed to his side and gathered him silently into her arms, looking to Fox as he climbed from his seat.

  "Lilla," the red-haired man said. "She come out of the woods and scared the kids half to death."

  She stroked the boy's cold cheeks, his rigid shoulders, brushed his dark hair away from his eyes. "Darling, are you all right?"

  "She didn't touch him, I don't think," Fox said, standing at the curb as Garve came from the office. "I chased her off," he said to the chief, "but Jesus, Garve, God knows what she might've done. Damn, she's crazy!"

  Colin stood beside her. "Matt, you okay?"

  The boy nodded quickly several times.

  "Did she say anything?"

  He nodded again.

  Peg cupped his chin with a palm and turned his head toward her. "What, darlin'? What did she say?"

  "Colin," the boy whispered. "I'm here, pal."

  "No. She said 'Colin.' "

  "Anything else?" Garve asked from over her shoulder. "No."

  Peg eased him from the jeep, a protective arm hard around his shoulders. "I'm going to take him home," she said tightly. "Then I want to talk to Lilla."

  "I'll go with you," Colin said.

  "Don't bother," she told him, and led Matt around the corner as she whispered to him gently, telling him it was all right and nobody was hurt and Lilla still feels bad about Gran and something like that sometimes makes people do strange things.

  Matt pulled away from her. Slowly, not abruptly. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the sidewalk, the curb, the sidewalk again. A pebble got in his way, and he kicked it aside. She looked back only once, faltering when she saw Colin storming around the corner of the hedge, heading for the Run. But damn it, what did he expect her to think? Does Lilla ask for help from someone who's known her all her life? Does she ask for Peg, who had held her when her parents died, and fought with Gran to let her go to college, and was more than a friend, practically a surrogate mother? No, of course not. She frightens Peg's only son to death-God knows why she picked on him of all people-and then she asks for Colin. Colin Ross the artist. Colin Ross the man she's only known for five years. Not Peg. Colin.

  A year ago she had seen them on the beach, sitting there, watching the waves, Lilla talking, Colin listening, Lilla suddenly turning to kiss him on the cheek for whatever response he'd given. He'd laughed. She'd kissed him again, was on her feet and running. Peg, as with the first time she'd seen them, hadn't the nerve to confront him for an explanation. It was, of course, all very innocent. Lilla was only a child (seventeen, Peg, and hardly a child), and everyone knew she had a crush on the artist.

  But Colin never said a word, and Lilla never said a word, and of course there was nothing to it, and she'd felt cheap for her inadvertent spying, and now here it was again and… she blinked once, slowly, and almost exclaimed aloud: My God, Peg Fletcher, you're actually jealous. You're so frightened for Matt you've made yourself jealous.

  Good God, a hell of a thing.

  "Mom, what's for supper?"

  "Crow, my darlin'," she said wryly. Good Lord, jealous; I haven't felt that in years.

  He grimaced and stuck out his tongue. "That's rotten."

  "Yes," she said, impulsively hugging him. "Tell me all about it."

  She followed his gaze as he looked at the sky. The storm clouds-white slashed with black and reaching for the blue-had drained off all the haze. And over the mainland the slowly-sinking sun glided broad golden beams to the tops of the trees. It was so perfect it was unnatural, and she wasn't surprised when Matt told her, "I don't like this day, Mom. It doesn't feel right, y'know?"

  "Yes," she said quietly, "I know exactly what you mean."

  At their front door he looked fearfully over his shoulder.

  "It's all right," she assured him. "Lilla's not there." He frowned, then nodded in silent contradiction. Peg closed the door behind them, and made sure it was locked.

  ***

  Frankie crouched behind a wall of red-thorned shrubs and scratched at a pimple breaking on his cheek. He frowned. He stared at the back of the boarding house and wondered if Mayfair was working in the kitchen, or sitting in the front room, or sitting on the porch talking to herself. The house was brown and three stories high, bay windows and additions everywhere you looked. There were dim lights here and there, and dazzling reflections from the sun lowering to the treetops. There were no cars in the driveway, but that didn't mean a thing; Mayfair didn't drive. And he figured there wasn't a car big enough to hold her.

  If she were in the kitchen, he was dead, simple as that.

  The birdbath was halfway between him and the back porch, and nothing but dead grass and weeds to hide him if she saw him.

  Maybe, he thought, it would be a good idea to wait for dark. But if he waited for dark, Cart and Denise would be holed up in one of the empty motels, going at it on one of the beds, taking a little dope, laughing at nothing and calling him a shithead.

  No. He had to do it now. He had to take the chance that the concrete bowl would lift off the pedestal easily and wouldn't be all that heavy to carry. Hell, if he did it right, he could roll it like a hoop.

  He stared until his eyes watered, thinking about Denise and Carter and his mother and his old man, and he turned around twice when he heard the squirrels bounding through the leaves in the shadows behind him. After the second time, he realized he was losing his nerve.

  Damn, he thought, double damnation.

  Slowly, listening to his knees pop, he rose and licked at his lips. A deep breath filled his lungs. A palm rubbed his stomach in slow circles.

  Okay, Frankie, he thought, in and out like a fuckin' rocket.

  He eased around the brush.

  And a hand grabbed his shoulder.

  THREE

  Colin shoved through the Clipper Run's door almost at a run and stood panting in the narrow foyer whi
le he tried to catch his breath. There was silence, and from where he stood he could see no one at all. He was glad; it would give him a moment to try to calm down.

  The restaurant's interior was constructed on two levels. The upper, straight in from the scrolled oak door and the cubbyhole of the check room, stretched along the right side of the building. A long, dark mahogany bar curved from one end to the other- brass footrailing, padded black leather handrail, black leather stools with high backs for unsteady drinkers, a huge mirror edged in daily-polished silver behind the artfully-stacked bottles. It was separated from the dining area by three broad, carpeted steps and a waist-high railing of lemon-waxed, hand-smoothed teak.

  He moved in cautiously and grabbed the back of a stool, leaned on it heavily and brushed a hand through his hair.

  The dining room held two hundred people at irregularly placed, small round tables, each with captain's chairs, white linen, red-chimneyed candles and a slender white vase with blossoms in season. In the room's center was a grand piano Alex Fox's wife played when she wasn't waiting tables; no jukebox, no taped music.

  From the exposed-beam ceiling hung netting and intricate shark's-tooth mobiles. On the walnut-paneled walls were original oils and water colors of MacKay's clipper ships, Fulton's steamboats, whalers, Cape Cod trawlers, and a three-master in full sail at sunset flying a bold skull and crossbones.

  There were no windows. What lighting there was came from bracketed brass lanterns on the wall and on the squared rough posts that supported the ceiling. Only a few of the wicks were burning; the restaurant was dim, and filled with static shadows.

  On the far side of the bar were three doors. The last two led into the kitchen, and he could sense slow movement in there, a preparation for the dinner hour nearly upon them. The first, with a blank brass plaque in the center, led to Cameron's office. Colin stared at it, taking deep breaths, clenching and opening his hands, pulling once in a while at the bottom of his jacket.

  It hadn't taken him long for his temper to snap again-the look on Peg's face, the muttering of Fox and Tabor behind him as they speculated on Lilla's problem-his lungs had filled and his eyes had narrowed and he had stalked away from the station without saying a word. He saw Peg and Matt on the next block, but he didn't call out. There was nothing to say. Peg feared for Matt, and Lilla had a crush on him, and he was so dense he'd never suspected Peg might be a little jealous. It was dumb, but it was there, but if it hadn't been for Cameron and his cronies she never would have reacted to the situation that way.

  He took a step across the thick red carpet, and stopped again.

  It had finally struck him that the room was empty.

  He looked at his watch: It was early Friday evening, just after five, but no one was here.

  And that was all wrong.

  By now there should have been a dozen people at the bar, and a scattering of families and couples down at the tables. There should have been visitors from the mainland, groups from the island, and Cameron watching it all from the maitre d's station. A sudden thought and he turned around, there was no one in the cloakroom. And when he turned back, Cameron was standing in his doorway.

  "I kind of thought you'd show up sooner or later," the man said, not moving. A bright light from the office darkened his face.

  "It was a lousy trick, Bob, sending those men to Peg like you did."

  Cameron shook his head nervously. "It wasn't my idea, Colin." He moved into the room and pulled a cigarette from his jacket, lit it and threw the pack on the bar. "These men are big investors. They have to be sure everything's clear or they won't give Haven's End a good recommendation to their people."

  "That's not what you told Peg." He walked forward slowly, unsure now what he was going to do. "She-"

  "I know," Cameron said. "And what I said was true. They just happen to have other interests, that's all."

  He nodded. "I see."

  "No, I don't think-" He clamped his mouth shut and stared at the cigarette. There was a man in the doorway behind him. Colin squinted through the gloom and from Garve's and Peg's descriptions knew this must be the one called Theodore Vincent. But he looked bigger, and his teeth behind the pulled-back lips looked blacker than he'd imagined. Cameron started when Vincent mumbled something to him, stepped to intercept the man when he began moving around the bar. Vincent didn't look down; he moved Cameron aside with a casual brush of his hand.

  "Now listen here," Cameron protested.

  "He was," Mike Lombard said from the doorway.

  Colin looked at the new man, at the extraordinary thinness, at the pointed jaw. Lombard nodded to him in greeting; Colin felt himself nodding back.

  "Listen, Michael," Cameron began.

  "Hush, Robert," the lawyer said.

  Cameron hushed and looked away.

  Vincent stood in front of Colin, looking down, not smiling now. "You're running against Mr. Cameron in the election," he said.

  Colin backed up a step, the better to meet his gaze. He wasn't sure what was going on, what he'd said, but he could hear Cameron whispering harshly to Lombard. He glanced over, and saw the mainlander ignoring Cameron completely. Then a stiff finger jolted Colin's shoulder.

  "I said, you're the man that's running against Mr. Cameron."

  "Yes," he answered, frowning and clearing his throat.

  "I heard of you, you know. You probably didn't think so, but I heard of you."

  "That's… nice," he said.

  "Cameron here told me you're famous or something. I said I knew that. I've seen your pictures. They're okay."

  "I'm glad you like them," he said, wondering what in hell this was all about.

  "I meet lots of famous people."

  "Theodore," Lombard said, "Mr. Ross isn't interested in the celebrities you've known."

  Vincent nodded without shifting his gaze from Colin's face. "You ever gamble, Ross?"

  He shifted to one side. "Bob, what the hell is this?"

  "I said, you ever gamble?"

  "Bob!"

  The finger again, and a sharp pain that made him grab for his shoulder. His frown deepened. It would have been nice, perhaps even poetic, if he could suddenly slam an iron fist into this huge man's jaw and watch him sail back against the wall, his eyes glazed and his teeth rattling. He would land on his feet, stagger drunkenly around a bit, then slink dejectedly into the office where he would collapse unconscious on the carpet, never once knowing the power that hit him.

  It would have been nice; but Vincent was easily one hundred pounds heavier and live inches taller than he. Nice, but suicidal. And he hated the feeling of cowardice that chilled him.

  "Theodore," said Lombard softly, "the man has a right to his own opinion, isn't that correct, Mr. Ross?"

  "I would think so, but your friend obviously doesn't."

  "I think," said Vincent, "I don't like the trouble you're causing."

  "All right, Bob," he said, "I've had enough." He turned to leave, and a hand clamped on his upper arm and spun him around. His mouth opened, and his right hand listed, but he only had time to blink once before he felt a fist slam sharply into his stomach.

  Instantly, he folded his arms over his belt and dropped to his knees. The air in his lungs was gone; when he inhaled, nothing happened. There were tears in his eyes, and a spreading ache in his chest. When he inhaled, nothing happened, and the noise he made trying to breathe frightened him to gasping. He swayed, he heard voices, and when he inhaled a third time, nothing happened.

  A hand gestured feebly for help; his mouth opened wider; motes of black winked in and out of his blurring vision. He tried to focus on the pattern of the carpeting, and he couldn't. He tried to keep himself from toppling, but he fell slowly, heavily, onto his side, legs curled up, one arm beneath his head.

  Then his breath returned abruptly, and he rolled to his knees again and tried not to retch.

  A hand patted his back, another took hold of his shoulder. Someone was asking if he were all right, if he wanted
water, but all he could do was move his lips and make gagging noises like a man near drowning.

  He sagged.

  One moment every muscle in his body had been drawn tight and was quivering, the next he had to snap out a hand to keep himself from falling. His head lowered, weighted and aching, and he swallowed bile convulsively.

  "Col, for God's sake, say something!"

  He opened his mouth, and choked.

  "Goddamn, I'll get a doctor."

  Colin lifted a hand to stop him. When his vision cleared, he rocked back onto his heels and tilted his head to stare at the ceiling while his hands gripped his waist. He drew in a breath, and another, and allowed Cameron to help him to his feet. When he could see without tears, Cameron's face was gray beneath the tan. They were alone; Lombard and Vincent had left them alone.

  "Colin?"

  The light from the office turned the air sickly yellow. "Colin, please."

  "You're stupid," was all he could say before he shoved the man away and staggered to the door. He closed his eyes, one hand on the brass knob, breathed again, and was outside without Cameron responding.

  It was almost sunset. The storm clouds were dark, and they left little room between them for twilight to prepare. The blue that remained was indigo and cobalt, yet there was nothing on the breeze that heralded rain.

  The cooling air revived him. He moved stiffly to the sidewalk and winced when his belt buckle dug into his stomach. Instead of heading for Tabor, he walked straight to his home. He stumbled up to the door and almost sat on the threshold. Then he flung the door open, letting it slam against the wall.

  "Stupid," he muttered, his mouth tasting like iron.

  He closed the door behind him, didn't turn on a light.

  In the bathroom he pulled his shirt from his trousers and stared at the bruise spreading over his abdomen. A fingertip brushed over it gingerly, and he drew in a hissing breath. He shook his head, chiding himself for not going to Garve and pressing charges against the man; then he chided himself for thinking the man would be arrested. Oh, Garve would bring him in, of course, and both Lombard and Cameron would deny that anything had happened. Then later, much later, shadows would move and he had no doubt at all the next message sent wouldn't stop at a single punch.