He stared at the buttons, at the cradle, and stiffened as a surge of winter cold replaced all his blood. His teeth began to chatter. His hands began to tremble, first slowly, then violently, and he dropped onto the couch and closed his eyes until the delayed reaction had passed. The dial tone burred loudly. The molded plastic was ice in his palm. He shook his head once and hard, then tried to punch Tabor's number.
It took him four times before he finally got it right.
The line was busy, and he stared at the window while he counted to fifteen.
***
The telephone rang and Peg grabbed for it, juggled the receiver clumsily, laughed softly and self-consciously when she heart Matt giggling from his place by the door. She listened, then, and sighed with a martyred lift of her eyebrows. No, she told Hattie Mills, Chief Tabor wasn't here, but she really didn't think Reverend Otter was trying to kill her poor dog. She nodded. She grabbed the coiled cord in her right hand and squeezed it as tightly as she could. She nodded. She suggested that Hattie bring the dog inside the library where it wouldn't bother the minister, and regretted the mistake when she spent the next five minutes taking the brunt of a brusque lecture on civil liberties and the causes of the American, the French, and a dozen other revolutions whose purposes were to permit her to keep her aging dog where she damn well pleased. That in turn led to a survey of precedents for such actions leading all the way back to Saturn's revolt against the Titans. Peg agreed several times, making faces at Matt, and when she finally hung up she looked at the clock, then at her son who was closing the door against the wind.
***
The telephone rang, and Annalee answered it without much enthusiasm, her voice slipping automatically into a professionally concerned tone, nodding once, doodling a scaffold and hangman on a prescription pad, finally interrupting with a polite clearing of her throat to tell Rose Adams that she really didn't think Doctor Montgomery had the time to search for her son, but if she really felt it was affecting her health she should bundle herself up and walk on over. That tactical error cost her another few minutes listening to a lecture on the inalienable rights of a patient who was half crippled at best and couldn't see why the good doctor couldn't make house calls to a place less than three blocks away, for crying out loud. When she finally hung up she glanced at her watch, looked toward the empty examination room, dutifully logged the call, and closed her eyes to daydream about the coming night and the plans she had for Garve.
***
The phone rang in the restaurant, and nobody answered.
***
The phone rang in Cameron's living room, but it only rang twice. By the time Colin reached it from his place at the front door, there was no one on the line. He shook the receiver and threw it at the cradle, mouthed a half dozen curses when it bounced off to the floor. He was tempted to leave it there and teach it a lesson, but instead picked it up and slammed it back into place. When it didn't ring again, he wished he were home so he could find something to throw.
He had tried three more times to raise the chiefs office, the line infuriatingly engaged at each attempt. Unable to stop thinking about Lombard lying alone out there on the road, injured, perhaps fatally, he decided to wait until he could find out more about the accident. And what Frankie had to do with Theo Vincent's death.
He also couldn't shake the feeling that he had missed something important at Gran's shack. He didn't know why the idea had struck him, but once taken hold he couldn't pry it loose. For a moment he was convinced that bundle was indeed Gran's shroud and weight, that Lilla in her grief had retrieved her grandfather from the grave.
That, however, would have to wait until later.
He glared at the telephone, daring it to ring again, then strode to the door and had his hand on the knob when the pounding began.
A pounding so hard the knob jumped from his hand.
FOUR
"My God, there's a dead body out there!" Montgomery said as he pushed past Colin and rushed into the living room. "Right on the goddamned driveway." He snatched up the receiver and dialed, turned and took off his glasses. "Hello, Colin, what are you doing out here?"
Colin could only lift a hand and follow meekly, not wanting to admit that the diminutive physician had nearly scared him to death.
"Hell of a thing," Montgomery said with a sigh, one foot tapping impatiently as he waited for the connection. "Looks like he was run over by a truck. Did you see him?"
"I-"
"Lousy, I tell you. The island's gone lousy with corpses. The next time-hello?" He frowned. "Do I have the right number? I wanted Chief Tabor's office. Oh, hello, Peg. You working parttime for the Indian now?"
Colin hovered by the coffee table, forcing himself not to grab the receiver from the man's hand.
"Well, look, dear, I want to talk with Garve." He scowled. "Now that's a hell of a thing. I just left there, for crying out loud. Well, listen, when he gets in have him call me. I'm at Cameron's place, with Colin." He laughed suddenly, sharply. "No, he's all right. There's been an accident, though. Some-no, Colin's just fine, he wasn't involved. You have Garve call me immediately, though, okay? Or that fool Nichols should he decide to go to work. Fine," and he hung up before Colin could tell him to hold on, to let him speak to Peg.
"Hell of a thing." He wandered to the Regency sideboard in the dining room, opened the lower panel and pulled out a bottle of Black Label. He held it up for Colin's approval, found glasses and poured them each a tall drink. Then he returned, sat on the sofa and pulled at his mustache.
"Wait a minute," Colin said, gesturing toward the door. "Are you going to leave him out there?"
"He's dead, m'boy. And I really don't fancy having him in here with us."
Colin stared. "Hugh, for crying out loud-"
"You saw him, I expect," the doctor said after downing half his liquor.
Colin explained briefly, and Montgomery shook his head again.
A fisted wind rattled the window frames, and the glasses on the sideboard shuddered.
"Beautiful," Hugh muttered. "Just beautiful. You tell Bob?"
"He must still be at the restaurant. I've been trying to get a line out of here for twenty minutes."
"Oh? I didn't have any trouble. You know what killed him?"
Colin hesitated, examining his glass. "He said something about Frankie Adams."
"Bullshit."
"I know, I know." He looked to the window and rubbed his hands on his trousers. "Listen, we should at least cover him up or something."
"Suit yourself, Col, but I'm not moving."
He vacillated between yelling and strangling the doctor, then marched into the foyer and up the stairs. On the second-floor landing he found a linen closet, grabbed a dark brown sheet from a tall rainbow pile, and hurried down again. At the door he glanced at Montgomery, who only raised his glass in a silent, almost mocking toast.
The wind was still intermittent, but stronger. The fog was gone, as far as he could tell, the temperature slowly dropping as the sky boiled with grays, blacks, slashes of ugly white. After a quick look at the other houses, he trotted to Vincent's body and lay the sheet over it, secured it at the four corners with rocks he pushed over from the garden. Then he scanned the road, the houses again; he saw nothing, heard nothing, and the scene bothered him so much he virtually ran back into the house.
Montgomery was refilling his glass. "You say this man told you it was Frankie Adams?"
"That's what he said," Colin repeated as he picked up his glass and dropped into an armchair near the door. "And as long as you're here, I ought to tell you about Tess, too." The doctor squinted one eye, and Colin recounted the aborted picnic, and the reason for his being in Cameron's house in the first place. After he finished, he emptied his glass and moved to the sideboard to pour himself another. The scotch warmed him falsely, but he didn't care; Dutch courage was something he thought he needed just now.
"Hysteria, I guess," Montgomery said, after a silence filled only by
the increased howling of the wind.
"Whose?"
"Yours. Peg's. If Tess was as bad as you say she was-"
"Goddamn it, Hugh, I saw her! Matt practically went into shock, for God's sake."
"She couldn't have walked all that way from the boarding house. Even trauma wouldn't permit that, believe me. Damn," he added softly. "Tess was a bitch, but she doesn't deserve an end like that. Y'know, I wouldn't put it past Garve to try and pull her up on his own. The idiot." He sighed, took off the glasses and polished them on his sleeve. "Hell of a thing."
Colin heard the baseboard pipes begin to pop and clank as the furnace turned on, and a shattered cloud of leaves twisted past the window. "Hugh," he said, struggling for restraint, "it's bad about Tess, but I saw what I saw. Good lord, even Vincent-"
"-didn't have his innards exposed." He frowned then and rose, walked to the window and looked out at the street. "Y'know, I only came out here because Bill Efron was all hot about his wife coming down with the plague or something. The man's an old woman, you know that, don't you? The poor girl can't sneeze without him screaming for the experts to fly up from Atlanta. Soon as Lee got hold of me I drove out. She's all right, so I thought I'd drop in on Bob. Funny. I didn't see any signs of an accident."
"I told you what Vincent said," he muttered heatedly.
Montgomery turned and leaned back against the console. "Yes, and I told you it was bullshit. Little Frankie Adams against that monster? Even if there were more, I'd be inclined to doubt it very seriously."
"Maybe Cart was there, too."
Montgomery considered, and finally nodded once, a partial shrug. "Now Cart I could see, with a little help from his toadies. But there's no reason, Col. Why should they pick on this guy?" Then he peered at him closely. "Who was this man anyway? You knew him, I take it."
Again Colin found himself in the middle of an explanation, this one tinged by his distaste for the subject. The doctor didn't move from the window, sipping occasionally, grunting when Colin told him about the scene in the restaurant.
"Bob," he said finally, "hasn't the faintest idea where the high water mark is, you know. He could be in over his head and think he was still breathing. The jackass."
"You're sorry for him."
"I am. Believe it or not, I really am." He laughed silently. "I know what I sound like-he's a good boy, deep down, a good boy. But it's true, Col. He just forgets that Haven's End isn't the most important spot on earth. Big fish here would get lost in an aquarium anywhere else. From what you say, he's found that out, only too damned late."
"That doesn't change anything," Colin said coldly, looking to the telephone and hoping it would ring. Maybe, he thought, he ought to call Peg and reassure her. Maybe he ought to borrow someone's car and leave Hugh to wait for Garve. Efron; he was around and would probably lend him a car.
A look at his watch. It was just past three.
Montgomery saw the move. "Garve should have checked in by now."
"Maybe he went out to the cliffs when he couldn't get you."
"Yeah."
The room darkened slowly, as if a cloud had stalled over the roof. The shadows grew cold, and Montgomery wasted no time switching on a lamp. Then the cloud passed, but the gray light remained.
Montgomery began pacing.
Colin thought about Lilla and wondered where she was.
"Frankie Adams, huh?" Colin nodded.
Montgomery snorted and returned to the window. "Jesus," he whispered. The glass came down hard on the top of the console. "Colin."
He rose carefully. "What?"
Montgomery lifted his chin.
Colin looked outside, at the trees bending, hissing away from the wind, at a flurry of leaves tumbling down the street, at the flapping sheet on the driveway where Vincent's body used to be.
***
The tiny lamp was covered with a dusty yellow plastic shade; the single chair was yellow plastic, the bedspread thrown to the floor a crinkling, floral yellow and red. There was the damp scent of sand and salt rising from the sheets. The television was on-a western with the sound turned off, the picture flickering blue and rolling as the wind hummed through the antenna. The sliding glass door was opened just enough to let in the air, the yellow-and-red striped drapes pulled back halfway to frame the forest behind the motel.
A seashell ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, and a bottle of Wild Turkey lay empty on the thin green carpet.
Denise Adams was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back against the paneled headboard. Her hair was wet and tangled, her cheeks flushed, and hr plaid shirt was unbuttoned and pulled out of her jeans. She was grinning at Cart Naughton, who was standing naked by the dresser, his back to the mirror. He was glaring at her, hands on his hips.
"You see somethin' funny?" he demanded, knowing full well what it was she found laughable.
She giggled. Her left hand rubbed lightly along the side of her neck, lowered until it was lying against the flat of her chest. She shrugged.
"It ain't funny, Denise."
The hand slipped lower until it covered her nipple. Then her fingers parted, and her tongue moistened her lips.
"Damn it, Denise!"
She rolled her shoulders until her shirt slipped to the mattress, then her right hand unsnapped the top of her jeans.
"Listen," he said, shaking his head in sudden confusion, "I don't know," and he kicked angrily at the liquor bottle, spinning it against the glass door. It turned crazily and slipped out onto the second story's building-long balcony. "I must be tired." He attempted a sly wink. "Last night, y'know?"
"Oh, sure," she said. "Last night. Yeah."
"I mean, Jesus, I ain't Superman, y'know." He was almost whining.
"Yup, I know that."
"Aw shit, Denise, gimme a break, will ya? Christ," and he grabbed a length of his hair and yanked, hard.
A thin coil of perspiration trickled out of her hair and down along her cheek. She shivered, but made no move to stop it, to wipe it away. It felt cool in the stifling room, felt tickling as it dropped from her chin onto her breasts. She looked down, smiled absently, and rubbed the salty moisture into her skin with her palm. Slowly. Half closing her eyes.
"Now that's sick, Denise!" Naughton exploded, but he didn't move to stop her, didn't look away. He was furious-at her for being such a bitch, and at himself for not being able to show her what he could do. The* goddamned liquor; he shouldn't have tried to drink the whole bottle at once.
A bubble of nausea rose in his stomach and he swayed, turned and grabbed for the edge of the dresser, looked into the mirror and saw her sitting there, that dumb ass look on her face, touching herself like some kind of whore, staring at him from under those lashes. Teasing him. Mocking him.
"Denise," he said, dangerously calm.
The wind changed direction and something thumped on the balcony.
"Friggin' place is fallin' apart," he grumbled.
She ignored him. She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, one hand holding the top of the headboard, and pulled her jeans down over her hips. A slow fall onto the pillows, and she rolled onto her back, kicking her legs until the jeans flew at Cart's chest. He snared them and flung them aside.
She rose to her knees and one by one fanned her fingers over her abdomen, pulling in her chin and pushing out her chest.
"Denise…" But hoarsely.
She began a slow bump and grind.
"I'll knuckle those damned eyes," he warned, silently cursing the dryness of his throat that made his voice crack.
She cupped her breasts and stuck out her tongue.
A shadow passed across the drapes.
Cart saw it just before it disappeared, and swore.
"What?"
"Someone's out there," he said, unconcerned for his nakedness as he strode to the sliding glass door, pushed it open and looked out, slapping at the drapes swirling around him. "Probably your goddamned brother trying to get his rocks ofiF, the son of a bitch. Jes
us, I hate him."
"He ain't that bad." She caressed her stomach, and wished Cart would stop playing games. He got her all hot and bothered and ready and slick and then… nothing. Nothing. Just like always, half the time, nothing.
Cart grunted.
"Well, who the hell is it?"
"No one," he said, and turned around to face her. "Could've been your old man, too. I wouldn't put it past him. I bet he watches when you take a shower, right?"
She thrust out her hips and flicked a thumb at a dark nipple, stared pointedly at his groin and pouted. "Ah, poor Cartie," she whispered. "Poor, poor Cartie." She crooked a finger and beckoned. "C'mere, Cartie. Maybe we oughta play."
"I don't like that stuff," he said, though not as strongly as he wanted.
She dropped to her hands and looked down at her hanging breasts. "Cartie?"
He took a step toward her, and she lifted her head, lowered herself slightly and raised her buttocks high. The dim yellow light glowed along the length of her back, and her breasts vanished in shadow. He took a deep breath and ordered himself forward. This was no time to fail; there was a repuation at stake if he wanted to keep walking.
Her mouth opened slightly. "Cartie, I'm hungry."
He felt a tingling in his groin. "I don't like that shit, Denise, you know that."
Her mouth opened wider. "Lollypop time, Cartie."
The tingling grew stronger. "Jesus, Denise."
And the glass door shattered inward.
Denise screamed and scrambled frantically back across the bed, grabbing up the sheet to cover herself, unable to turn away as something flailing in the drapes finally shredded them over Cart and dumped him to the floor. He shouted angrily, and thrashed, finally pulled the material aside and pushed himself back against the bed. He was ready to kill whoever was fucking him around, but there was nothing he could do except gape when Frankie reached silently for his throat.
Denise stared in disbelief and shrieked her brother's name. He paused and looked up at her over the edge of the mattress, smiling through the dried blood that coated his pale face.
Night Songs Page 21
