Shadows 3

by Charles L. Grant

  Not too many people fish these days; the streams are too polluted. Last month I sold one permit. None the two months before. They plan to change our function again, I’m told, but a final decision apparently hasn’t been made. I really don’t care, as long as my offices continue to run smoothly. A photograph of my wife taken the day of our marriage has sat on my desk the full twenty-five years, watching over me. At least she doesn’t visit the office. I’m grateful for that.

  Last week they reopened the offices next door. About time, I thought; the space had been vacant for five years. Ours was the last office still occupied in the old City Building. I was afraid maybe we too would be moved.

  But I haven’t been able as yet to determine just what it is exactly they do next door. They’ve a small staff, just one lone man at a telephone, I think. No one comes in or out of the office all day, until five, when he goes home.

  I feel it’s my business to find out what he does over there, and what it is he wants from me. A few days ago I looked up from my newspaper and saw a shadow on the frosted glass of our front door. Imagine my irritation when I rushed out into the hallway only to see his door just closing. I walked over there, intending to knock, and ask him what it was he wanted, but I saw his shadow within the office, bent over his desk. For some reason this stopped me, and I returned to my own office.

  The next day the same thing happened. Then the day after that. I then refused to leave my desk. I wouldn’t chase a shadow; he would not use me in such a fashion. I soon discovered that when I didn’t go to the door, the shadow remained in my frosted glass all day long. He was standing outside my door all day long, every day.

  Once there were two shadows. That brought me to my feet immediately. But when I jerked the door open I discovered two city janitors, sent to scrape off the words “Fish Permits” from my sign, “Bureau Of Fish Permits.” When I asked them what the sign was to be changed to, they told me they hadn’t received those instructions yet. Typical, I thought; nor had I been told.

  Of course, after the two janitors had left, the single shadow was back again. It was there until five.

  The next morning I walked over to his office door. The lights were out; I was early. I had hoped that the sign painters had labeled his activity for me, but his sign had not yet been filled in. “Bureau Of …” There were a few black streaks where the paint had been scraped away years ago, bare fragments of the letters that I couldn’t decipher.

  I’m not a man given to emotion. But the next day I lost my temper. I saw the shadow before the office door and I exploded. I ordered him away from my door at the top of my voice. When three hours had passed and he still hadn’t left, I began to weep. I pleaded with him. But he was still there.

  The next day I moaned. I shouted obscenities. But he was always there.

  Perhaps my wife is right; I’m not very decisive, I don’t like to make waves. But it’s been days. He is always there.

  Today I discovered the key to another empty office adjacent to mine. It fits a door between the two offices. I can go from my office to this vacant office without being seen from the hallway. At last, I can catch this crazy man in the act.

  I sit quietly at my desk, pretending to read the newspaper. He hasn’t moved for hours, except to occasionally peer closer at the frosted glass in my door, simulating binoculars with his two hands to his eyes.

  I take off my coat and put it on the back of my chair. A strategically placed flower pot will give the impression of my head. I crawl over to the door to the vacant office, open it as quietly as possible, and slip through.

  Cobwebs trace the outlines of the furniture. Files are scattered everywhere, some of the papers beginning to mold. The remains of someone’s lunch are drying on one desk. I have to wonder at the city’s janitorial division.

  Unaccountably, I worry over the grocery list my wife gave me, now lying on my desk. I wonder if I should go back after it. Why? It bothers me terribly, the list unattended, unguarded on my desk. But I must push on. I step over a scattered pile of newspapers by the main desk, and reach the doorway leading into the hall.

  I leap through the doorway with one mighty swing, prepared to shout the rude man down, in the middle of his act.

  The hall is empty.

  I am suddenly tired. I walk slowly to the man’s office door, the door to the other bureau. I stand waiting.

  I can see his shadow through the office door. He sits at his desk, apparently reading a newspaper. I step closer, forming my hands into imaginary binoculars. I press against the glass, right below the phrase, “Bureau Of,” lettered in bold, black characters.

  He orders me away from his door. He weeps. He pleads. Now he is shouting obscenities.

  I’ve been here for days.

  Introduction

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro lives in Albany, California, is currently working on an opera about Dracula, and is fascinated with a scholar’s devotion with the occult. Her science fiction has been widely praised, but it is her fantasies that allow Quinn to give release to her best, most carefully constructed writing.

  For those of you who are familiar with HOTEL TRANSYLVANIA, THE PALACE, and BLOOD GAMES … welcome to Cabin 33; and for those who are not … read this first, then go buy the books.

  CABIN 33

  by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  In the winter there were the skiers, and in the summer the place was full of well-to-do families escaping to the mountains, but it was in the off-seasons, the spring and the fall, when Lost Saints Lodge was most beautiful.

  Mrs. Emmons, who always came in September, sat at her table in the spacious dining room, one hand to her bluish-silver hair as she smiled up at the Lodge’s manager. “I do so look forward to my stay here, Mr. Rogers,” she said archly, and put one stubby, beringed hand on his.

  “It’s good of you to say so,” Mr. Rogers responded in a voice that managed to be gracious without hinting the least encouragement to the widow.

  “I hear that you have a new chef.” She looked around the dining room again. “Not a very large crowd tonight.”

  Mr. Rogers followed her glance and gave a little, eloquent shrug. “It’s off-season, Mrs. Emmons. We’re a fifth full, which is fine, since it gives us a breather before winter, and allows us a little time to keep the cabins up. We do the Lodge itself in the spring, but you’re not here then.”

  “I’m not fond of crowds,” Mrs. Emmons said, lifting her head in a haughty way it had taken her years to perfect.

  Nor, thought Mr. Rogers, of the summer and winter prices. He gave her half a smile. “Certainly off-season is less hectic.”

  She took a nervous sip from the tall-stem glass before her. Mrs. Emmons did not like margaritas, and secretly longed for a side car, but she knew that such drinks were considered old-fashioned and she had reached that point in her life when she dreaded the reality of age. “Tell me,” she said as she put the glass down, “is that nice Mr. Franciscus still with you?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Rogers had started away from the table, but he paused as he said this, a flicker of amusement in his impassive face.

  “I’ve always liked to hear him play. He knows all the old songs.” There was more of a sigh in her tone than she knew.

  “He does indeed,” Mr. Rogers agreed. “He’ll be in the lounge after eight, as always.”

  “Oh, good,” Mrs. Emmons said, a trifle too brightly before she turned her attention to the waiter who had appeared at her elbow.

  Mr. Rogers was out of the dining room and half way across the lobby when an inconspicuous door on the mezzanine opened and a familiar voice called his name. Mr. Rogers looked up swiftly, and tinned toward the stairs that led to the mezzanine.

  The door opened onto a small library comfortably furnished in dark-stained wood and substantial Victorian chairs upholstered in leather. There was one person in the room at the moment and he smiled as Mr. Rogers closed the door. When he spoke, it was not in English.

  “I just saw Mrs. Emmons in the dining
room,” Mr. Rogers said with a tinge of weariness. “She’s looking forward to seeing that ‘nice Mr. Franciscus.’”

  “Oh, God,” said Mr. Franciscus in mock horror. “I suppose that Mrs. Granger will be here soon, too?”

  “She’s due to arrive on Wednesday.” Both men had been standing, Mr. Franciscus by the tall north-facing windows, Mr. Rogers by the door. “I’ve given them cabins A28 and A52, back to back over the creek.”

  “And if the water doesn’t bother them, they’ll have a fine time,” Mr. Franciscus said. “I didn’t have time to tune the harpsichord, so I’ll have to use the piano tonight.” He came away from the windows and sank into the nearest chair.

  “I don’t think anyone will mind.” Mr. Rogers turned the chair by the writing table to a new angle as he sat.

  “Perhaps not, but I should have done it.” He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and linked his fingers under his chin. His hands were beautifully shaped but surprisingly small for a pianist. “There’s part of the ridge trail that’s going to need reinforcement before winter or we’ll have a big washout at the first thaw.”

  “I’ll send Matt out to fix it. Is that where you were this afternoon? Out on the trails?” There was a mild interest but his questions were calmly asked and as calmly answered.

  “Part of the time. That ranger … Jackson, Baxter, something like that, told me to remind you about the fire watch.”

  “Backus,” Mr. Rogers said automatically. “Ever since that scare in Fox Hollow, he’s been jittery about fire. He’s the one who put up all the call stations on the major trails.”

  “It’s good that someone is concerned. They lost sixteen cabins at Fox Hollow,” Franciscus responded with a touch of severity. “If we had the same problem here, there’s a great deal more to lose—and one hundred twenty-four cabins would be a major loss.”

  Mr. Rogers said nothing, watching Franciscus levelly.

  “We’re going to need some improvements on the stable. The roof is not in good repair and the tack room could stand some sprucing up. The hay-ride wagon should be repainted. If we can get this done before winter it would be helpful.” He brushed his black jeans to rid them of dust. His boots were English, not Western, made to order in fine black leather. There was an elegance about him that had little to do with his black clothing. He stared at Mr. Rogers a moment. “Are there any disturbances that I should know about? You seem apprehensive.”

  “No,” Mr. Rogers said slowly, after giving the matter his consideration. “It’s just the usual off-season doldrums, I guess. We’re a little fuller than we were last fall. There’s a retired couple from Chillicothe, name of Barnes in cabin 12, they’re new; a couple from Lansing with a teen-aged daughter in cabin 19. I think the girl is recovering from some sort of disease, at least that’s what her mother told me—their name is Harper. There’s a jumpy MD in cabin 26, Dr. Muller. Amanda Farnsworth is back again. I’ve put her in cabin A65.”

  “It’s been—what?—three years since she was here last?” Franciscus asked.

  “Three years,” Mr. Rogers nodded. “There’s also a new fellow up in cabin 33.”

  “Cabin 33? Isn’t that a little remote?” He glanced swiftly toward the window and the wooded slope beyond the badminton courts and swimming pool. A wide, well-marked path led up the hill on the far side of these facilities, winding in easy ascent into the trees. Cabin 33 was the last cabin on the farthest branch of the trail, more than a quarter mile from the lodge and dining room.

  “He requested it,” Mr. Rogers said with a slight shrug. “I told him he would find it cold and quite lonely. He said that was fine.”

  “If that’s what he wants …” Franciscus dismissed the newcomer with a turn of his hand. “What about the regulars? Aside from Mrs. Emmons, God save us, and Mrs. Granger?”

  “We’ll have the Blakemores for two weeks, starting on the weekend. Myron Shire is coming to finish his new book, as usual. Sally and Elizabeth Jenkins arrive next Tuesday. Sally wrote to say that Elizabeth’s been in the sanitarium again and we are not to serve her anything alcoholic. We’ll have all four Lellands for ten days, and then they’ll go on to the Coast. Harriet Goodman is coming for six weeks, and should arrive sometime today. Sam Potter is coming with his latest young man. The Davies. The Coltraines. The Wylers. The Pastores. Professor Harris. Jim Sutton will be here, but for five days only. His newspaper wants him to cover that murder trial in Denver, so he can’t stay as long as usual. The Lindholms. He’s looking poorly and Martha said that he has had heart trouble this year. Richard Bachmere and his cousin, whose name I can never remember …”

  “Samuel,” Franciscus supplied.

  “That’s the one. The Muramotos won’t be here until Thanksgiving this year. He’s attending a conference in Seattle. The Browns. The Matins. The Luis. Tim Halloran is booked in for the weekend only, but Cynthia is in Mexico and won’t be here at all. And that’s about it.” Mr. Rogers folded his hands over his chest.

  “Not bad for fall off-season. What’s the average stay?” Franciscus inquired as he patted the dust from his pant-leg, wrinkling his nose as the puffs rose.

  “No, not bad for off-season. The average stay is just under two weeks, and if this year is like the last three years, well pick up an odd reservation or two between now and the skiers. We’ll have a pretty steady flow from now until Thanksgiving. We’re underbooked until just before Christmas, when we open the slopes. But those twelve cabins still have to be readied.”

  Franciscus nodded. “Before the skiers.” He stared at his boot where his ankle was propped on his knee. “We’d better hire that band for the winter season, I think. I don’t want to be stuck doing four sets a night again. Have you asked around Standing Rock for winter help?”

  “Yes. We’ve got four women and three men on standby.” He consulted his watch. “The restaurant linen truck should be here in a few minutes. I’d better get over to the kitchen. What time were you planning to start this evening?”

  Franciscus shrugged. “Oh, eight-thirty sounds about right for this small crowd. I don’t imagine they’ll want music much after midnight. We can let Ross do a couple late sets with his guitar if there’s enough of an audience. If not, then Frank can keep the bar open as long as he wants. How does that sound to you?”

  “Good for the whole week. Saturday will be busier, and well have more guests by then. Well make whatever arrangements are necessary.” He rose. “Kathy’s determined to serve Chateaubriand in forcemeat on Saturday, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to talk her out of it. I know that the chef’s special should live up to its name, but the price of beef today …” He rolled his eyes up as if in appeal to heaven.

  “Why not indulge her? It’s better she make Chateaubriand in forcemeat for an oS-season crowd than for the skiers. Let her have an occasional extravagance. She’s a fine chef, isn’t she?” Franciscus leaned back in his chair.

  “So they tell me,” said Mr. Rogers, switching back to English.

  “Then why not?” He reached for his black hat with the silver band. “Just make sure she understands that you can’t do this too often. She’ll appreciate it.” He got to his feet as well. “I want to take one more look through the stable before I get changed for tonight. We’ve got six guest stalls ready. The Browns always bring those pride-cut geldings they’re so proud of. Ill get changed about the time you start serving dinner.”

  “Fine.” Mr. Rogers held the door open and let Franciscus leave ahead of him. “Ill tell Mrs. Emmons.”

  Franciscus chuckled. “You’ve no pity, my friend. If she requests “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain,’ I will expire, I promise you.”

  The two men were still smiling when they reached the lobby once more. A tall, tweedy woman in her early forties stood at the registration desk and looked around as Mr. Rogers and Franciscus reached the foot of the stairs. “Oh, there you are,” she said to the men and gave them her pleasant, horsey grin.

  Mr. Rogers said, “Good
afternoon, Ms. Goodman.” at the same time that Franciscus said, “Hello, Harriet.”

  “Mr. Rogers. Mr. Franciscus.” She extended her hand to them, taking the manager’s first There were three leather bags by her feet and though she wore no makeup beyond lipstick, she now, as always, smelled faintly of Joy.

  As he slipped behind the registration desk, Mr. Rogers found her reservation card at once and was filling in the two credit lines for her. “Six weeks this time, Ms. Goodman?”

  “Yes. I’m giving myself some extra vacation. I’m getting tired. Six years on the lecture circuit is too wearing.” She looked over the form. “Cabin 21. My favorite,” she remarked as she scribbled her name at the bottom of the form. “Is Scott around to carry my bags?”

  “I’m sorry. Scott’s off at U.S.C. now,” Mr. Rogers said as he took the form back.

  “U.S.C.? He got the scholarship? Well, good for him. He’s a very bright boy. I thought it was a shame that he might lose that opportunity.” She held out her hand for the key.

  “He got the scholarship,” Mr. Rogers said with a quick glance at Franciscus.

  “I’ll be happy to carry your bags, Harriet,” Franciscus volunteered. “I’m curious to know how your work’s been going.”

  Her hazel eyes were expressive and for a moment they flickered with a pleasant alarm. Then it was gone and her social polish returned. “Thank you very much. I don’t know the etiquette for tipping the musician-cum-wrangler, but …”

  “No tip,” Franciscus said rather sharply. “Call it a courtesy for a welcome friend.” He had already picked up the smallest bag and was gathering up the other two.

  “I must say, I envy the shape you’re in. Lugging those things around wears me out But look at you. And you must be at least my age.” She had started toward the door and the broad, old-fashioned porch that led to the path to cabin 21.

  Franciscus was a few steps behind her. “I’m probably older than you think,” he said easily. He was walking briskly, his heels tapping smartly on the flagging.