“Right,” Elaine said, doubt clouding her voice. “Right. Well, Nattie, I have to go now.”
“Oh, sure,” Natalie said, and hung up without saying good-by. Marc led her back to the living room, easing her into the armchair before perching on the window seat behind her. She could hear his heel tapping lightly against the wood.
“She’s foul.”
“Books and covers, Nat, books and covers.”
“Helene didn’t have to die, Marc. She didn’t have to get involved.”
“You weren’t the cause, Nat. Don’t kid yourself.”
“No, I was. I was asking about the ring. I saw her gravestone tonight. She was already marked, probably from the day I first brought it up to her. She only made it faster when she pushed Hall about it.”
She listened to the tapping, leaned back and closed her eyes. She marched, then, from point to point since Marc had become involved in the ... she struggled for a word. Plot. Yet there was still that one major question to be answered, one gap to be bridged. The key was in Toal’s hands; and the only way she was going to find it was to show up at the party nobody had thought she would be attending.
When she told Marc, he whistled a long, respectful note. “God, you’re some kind of woman,” he said. “I was going to suggest that before, but I didn’t know how you would take it.”
“Marc, if I don’t — we don’t — we’ll be spending the rest of our lives running inside this cage they’ve built for us. We can’t go to anyone on the outside. This is real; and real people don’t believe in what’s happening to us. We have to do it, or we’ll be running. For the rest of our lives.”
There was pressure on her shoulders, and she reached up to touch Marc’s hands, lifted her head to press a cheek against his fingers. When he moved to pull her up from the chair, she held him tightly; when he buried his hands in her hair, she sighed. He stroked her back, reached down and un belted the robe; she shivered once as he kissed her, lightly, then fiercely.
It was dark. Light. A failure the first time as tension held her back and made her weep with frustration. He whispered, cajoled, made her laugh at herself while he uncovered the pockets of resistance and gently caressed them into oblivion. He exclaimed, wondered, praised. Natalie watched as the texture of the room’s darkness softened from one of funereal veils to warm, engulfing velvet. She responded, laughing, and held his head against her breasts and wept again. Silently. Thankfully. Whispered an answer to the proposal he had made only that afternoon.
Afternoon.
How many years ago had that been? How many people had died, been buried, had been marked for burial because they had discovered the secret of Oxrun Station. Empty and full, she scratched his back lightly, giggled at the catlike purring muffled in her chest. All those automobiles, trucks, buses, drifters, oblivious to the village that had set up a screen of trees and sleepy inaction.
“Marc?”
“Hmmmm?”
“Do you think Elaine is really a part of this thing?”
“Who wanted you to visit a psychiatrist when you weren’t taking Ben’s death as well as a so-called normal person would?”
“And Sam?”
“Do you really think all that protection was because he cared about you? Or because he wanted to keep an eye on you?”
Order in the Court. Mrs. Natalie Windsor, plaintiff, accuses Mrs. Elaine Windsor, defendant, of involvement in a plot to murder her, drive away her lover, and control the population of Oxrun Station for reasons unknown, unsubstantiated, unbelievable. Isn’t it true, Mrs. Windsor, that the death, the violent death of your policeman husband caused you a great deal of mental anguish? So much so, in fact, that your closest friends consistently and futilely advised you of the necessity of visiting a professional counselor who would assist you in regaining your touch with reality? Isn’t it true that you refused to seek this assistance? What do you have to say in answer to those who have testified as to the state of your mind during this year and a half since that tragedy? They are your friends, Mrs. Windsor. You should have listened to them.
“Marc?”
“Hmmm?”
“Do you believe in the supernatural?”
“Ghosts, you mean?”
“I think so.”
“No. Not ghosts. Something else, maybe, but not ghosts.”
“Then ... it isn’t Ben coming back?”
“No, don’t be silly. Not Ben. He was part of it, Nat. He had a ring, too, remember? Not Ben. Something else.”
The radio communication the night Ben died. She replayed it, and finally caught the words in that last frantic exchange. Don’t believe it ... it isn’t . .. have to shoot . .. oh, my God! ... promised, he promised . .. oh, my God, Sam! Not that he didn’t believe what he was seeing; he didn’t believe that what he was seeing was coming after him! He had done something, jeopardized the plan, and had paid for it. He was part of something and never said a word to her. No wonder he didn’t care about the promotion Sam received instead of him; he had other plans. Greater plans.
“Nat?”
“Hmmm?”
“Nat, the way this is going now, when they learn we know what’s happening-or, rather, when they think we finally know what’s happening — there’s going ... Nat, we may have to kill somebody to protect ourselves. Somebody may have to die to end this.”
“Are you asking me if I can do it?”
“Yes.”
Conceivable. That, if the Oxrun plan succeeds, it may spread to other, larger communities, towns that will vanish slowly but inexorably from the sides of highways and turnpikes, towns that will turn away drifters, or murder them, and incorporate themselves into something increasingly more powerful. And someone else like Miriam or Helene Bradford or the man with the dirty coat will have to die because they didn’t know, or in knowing didn’t believe until it was too late.
“Marc? I can do it. I’m not sure. When it comes to it, when I have to face it, I may change my mind. But right now, if you ask me, I can do it.”
“You are one fine, remarkable woman, Natalie Windsor.”
“Clayton, stupid. Natalie Clayton.”
When the sun rose, she was lying against his chest, and in her dreams a panther stalked.
* * *
Chapter 11
They decided their Saturday was best played normally. Marc reasoned that suspicions could twist into action unless they were able to convince Toal and the others that, though they might be confused, they were still innocent of the enormity of the plot. It would be better, at least, than hiding in corners waiting for the sun to go down.
“I’m going to go to the office.”
Natalie pouted as she poured him a second cup of coffee. But the reaction was unreasonable, she thought, since she had decided to put time in the library to make up for Friday. It just seemed to her to be more natural that on a Saturday Marc should stay in the house and do whatever it was men did on their days off.
“Dederson,” he explained then. “I left the preliminary article on his desk last night, and I want to see if he’s read it yet. It could be a big break.”
“It will be,” she said, sitting opposite him. “Listen, you’re pretty good, you know. You don’t have to worry about losing your job. That old creep doesn’t dare let you go.”
“If I’m so valuable, how come I’m not making twenty grand a year?”
“You’re too young. You need seasoning.”
He laughed, touching her hand as he emptied his cup. “Seasoning is for poultry. Money is for people.”
“Do you really care all that much for money?”
His face presaged another jest, but he pushed back his chair and stood. “No, kid, not really. I’ve done without it this long, I don’t think I need all that much. Besides, I already have what I want.”
“Gold digger.”
“Oh, sure.”
She grinned. “I mean, dope, that Cynthia Toal would have you in a minute if you let her.”
“Her? Hey
, I’d be a full-fledged eunuch ten minutes after the ceremony. I’ll bet she has a collection of scalps a mile long.”
“Go to work,” she ordered. “Call me when you get a chance.”
“You’ll be careful, right?”
Immediately, her mood darkened slightly, but she shook it off and nodded. ‘‘I’ll be as normal as ever. And believe me, I’ll be careful.”
“All right,” he said. “As long as you’re — ”
“Confound it, Marc. Will you please get out? You’re making me nervous hovering around like that. Go! Call! We’ll have lunch if I can get away.” He hesitated, bent and kissed her cheek. “I could easily get used to this, you know,” he whispered.
“So get used to it, already. Get going!”
And after he left, she filled the kitchen with sound, humming melodies of songs long forgotten, clattering the dishes in the sink as she ignored the washer for a little exercise and the comforting sting of hot water, the scrape of furniture, the slap of a rag as she dusted briskly.
Upstairs to change: a ruffled blouse promising glimpses of her breasts; a dark green suit with a skirt Miriam would have been proud of; a matching cardigan to replace her ruined coat Marc had retrieved from the fence. She considered piling her hair into a bun, decided instead to allow the auburn a chance to fight with the sun.
Walking, then, in a world of altered perception, seeing the Station from an angle unthought of before her troubles began and the nightmare became real. The Pike and its one-way traffic, the businesses on Centre Street — just the right proportion of low-cost and privileged establishments to keep the inhabitants from straying too far for their needs. For those who worked within Oxrun itself, it was entirely possible they could attend their entire lives without breaching the village limits.
The old men were on their benches, and she paused to kibitz a while, returning their smiles and tolerance with such good humor that several had to look away in embarrassment.
A police car drifted by, and its grey-and-white was an alien thing, like a shark passing through quiet coral waters on its way to a distant, leisurely kill.
Whoa! she told herself, be cool, lady, be cool.
The library was unusually busy, with hordes of children in the stacks searching for stories like the ones their teachers had told them the day before the holiday. Many were already in costume, tramps and princesses and a smattering of skeletons with wrinkled black between the faded white bones. There was a huge crystal bowl on the main counter, filled with single-bite bits of candy, and Arlene Bains seemed hard pressed to keep track of those who were returning for thirds and fourths. When Natalie entered, she looked up with a plea for help, and Natalie couldn’t resist a sympathetic smile.
“Boy,” she said, taking refuge behind the horseshoe, “you’ve got fans today, haven’t you?”
Arlene’s characterless face flushed. “I could do without all this nonsense, you know. A pagan adjunct to a Christian parody, that’s all it is. Garbage.” And she turned away to swipe at a hobo whose sticky hands were reaching up over the desk.
“Charity, charity,” Natalie muttered.
“Charity, crap!” Arlene said. “Look at the way they go for that tooth-rotting stuff. It reminds me — ”
“Arlene, please!” She fought an impulse to call her a Scrooge, and didn’t want her to spoil the clouds of laughter and squeals the children rose to the vaulted ceiling. “But I’ll say this, libraries were never like this in my day.”
“Or mine,” Arlene agreed, and Natalie quickly left before there was an acid qualification.
There was little in the office to occupy her for more than a couple of hours, and after she’d placed the last letter in its envelope, the last voucher in its file, she stood by her rear window and looked out over the pocket park in the back. There, too, the old men were stationed with their reds and blacks and sculptured instruments of intellectual warfare. By standing as close to the pane as possible, she could look down onto the parking lot and see Adriana’s station wagon solitary in its special slot.
An impulse grew. She wrestled with it, called it foolhardy and dangerous; it would serve no purpose except to aggravate further antagonism.
“Oh, well,” she said as she left the room. “You only live once, right?”
She stood outside the Director’s office, fussed with her clothes-pulling the ruffles aside with a self-satisfied grin-and knocked lightly on the door, stepping in without waiting for a summons.
Adriana was standing by a bookcase on the right-hand wall. There was a glass in her hand, empty, and in the other a faceted decanter of amber liquid. When Natalie walked in, she looked up, startled, and her face paled, her lips pressed tightly together and vanished.
“Good morning, Adriana,” she said with as much sickening sunshine as she could muster. “Do you have anything for me today? There was less than I thought piled up after yesterday.”
“You, uh, weren’t supposed to be in today,” Mrs. Hall finally stammered. “I mean, I was under the impression you were going to take the day off.”
Natalie shrugged. “It’s better than sitting home feeling sorry, Mrs. Hall. I mean, life does go on, you know.”
Adriana recovered slowly, covering her confusion by replacing glass and decanter and taking her place behind the protection of her desk. She shuffled through some papers, setting aside some, placing others in a pile in front of her. Then she sat and folded her hands tightly.
“Natalie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Her voice had recaptured the actress timbre her surprise had smothered, and Natalie felt the pleasure of confrontation on her terms slipping rapidly away. “Natalie, I’m beginning to wonder — and only wonder, mind you — just how suited you think you are for the position you now hold.”
Attack and counterattack. The tactic was obvious, but that didn’t stop her temper from champing. “If you wish me to be as objective as I can be, Mrs. Hall, then I would have to say that I’m about as qualified as anyone for my job. At any rate, more so than anyone now working in the library.”
“I thought you’d say that.” She opened her hands, refolded them and leaned heavily on her forearms. “You see, the Council is considering a further cutback in funds due to the state of the economy. Not only in the country, but in Oxrun itself.”
“And you seem to think they’re looking for ways to cut staff without cutting efficiency. And that would seem to me to indicate that a director can handle anything on the administrative level, without an assistant.”
Adriana let the supposition pass without comment. She lifted a pen from the center drawer and began doodling on a pad in front of her. Natalie watched silently, wishing Marc were there to see this new phase of attack; chip away at the anchors that held her to the Station, and once cut off, elimination would be easier and far less conspicuous. And she didn’t consider it at all unlikely that Bains had been poring over her bank statements looking for a loophole in the mortgage.
It should have been dismaying, but Marc’s fierce keenness for the hunt and engagement had transmitted something of itself to her, and she felt a decidedly uncharacteristic exhilaration. There was no such animal as a strategic advance to the rear. Grant’s dictum to Lee, instead: attack, and attack again. Bangs, not Eliot’s whimpers.
“Have you nothing to say, Natalie?”
“What can I say, Mrs. Hall?” She shrugged an attitude of no concern. “If you’re going to eliminate the position, then eliminate the position. If not, why worry me with uncertainties? It’s not, if you don’t mind my saying so, the best way of breaking the news to me.”
“I would just like you prepared in case of the eventuality.”
“And how eventual is it, Mrs. Hall?”
Adriana made as if to rise, thought better of it and leaned back in her chair. “How eventual? I really cannot say, but I had hoped you’d take it in the spirit in which it was given and start sending out queries so you won’t be without an income for very long.”
Nata
lie backed toward the door. “Mrs. Hall, I do take it in the spirit that you gave it. And I don’t want you to think that I’m not grateful.”
“That’s all right, Natalie.” She smiled without emotion, and the result was a death mask. “I just want to help you. You mean a great deal to me, you know. More than I usually allow my employees to get.”
‘‘I’m flattered.” She opened the door behind her, turned, then looked back over her shoulder. “By the way, was that what Ambrose Toal was telling you in the park yesterday after the funeral? That I was going to be eliminated?”
Adriana opened her mouth, shut it tightly and glared. “You’ve made an error, my dear. I’m afraid I wasn’t near the park yesterday. Miriam’s services quite overwhelmed me. All those people … I didn’t think she had so many friends.” Natalie spotted a sudden slip in the mask, a tic at the corner of her mouth, a slight increase in the rise and fall of her chest. “I was overcome. I didn’t know. No,” and she shook her head. “No, I went straight home to bed.”
“My mistake, Mrs. Hall. I’m sorry. And, by the way, I’ll be leaving around four today. Is that all right with you?”
Adriana nodded. Natalie watched her silently for a moment, then closed the door quietly and stepped to the railing to look down onto the lobby. Arlene was bustling behind the counter, a part time college girl constantly bumping into her as they struggled to make up for Miriam’s leaving. The girl moved dully, as though in sleep, and Natalie rubbed her chin thoughtfully. Then she hurried down the sweep of stairs and headed back into the stacks. In Arlene’s hand she had seen a portion of a printout, but Natalie didn’t think she needed it anymore; she was sure she could remember enough to make a quick conclusive check.
The Hour of the Oxrun Dead (Necon Classic Horror) Page 16
