The Hour of the Oxrun Dead (Necon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  “Adriana?”

  The woman remained still.

  “Mrs. Hall?”

  She stepped farther into the office, then dropped her coat on the leather couch and hurried around the desk. Adriana’s face was pale, drawn; her eyes were open, but there was no reaction when Natalie passed a hand before them. She picked up her right hand and fumbled until she located a pulse, slow but regular. The woman had passed out, and neither a good shaking nor a shout directly into her ear could bring her out of it.

  “You know something,” Natalie said, hands on hips, “I think you’re more frightened than I am, lady.” And she was calmed.

  She looked around the room, then rolled the wheeled chair to the couch. Without insuring much against bumps and bruises, she pushed and prodded Adriana from her seat onto the divan and took off her shoes, loosened her buttons at her throat. Two fingers lowered her eyelids, and when she left there was the faint but unmistakable sound of snoring.

  “Don’t tell me you’re leaving already,” Arlene called to her before she reached the bottom step.

  Natalie shook her head and moved over to the desk. “Just saving myself another trip upstairs. I have until four today.” And she dumped her wrap at the end of the horseshoe.

  “Nuts,” the banker’s wife said. “Don’t tell me I have to lock up.”

  “Sorry about that, but I have things to do. Meanwhile, what’s new?”

  And while Arlene grumbled, she leaned carelessly against the counter and checked each of the library’s visible alcoves and specialized areas. The children had gone; there were still several adults browsing around the magazine racks and in the stacks. But the old men had deserted their benches, none were inside. Arlene saw the direction of her glance and snorted. “They said it was getting too cold. Next thing you know they’ll be taking over all the reading rooms. I wish Mrs. Hall would just keep them out.”

  “Why?” Natalie said. “Where else are they going to go? The police station?”

  “Oh, forget it,” Arlene snapped and grabbed for the Fine Book and the electronic calculator.

  Touchy, Natalie thought, checked the clock on the wall, and began to wander, straightening a book here, replacing one that had been stuck back incorrectly. For five minutes she crawled on the children's section floor poking around for a missing puzzle piece, and found it under the lid it had come in; she picked up three plastic covers without magazines, two scarves, three mittens, and an empty coin purse stuffed with candy wrappers — these she carried over to the desk and dropped into the lost-and-found drawer with all the other articles discarded and forgotten. She asked where the new girl had gone, and Arlene muttered something about hunting for a stolen book, a best seller they’d gotten in the day before. Natalie only nodded.

  Five minutes before four, she heard a door slam and saw Adriana weaving from her office to the washroom.

  “Okay,” she finally said, fishing in her purse for her keys and tossing them in front of Arlene. “My time’s up. I’m free and I’m going. Have a good night.”

  “Will I see you later?”

  Natalie paused as she was turning away. “Later?”

  “At the Toals’. Weren’t you invited to that costume thing tonight? You know, witches and ghosts and all that.”

  “Oh. Well, as a matter of fact I was. Yes, I was.”

  Arlene smiled at her for the first time that day. “What are you going as, if it isn’t a secret?”

  Natalie was about to say she hadn’t given it a thought, but an unbidden image crossed her mind and she grinned back. “The first woman monk.”

  Arlene scowled. “I don’t know that that’s appropriate, Natalie.”

  “Why not? It’s a costume, isn’t it?”

  “Well ... “ She was obviously goaded to say more, but tightened her lips and tested the desk’s drawers, their harsh rattling a loud reproof.

  Keeping her left hand tucked into her pocket where she’d stuffed the book when she left her office, Natalie waved an abrupt good night and hurried outside.

  It was cold, the sun already below the horizon and gradually pulling the light after it. Frost was laying streaks of glittering white on the benches and grass. There was no wind, and for that she was grateful as she trotted to the corner and waited for a break in the traffic. The shadows that followed he to Fox Road seemed too fragile for even a leaf to land on safely.

  At the corner she decided to walk to the newspaper office and surprise Marc with company on the way home. Her spirits had been buoyed after her exchange with Mrs. Bains, her mind reeling with variations she could have played, and she was almost beyond the church before she heard someone calling her name. She stopped, looked behind her, then across the Pike to the rectory where Karl Hampton was standing on the lawn, beckoning. She waved, would have gone on, but he moved to the sidewalk and stood there, waiting.

  “Now what?” she muttered as she crossed the street.

  “Natalie,” he said, taking her right hand strongly. ‘‘I’m glad I caught you before you got away from me again.”

  “Oh,” she said, “should I be flattered, Karl?”

  He seemed confused, then released her hand and tucked his chin toward his chest. “Well, I don’t know about that, Natalie — ”

  “Oh, come on, Karl! I was just kidding. You always take things too literally, you know that?”

  “No, I hadn’t known that,” he said seriously, frowning as though considering the consequences of what she’d said. “No, in fact, I’ve always — ”

  “Karl, come on! What can I do for you?”

  “Do for me? Why. nothing, Nattie.” He looked up again and stood with legs spread and hands clasped behind his back. He gazed up at the belfry and released, slowly, a deep, long breath. “I was just going through some old books of mine — the parish register, you know — and I started thinking about you and Ben and your wedding day.”

  “You and the rest of the world,” she murmured, then waved off his quizzical look. “Nothing. I was talking to myself.”

  “Oh.” He accepted the explanation without pursuit and returned to a contemplation of the ravaged remains of his church. “Well, I was thinking about that day, and I wondered if you do, too?” His smile was guileless, and she shook her head.

  “Hardly ever anymore, Karl.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame.”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, he’s dead eighteen months now, and I have other interests.”

  “I know.” He began a rocking on his heels. ‘‘I’ve seen you in his company.”

  Now this is the limit, she thought. “Karl, you’re not going to warn me against Marc, are you? Or maybe you’re just looking for the rights to the service.”

  Hampton ceased his rocking and swiveled to look down at her, his face hard with displeasure. “Nattie, you know I have only your best interests at heart. Since you were married in my church by my hand once, I think it behooves me to see that you don’t get hurt.”

  “Nice ring,” she said, nodding at the hand tugging at his white collar. “Ben had one like it, you know.”

  No word games here as he snapped his hand back out of sight. “I don’t want to keep you from your appointment, Natalie.”

  “Thanks, Karl. It’s still a nice ring.”

  And as she strode away, grinning, she heard his heels following, turn aside and snap up the walk to his front porch. Deciding she had already made it tough enough for herself in whatever was coming, she resisted the temptation to turn around and wave. She only wished she’d had an opportunity to tell him about the monk’s costume; it would have been a delight to see him strangle on his fury.

  The Herald plant was empty except for a woman sitting just in front of Dederson’s office. Natalie stood at the door, waiting to be recognized, then wove past the desks and asked how long it would be before Marc returned from his afternoon meeting with his editor.

  “Oh,” the woman said, “He’s come and gone, Miss … “

  “Mrs. Windsor.” />
  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Windsor.” No judgment, only a filing for future reference. “Well, he came in around three and ran right out again. He said something about running up to Harley for half an hour.”

  “Harley?” It was a fair-sized community some twenty miles up the Mainland Road, and she wondered aloud why he had to go there without calling her first.

  The woman shrugged. “Don’t know why, ma’am. He just ran in and out. You know how he is.”

  “I’m afraid I do. Well, would you tell him I was here? And to call me as soon as he gets back? I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure.”

  Natalie hovered, hoping the woman would volunteer something more, but when it was evident the conversation had ended, she headed back to the door, stopped at Marc’s desk. There was a pad in the center of his blotter, and on it, two dots with a straight line bisecting the space between them; beside the design, an exclamation point, and the letter D. Dederson had a ring. And why not? Considering the news he allowed to be printed and that which he arbitrarily suppressed, it shouldn’t be at all surprising. And it eliminated the final source for independence Oxrun had, the last true link with the outside world.

  She stepped outside and gasped at the slap of cold damp air rushing across the fields opposite the Pike. She shivered and drew her sweater close to her throat, grateful that the thick Irish wool was nearly as warm as her lamented gold coat.

  Her eyes watered in the wind, looking at but not seeing the slow procession of automobiles filing into town.

  Harley. Dederson had sent Marc there; to get him out of the way while something was done to her? No, there had been too many missed chances already. That the trip might possibly have been legitimate was given even less credence. But when the solution came, it was nearly a physical blow, and she raced across Mainland to check the road bed north and south. If things were indeed coming to a head, getting Marc out of Oxrun would insure his not returning simply because he wouldn’t be able to find it.

  She began to run. The gravel scattered along the shoulder made footing precarious, and several times she slipped and went down to her palms. Gusts from passing trucks shoved her into the ditch between road and field. She slowed. No cars were parked on the shoulders in either direction, on either side of the highway. She glanced at the deserted fields now overgrown with brown, dying weeds, dotted with stands of trees shorn of their leaves and bleak against the graying sky. A ground fog sifted through the wild shrubbery that served as fencing, licked at the bottom of the ditch and stretched up toward the road. Automobiles drifted behind yellow lights, and buses already had their headlights on, blinding her in the last glow of twilight.

  She swore loudly and stumbled to a halt, using a telephone pole to rest against until her breathing came easier. Its rough exterior was a comfort, and she stroked it absently as she sought for a way to keep from panicking, wondered how she would be able to identify her car when the last light vanished. Her ears began to sting, and a dull ache blossomed at the base of her skull. The dampness had become frigid, and she didn’t discount the possibility of the season’s first snowfall before the night had ended.

  Suddenly she spun around at the screeching of brakes and the frightened blare of several horns. The southbound traffic was veering off the road to avoid collision with a car swerving erratically from lane to lane. Natalie watched, then moved to put the pole in front of her, and shouted once as the car straightened and aimed directly for her. She ran back, slipped and fell into the ditch, her hands skidding painfully into pockets of stone and gravel. Scrambling she tried to scale the opposite side, darted a look over her shoulder and saw the vehicle as though in slow motion: sliding off the road, spewing stones into a black wake behind it, striking the telephone pole and shearing off a great bite of wood before righting itself and returning to the highway. Within moments after it vanished, it was as though it had never happened. The traffic closed upon itself and kept on moving.

  “I don’t believe it,” Natalie said, sitting on the lip of the ditch. “He never even stopped!”

  Too shocked and angered to succumb to a reaction, she touched her pocket to see that the book was still with her, then brushed her hair back from her face before returning to the shoulder, conscious now of the mud and grass clinging to her legs. She swiped at them ineffectually while staring up the road, shaking her head and hoping somebody would stop at the nearest phone and call the police. And as she stood, staring numbly at the pale gap in the pole where the car had struck, a flashing red light intruded and stopped several yards north of her. The headlights were painfully glaring and she raised a hand to block them. She could hear the motor, blinked against the spinning red. But no one left the car.

  It idled. Like a beast waiting. Nothing but the steady white, the hypnotic whirling red.

  “Come on,” she muttered. “You have to come here.”

  Abruptly, her legs weakened, and she clung to the pole. A van hissed by, light spray dotted her calves.

  The patrol car grumbled.

  Then the passenger door opened and a dark figure slid out, stood by the fender. With a resigned sigh, Natalie pushed off her support and walked carefully, picking her way across the gouges the careening car had dug.

  “Natalie, what are you doing out here?”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed a sudden surge of bile. “My God, Sam, did you see that guy? Did you see the way he was driving? He must have been drunk, Sam. He nearly killed me.”

  Windsor shook his head. He wore a heavy blue jacket, and his arms were folded across his chest. “I saw nothing, Nattie. I tried to contact you at your house and there was no answer. I thought maybe you’d gone for a walk.”

  “Well, obviously I did and nearly got killed in the bargain.”

  “I wanted to protect you, Nattie, but you refused me. Remember?”

  She took a step forward as he tugged at the peak of his cap, and with the light now at her side, she could see his face. He was staring blankly, without condemnation and completely without concern. It was so unlike him that she instinctively bunched the sweater at her neck and tugged nervously on her purse strap.

  “I want you to come back with me, Nattie.”

  It was the emotional vacuum more than his look that made her refuse.

  “Natalie, you’re being foolish.”

  “I’m waiting for Marc,” she said finally, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “He’s up to Harley for a story. He’ll be back any minute now.”

  “You always wait out here?” and he swept an arm toward the ditch. “You don’t want to be in another accident, do you?”

  “Hey,” she said, “what is this? Don’t you have to report damage and things like that to the telephone company? I mean, don’t you have to call in?”

  “Nattie, you’re tired. I think you ought to let me take you home.”

  She turned away suddenly and headed back down the road. Sam followed, his boots scattering the gravel as if he was kicking it out of his way. A piece struck her ankle. Then she faced him, pointing. “There! Now what are you going to do about that? Couldn’t you at least radio or something to try to catch the man?”

  Sam brushed by her and examined the pole closely, his cap shoved back on his forehead. “Catch him? For what, Nattie?”

  “For what? What are you-” She grabbed his arm and pulled him around to the front of the pole. “See? For nearly killing me and for …” Her voice faded. There were no marks in the wood. She turned. No skid marks on the road, no disturbances in the gravel. She bent over, her hands running over the side of the pole, prodding for weaknesses, searching for traces of car pain t. But there was nothing. Not even a chip missing.

  “Sam,” she said tightly as she stood, “I was standing right here! And there were cars scattering all over the place. It hit the pole here!” And she punched at it twice.

  Sam nodded, rechecked the pole, then took her elbow. She pulled back, but he was too strong to resist. “Come on, Nattie, I’ll tak
e you home.”

  Too confused to speak, she balked as much as she could, feeling his grip close tighter in anger. She slipped once and was yanked painfully upright.

  “Now wait a minute, Sam, I’m a big girl, you know. I can find my own way home. You don’t have to do this, Sam!”

  He kept silent. When they reached the patrol car, he opened the rear door and stood aside, gesturing impatiently. She resisted, flinging her arm back and out of his grasp.

  “Natalie, please get in the car. I’ll take you home. You’ll be safer there. Much safer.”

  “Safer for what?” she demanded.

  But before he could reply, a car pulled up behind them and its lights blinked off and on. Windsor spun around, cursing, and Natalie used the distraction to race past him.

  “Nattie!”

  She opened the door and looked in, nearly sobbed when Marc grinned back at her.

  “Trouble?” he said.

  “I love you,” she said, her breath coming in spurts.

  “Nice place to tell me,” he said, then frowned over the steering wheel. “Is that our Sam out there?”

  She nodded. “Wait a minute.” Then she waved back toward the policeman. “It’s okay, Sam, it’s okay now. It’s Marc. He’ll take me home. I’m all right now.”

  “Are you sure?” The presumption had vanished, and what she’d begun to think of as the old Sam temporarily returned. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, Nattie?”

  “Fine,” she said. “You go on doing whatever it is you do at night. I’ll be fine.”

  “Just be careful, Nattie,” he said as he backed into the patrol car. “I don’t want you wandering around in the dark like this. You could be hurt. It isn’t good, Nattie. You could be hurt.”

  “I almost was.”

  “Natalie — ”