Mel bought him a whiskey sour—Mel invariably insisted on covering the tab. It’s you boys or my ex-wife, so drink up! Pershing had never met the infamous Nancy Clayton; she was the inimitable force behind Mel’s unceremonious arrival at the Broadsword fifteen years back, although judging from his flirtatious behavior with the ladies, his ouster was doubtless warranted. Nancy lived in Seattle with her new husband in the Lake Washington townhouse Mel toiled through many a late night and weekend to secure. He’d done better with Regina, his second wife. Regina owned a bakery in Tumwater and she routinely made cookies for Pershing and company. A kindly woman and large-hearted; she’d immediately adopted Mel’s cast of misfit friends and associates.
After the trio had chatted for a few minutes, griping about the “damnable” weather, mainly, Elgin said, “What’s eating you? You haven’t touched your drink.”
Pershing winced at eating. He hesitated, then chided himself. What sense to play coy? Obviously he wished to talk about what happened. Why else had he come scuttling in from the dark, tail between his legs? “I . . . heard something at home earlier tonight. People whispering in the vent. Weird, I know. But it really scared me. The stuff they said . . . ”
Mel and Elgin exchanged glances. Elgin said, “Like what?”
Pershing told them. Then he briefly described what Wanda said about the mystery girl. “The other thing that bothers me is . . . this isn’t the first time. The last couple of weeks I’ve been hearing stuff. Whispers. I wrote those off. Now, I’m not so sure.”
Mel stared into his glass. Elgin frowned and set his palm against his chin in apparently unconscious imitation of The Thinker. He said, “Hmm. That’s bizarre. Kinda screwed up, in fact. It almost makes me wonder—”
“—if your place is bugged,” Mel said.
“Bugged?”
“This from the man with a lifetime subscription to the Fortean Times,” Elgin said. “Damn, but sometimes I think you and Freeman would make a great couple.” Randy Freeman being an old school radical who’d done too much Purple Haze in the ’60s and dialed into the diatribes of a few too many Che Guevara-loving hippie chicks for his own good. He was another of The Red Room set.
Mel took Elgin’s needling in stride. “Hey, I’m dead serious. Two and two, baby. I’ll lay odds somebody miked Percy’s apartment.”
“For the love of—” Elgin waved him off, settling into his mode of dismissive impatience. “Who on God’s green earth would do something crazy like that? No-freaking-body, that’s who.”
“It is a bit farfetched,” Pershing said. “On the other hand, if you’d heard this crap. I dunno.”
“Oh, hell.” Elgin took a sip of his drink, patently incredulous.
“Jeez, guys—I’m not saying Homeland Security wired it for sound . . . maybe another tenant is playing games. People do wacko things.”
“No forced entry.” Pershing pointed at Mel. “And don’t even say it might be Wanda. I’ll have to slug you.”
“Nah, Wanda’s not sneaky. Who else has got a key?”
Elgin said, “The super would have one. I mean, if you’re determined to go there, then that’s the most reasonable suspect. Gotta tell you, though—you’re going to feel like how Mel looks when it turns out to be television noise—which is to say, an idiot.”
“Ha, ha. Question is, what to do?”
“Elgin’s right. Let’s not make a bigger deal of this than it is . . . I got spooked.”
“And the light of reason shines through. I’m going to the head.” Elgin stood and made his way across the room and disappeared around a big potted fern.
Pershing said, “Do you mind if I sleep on your couch? If I’m not intruding, that is.”
Mel smiled. “No problem. Gina doesn’t care. Just be warned she goes to work at four in the morning, so she’ll be stumbling around the apartment.” He glanced over to make certain Elgin was still safely out of sight. “Tomorrow I’ll come up and help you scope your pad. A while back Freeman introduced me to a guy in Tacoma who runs one of those spy shops with the minicameras and microphones. I’ll get some tools and we’ll see what’s what.”
After another round Elgin drove them back to the Broadsword. Just before he pulled away, he stuck his head out the window and called, “Don’t do anything crazy.”
“Which one of us is he talking to?” Mel said, glaring over his shoulder.
“I’m talking to both of you,” Elgin said. He gunned the engine and zipped into the night.
Regina had already gone to bed. Mel tiptoed around his darkened apartment getting a blanket and a pillow for Pershing, cursing softly as he bumped into furniture. Two box fans blasted, but the room was muggy as a greenhouse. Once the sleeping arrangements were made, he got a six-pack of Heineken from the refrigerator and handed one to Pershing. They kicked back and watched a repeat of the Mariners game with the volume turned most of the way down. The seventh-inning stretch did Mel in. His face had a droopy, hangdog quality that meant he was loaded and ready to crash. He said good-night and sneaked unsteadily toward the bedroom.
Pershing watched the rest of the game, too lethargic to reach for the remote. Eventually he killed the television and lay on the coach, sweat molding his clothes to him like a second skin. His heart felt sluggish. A night light in the kitchen cast ghostly radiance upon the wall, illuminating bits of Regina’s Ansel Adams prints, the glittery mica eyes of her menagerie of animal figurines on the mantel. Despite his misery, he fell asleep right away.
A woman gasped in pleasure. That brought him up from the depths. The cry repeated, muffled by the wall of Mel and Gina’s bedroom. He stared at the ceiling, mortified, thinking that Mel certainly was one hell of a randy bastard after he got a few drinks under his belt. Then someone whispered, perhaps five feet to his left where the light didn’t penetrate. The voice chanted: This old man, this old man . . .
The syrupy tone wicked away the heat as if he’d fallen into a cold, black lake. He sat upright so quickly pains sparked in his neck and back. His only consolation lay in the recognition of the slight echoing quality, which suggested the person was elsewhere. Whistling emanated from the shadows, its falsetto muted by the background noise. He clumsily sprang from the couch, his fear transformed to a more useful sense of anger, and crabwalked until he reached the proper vent. “Hey, jerk!” he said, placing his face within kissing distance of the grill. “I’m gonna break your knees with my baseball bat if you don’t shut your damn mouth!” His bravado was thin—he did keep a Louisville slugger, signed by Ken Griffey Jr., no less, in the bedroom closet in case a burglar broke in at night. Whether he’d be able to break anyone’s knees was open to question.
The whistling broke off mid-tune. Silence followed. Pershing listened so hard his skull ached. He said to himself with grudging satisfaction, “That’s right, creepos, you better stuff a sock in it.” His sense of accomplishment was marred by the creeping dread that the reason his tormentors (or were they Mel’s since this was his place?) had desisted was because they even now prowled the stairwells and halls of the old building, patiently searching for him.
He finally went and poured a glass of water and huddled at the kitchen table until dawn lighted the windows and Gina stumbled in to make coffee.
The temperature spiked to one hundred and three degrees by two p.m. the following afternoon. He bought Wanda two dozen roses with a card and chocolates, and arranged to have them delivered to her house. Mission accomplished, he went directly to an air-conditioned coffee shop, found a dark corner, and ordered half a dozen consecutive frozen Frappucinos. That killed time until his rendezvous with Mel at the Broadsword.
Mel grinned like a mischievous schoolboy when he showed off his fiber-optic snooper cable, a meter for measuring electromagnetic fluctuations, and his battered steel toolbox. Pershing asked if he’d done this before and Mel replied that he’d learned a trick or two in the Navy. “Just don’t destroy anything,” Pershing said. At least a dozen times he’d started to tell Mel about t
he previous night’s visitation, the laughter; after all, if this was occurring in different apartments on separate floors, the scope of such a prank would be improbable. He couldn’t devise a way to break it to his friend and still remain credible, and so kept his peace, miserably observing the operation unfold. After lugging the equipment upstairs, Mel spread a drop cloth to protect the hardwood floor and arrayed his various tools with the affected studiousness of a surgeon preparing to perform open-heart surgery. Within five minutes he’d unscrewed the antique brass grillwork plate and was rooting around inside the guts of the duct with a flashlight and a big screwdriver. Next, he took a reading with the voltmeter, then, finding nothing suspicious, made a laborious circuit of the entire apartment, running the meter over the other vents, the molding, and outlets. Pershing supplied him with glasses of lemonade to diffuse his own sense of helplessness.
Mel switched off the meter, wiping his face and neck with a damp cloth. He gulped the remainder of the pitcher of lemonade and shook his head with disappointment. “Damn. Place is clean. Well, except for some roaches.”
“I’ll make Frame gas them later. So, nothing, eh? It’s funny acoustics. Or my imagination.”
“Yeah, could be. Ask your neighbors if they heard anything odd lately.”
“I dunno. They already gave me the fishy eye after I made the rounds checking on Wanda’s girl. Maybe I should leave it alone for now. See what happens.”
“That’s fine as long as whatever happens isn’t bad.” Mel packed his tools with a disconsolate expression.
The phone rang. “I love you, baby,” Wanda said on the other end.
“Me too,” Pershing said. “I hope you liked the flowers.” Meanwhile, Mel gave him a thumbs up and let himself out. Wanda asked if he wanted to come over and it was all Pershing could do to sound composed. “It’s a date. I’ll stop and grab a bottle of vino.”
“No way, Jose; you don’t know Jack about wine. I’ll take care of that—you just bring yourself on over.”
After they disconnected he said, “Thank God.” Partly because a peace treaty with Wanda was a relief. The other portion, the much larger portion, frankly, was that he could spend the night well away from the Broadsword. Yeah, that’s fine, girly man. How about tomorrow night? How about the one after that?
For twenty years he’d chewed on the idea of moving; every time the furnace broke in the winter, the cooling system died in the summer, or when the elevators went offline sans explanation from management for weeks on end, he’d joined the crowd of malcontents who wrote letters to the absentee landlord, threatened to call the state, to sue, to breach the rental contract and disappear. Maybe the moment had come to make good on that. Yet in his heart he despaired of escaping; he was a part of the hotel now. It surrounded him like a living tomb.
He dreamed that he woke and dressed and returned to the Broadsword. In this dream he was a passenger inside his own body, an automaton following its clockwork track. The apartment smelled stale from days of neglect. Something was wrong, however; off kilter, almost as if it wasn’t his home at all, but a clever recreation, a stage set. Certain objects assumed hyperreality, while others submerged into a murky background. The sugar in the glass bowl glowed and dimmed and brightened, like a pulse. Through the window, leaden clouds scraped the tops of buildings and radio antennas vibrated, transmitting a signal that he felt in his skull, his teeth fillings, as a squeal of metal on metal. His nose bled. He opened the bathroom door and stopped, confronted by a cavern. The darkness roiled humid and rank, as if the cave was an abscess in the heart of some organic mass. Waves of purple radiation undulated at a distance of feet, or miles, and from those depths resonated the metallic clash of titanic ice flows colliding. “It’s not a cave,” Bobby Silver said. He stood inside the door, surrounded by shadows so that his wrinkled face shone like the sugar bowl. It was suspended in the blackness. “This is the surface. And it’s around noon, local time. We do, however, spend most of our lives underground. We like the dark.”
“Where?” He couldn’t manage more than a dry whisper.
“Oh, you know,” Sly said, and laughed. “C’mon, bucko—we’ve been beaming this into your brain for months—”
“No. Not possible. I’ve worn my tinfoil hat every day.”
“—our system orbits a brown star, and it’s cold, so we nestle in heaps and mounds that rise in ziggurats and pyramids. We swim in blood to stay warm, wring it from the weak the way you might squeeze juice from an orange.”
Pershing recognized the voice from the vent. “You’re a fake. Why are you pretending to be Bobby Silver?”
“Oh. If I didn’t wear this, you wouldn’t comprehend me. Should I remove it?” Sly grinned, seized his own cheek, and pulled. His flesh stretched like taffy accompanied by a squelching sound. He winked and allowed it to deform to a human shape. “It’s what’s underneath that counts. You’ll see. When we come to stay with you.”
Pershing said, “I don’t want to see anything.” He tried to flee, to run shrieking, but this being a dream, he was rooted, trapped, unable to do more than mumble protestations.
“Yes, Percy, you do,” Ethel said from behind him. “We love you.” As he twisted his head to gape at her, she gave him the soft, tender smile he remembered, the one that haunted his waking dreams, and then put her hand against his face and shoved him into the dark.
He stayed over at her place for a week—hid out, like a criminal seeking sanctuary from the Church. Unhappily, this doubtless gave Wanda the wrong impression (although at this point even Pershing wasn’t certain what impression she should have), but at all costs he needed a vacation from his suddenly creep-infested heat trap of an apartment. Prior to this he’d stayed overnight fewer than a dozen times. His encampment at her house was noted without comment.
Jimmy’s twenty-sixth birthday fell on a Sunday. After morning services at Wanda’s Lutheran church, a handsome brick building only five minutes from the Broadsword, Pershing went outside to the quiet employee parking lot and called him. Jimmy had wanted to be an architect since elementary school. He went into construction, which Pershing thought was close enough despite the nagging suspicion his son wouldn’t agree. Jimmy lived in California at the moment—he migrated seasonally along the West Coast, chasing jobs. Pershing wished him a happy birthday and explained a card was in the mail. He hoped the kid wouldn’t check the postmark as he’d only remembered yesterday and rushed to get it sent before the post office closed.
Normally he was on top of the family things: the cards, the phone calls, the occasional visit to Lisa Anne when she attended Berkeley. Her stepfather, Barton Ingles III, funded college, which simultaneously indebted and infuriated Pershing, whose fixed income allowed little more than his periodic visits and a small check here and there. Now graduated, she worked for a temp agency in San Francisco and, embarrassingly, her meager base salary surpassed his retirement.
Toward the end of their conversation, after Pershing’s best wishes and obligatory questions about the fine California weather and the job, Jimmy said, “Well, Pop, I hate to ask this . . . ”
“Uh, oh. What have I done now? Don’t tell me you need money.”
Jimmy chuckled uneasily. “Nah, if I needed cash I’d ask Bart. He’s a tightwad, but he’ll do anything to impress Mom, you know? No, it’s . . . how do I put this? Are you, um, drinking? Or smoking the ganja, or something? I hate to be rude, but I gotta ask.”
“Are you kidding?”
There was a long, long pause. “Okay. Maybe I’m . . . Pop, you called me at like two in the morning. Wednesday. You tried to disguise your voice—”
“Wha-a-t?” Pershing couldn’t wrap his mind around what he was hearing. “I did no such thing, James.” He breathed heavily, perspiring more than even the weather called for.
“Pop, calm down, you’re hyperventilating. Look, I’m not pissed—I just figured you got hammered and hit the speed dial. It would’ve been kinda funny if it hadn’t been so creepy. Singing, no less
.”
“But it wasn’t me! I’ve been with Wanda all week. She sure as hell would’ve noticed if I got drunk and started prank calling my family. I’ll get her on the phone—”
“Really? Then is somebody sharing your pad? This is the twenty-first century, Pop. I got star sixty-nine. Your number.”
“Oh.” Pershing’s blood drained into his belly. He covered his eyes with his free hand because the glare from the sidewalk made him dizzy. “What did I—this person—sing, exactly?”
“ ‘This Old Man,’ or whatever it’s called. Although you, or they, added some unpleasant lyrics. They slurred . . . falsetto. When I called back, whoever it was answered. I asked what gave and they laughed. Pretty nasty laugh, too. I admit, I can’t recall you ever making that kinda sound.”
“It wasn’t me. Sober, drunk, whatever. Better believe I’m going to find the bastard. There’s been an incident or three around here. Wanda saw a prowler.”
“All right, all right. If that’s true, then maybe you should get the cops involved.”
“Yeah.”
“And Pop—let me explain it to Mom and Lisa before you get on the horn with them. Better yet, don’t even bother with Mom. She’s pretty much freaked outta her mind.”
“They were called.”
“Yeah. Same night. A real spree.”
Pershing could only stammer and mumble when his son said he had to run, and then the line was dead. Wanda appeared from nowhere and touched his arm and he nearly swung on her. She looked shocked and her gaze fastened on his fist. He said, “Jesus, honey, you scared me.”
“I noticed,” she said. She remained stiff when he hugged her. The tension was purely reflexive, or so he hoped. His batting average with her just kept sinking. He couldn’t do a much better job of damaging their relationship if he tried.
“I am so, so sorry,” he said, and it was true. He hadn’t told her about the trouble at the Broadsword. It was one thing to confide in his male friends, and quite another to reveal the source of his anxiety to a girlfriend, or any vulnerability for that matter. He’d inherited his secretiveness from Pop who in turn had hidden his own fears behind a mask of stoicism; this personality trait was simply a fact of life for Dennard men.
The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror Page 19
