"I'm not at a place where I can stop,” I said reluctantly, nodding to the laptop.
He glanced at his watch and said tentatively, “Well, how about in another hour or so?"
"I—uh—I really need to keep working,” I excused. My own disappointment startled me, but I didn't see a way around it. “Rain check?” I said hopefully.
Even as I said it I realized how stupid that was. When would there be time for a rain check? I'd be leaving tomorrow.
"Sure,” Sam said indifferently, his face closing up again into its usual hard lines. “See you later."
He went back into the house and I stared unseeing at the computer screen.
The minute I heard his car pull away, I shut down my laptop and ran inside the house.
I pulled on Levis, stepped into tennis shoes, and hot-footed it over to Berkeley House. There was no sign of anyone in the woods—for a change—and my fears of the night before seemed the result of not enough sleep.
Slipping through the broken library window, I quickly changed the tapes, stuck the recorded video in the smaller video cam and started out again.
Leg over the sill, I hesitated.
Why not take a look at the cellar in the daylight?
Last night I had been overtired and, I had to confess, I'd let the atmosphere of the old place get to me. But today the house was just a slightly depressing wreck, and there was no reason not to check out the cellar. In fact, there was every reason to take a look, since it was my job to investigate paranormal occurrences, right?
I ducked back under the sill and made my way down the hall and through the ruined dining room. The chill hit me as I slipped through the dining room side door, but it was cold inside the center of the house, removed from the light and warmth of the day.
Rounding the corner, I stopped, letting my flashlight play over the scratched and battered door to the cellar.
The door was closed again. The knob had been replaced on its spindle. I stared at it for a long time, trying to remember when I'd replaced it.
I reached for the knob and then let my hand drop back to my side.
My skin crawled at the thought of opening the door to that ... to that what? What was my problem?
I yanked open the door.
Cold. Bitter cold seeping through my clothes, my skin, right to my bones....
I slammed the door shut.
Fuck. I couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself step through that door, let alone go down the steps to the cellar.
And that fact alone seemed to indicate that there was something here, something at least worth mentioning in the book.
I'd never felt anything like it.
Everything else ... the shadowy figure in the woods, the lights, the noise of the guillotine, everything else could be put down to fatigue or imagination or suggestion.
But whatever was on the other side of this door....
Suddenly I wanted out of that house about as intensely as I'd ever wanted anything in my life.
As I crossed the hall to the dining room my foot stuck to the floor. I shone my flashlight on the sole of my shoe.
A dime-sized piece of plastic.
Not plastic.
Hard candy.
I could see a candy wrapper blowing inside the house but there was no way a half-sucked lozenge of candy had wafted here on its own. And there was no way David Berkeley's ghost—with or without a head—was eating hard candies.
Someone—a human someone—had been inside the house besides me.
* * * * *
Kids, I thought. Not that I had seen any kids around, but candy and trespassing in haunted house seemed to indicate an adolescent hand.
Or perhaps ... Thaddeus? He didn't seem particularly fearful of the house, but he also didn't seem like the candy-popping type. Or maybe he did. How would I know?
There was a reasonable chance I had the answer on the video tape—assuming the candy-sucking intruder had showed up during the hours I'd been recording.
I remembered the floating lights in the attic and the sounds of sliding metal and clanking chains—had someone faked guillotine sounds and a ghostly presence? Why?
The house was already abandoned and no one seemed to show much of an interest in it aside from me—and my interest was temporary. It's not like I planned to move in there. The house itself didn't seem long for this world.
I stick-stuck my way across the floor, the dirt on the wood gradually working the candy loose and off my shoe sole.
Climbing out the library window, I was startled to see that the day had grown overcast, the sun retreating behind heavy cloud cover. A cold salty wind blew off the sea. I crept my way through the overgrown garden and then slipped into the woods, making my way back to Oliver's.
Sam was still not back, but as I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway, I saw that it was nearly four-thirty. He might be on his way back now. He'd been gone all afternoon.
I hunted around until I found a television hidden inside a lavish antique armoire. It took a few moments to figure out the inputs, but at last I had the camera hooked up to the TV.
I pressed play and stood back to watch.
Gray snow and the ear-blast of static.
I turned down the sound and tried different channels. No good. I hit fast forward.
The tape was blank.
"Damn."
Camera malfunction? Pilot error? I couldn't make sense of it. I'd used this camera dozens of time without problem.
Could someone have tampered with it? A candy-sucking saboteur? But why wouldn't such a person simply have turned the camera off—or smashed it?
Hearing the sound of a car in the drive, I snapped off the TV. I wiggled the cord free, grabbed the camera and ran for the stairs.
Foot on the bottom step, I heard Sam's key in the front door lock. I froze, spied the hall closet door, and jerked it open, setting the camera inside.
I turned as the door swung open. Sam, was balancing white bags of take out while trying to pull his key from the door.
I felt a weird mix of pleasure and guilt at the sight of him, and although I had been planning to make my escape upstairs with the evidence as quickly as possible, I found myself walking towards him.
"Hi."
"Hi.” He smiled a little self-consciously. “How'd the work go?"
"Good."
This was ridiculous. I actually felt ... shy.
"I thought tonight we'd both get a night off.” He held up one of the bags. “You like Chinese?"
"I love Chinese."
He gave another one of those lopsided smiles like he was still practicing getting the expression right.
"Grab some plates and a bottle of wine. We'll eat in the study.” He added as an afterthought, “If that's okay with you."
"Yeah, it's okay."
His eyes met mine.
I waited ‘til he vanished into the study, then I opened the closet door, grabbed the camera and took the stairs two at a time. I dropped the camera inside the doorway of my room and raced downstairs.
No sign of Sam, but I could smell woodsmoke.
I uncorked a bottle of wine, found glasses, and carried the plates into the study. Sam had dragged a short table over to the fireplace and was setting out little white cartons.
"Cashew chicken, barbecue spare ribs, sesame beef...."
I poured the wine into the glasses and settled on the floor beside him facing the fire.
Something was different. Something had changed. I could feel it, even though I couldn't identify what it was. I knew the change was partly in myself—and I knew the change was partly in Sam. Every time I met his eyes—which was frequently—something in his gaze warmed me, lifted my heart.
Suddenly there was a lot to say, each of us rushing into speech, pausing, smiling, to let the other talk. I let Sam refill my glass a couple of times and I looked forward to the night ahead.
When we finished eating, Sam slipped his arm around my shoulders and I turned my head
to find his mouth. I closed my eyes, liking the feel of his mouth on mine, firm and warm, liking his gentleness and liking his assurance. My heart started to pound hard in my chest as his tongue brushed my upper lip.
"I've never known anyone like you,” he said against my mouth. It almost sounded like an apology.
I smiled and his tongue slipped into my mouth, a dark and sweet kiss. Our tongues pushed delicately against each other, whorled, withdrew.
I laughed, snatched a quick unsteady breath. It had been a long time since kissing had been a big part of my sexual repertoire. With C.K. time had always been of the essence, both of us busy with our careers and outside demands. I hadn't realized quite how many outside demands C.K. had until one of them insisted he break up with me.
Sam rested his hand on my jaw, turned my face to his and kissed me deeper still, taking my breath away as his tongue touched, tested, tasted. Weren't there something like eight thousand taste buds on an adult tongue? Every one of mine seemed to be experiencing its very first burst of flavor: a smoky blend of alcohol and cashew chicken and something uniquely masculine—uniquely Sam.
The phone rang above our heads.
Sam stiffened. I moaned. He tore his mouth away.
"Who the hell is that?" I complained.
He kissed the corner of my mouth, and sat up. “Thad probably. No one else ever calls here."
The phone continued to shrill away. Sam rolled to his feet and picked it up.
I listened to the one-sided conversation. Since that was Sam's part of the conversation, there was basically nothing to hear.
"Yeah ... Okay ... Sure ... No. No problem, Oliver. I'll handle it."
He hung up the phone and studied me ruefully. “Feel like a walk in the woods?"
"Seriously?"
"Oliver says he got a strange phone call from Thaddeus a while ago. He wants me to go over there and check that he's okay."
I sat up. “Okay."
We grabbed jackets from the hall closet and locked the front door behind us.
The moon was lost behind the heavy clouds as we cut through the woods, but our two flashlights provided enough light as we pounded down the dirt path.
"What are you smiling at?” Sam asked during the silence that had fallen between us. If he could tell I was smiling in the dark, he had to be paying pretty close attention.
"I was just thinking I'd put money on you over David Berkeley's ghost any day of the week."
He sounded amused. “I thought you weren't afraid of ghosts?"
"I'm just sayin'.” Actually, I was saying too much, but I wasn't used to having to deceive anyone in the course of my work. And I liked less and less having to lie or conceal things from Sam. I tried to think of a way to tell him I'd been sneaking into Berkeley House before Thaddeus brought it up, but I hated the thought of losing this new-found harmony.
And maybe Thaddeus wouldn't say anything. Maybe whatever had us hot-footing it over to his house in the middle of the night would require all his attention. And if he did bring it up, maybe having a third party present would keep Sam from getting too angry, and give me a little time to explain my side of it.
Only one light was on at Thaddeus's house. Remembering the blaze of lamps the night before, it struck me as ominous. Sam banged on the door, but after a pause that seemed long enough to confirm my fears, Thaddeus swung open the door. He was wearing a purple paisley silk dressing gown and his hair looked like he had stuck his finger in a wall socket. He reeked of booze.
"Oliver sent you,” he said immediately.
"He's worried,” Sam said. “Can we come in?"
Thaddeus's eyes moved from Sam to me. He said, “He's not so worried that he'll come home."
For a minute I thought he was talking about me. He continued to stare at me.
"Can we come in, Thad?” Sam repeated. And after a moment Thaddeus moved aside and led the way into the house.
We trailed him into the room where he'd played host to me the night before. Sam sat down as though it was an ordinary visit, and after a moment, I sat too, choosing a chair off to the side. I was sort of hoping Thad might forget all about me.
We watched as he poured himself another cognac. His hands shook.
"You think that's going to help?” Sam asked.
"It can't hurt,” Thaddeus retorted. He poured another glass and handed it to Sam. Looking blearily around, he spotted me. “There you are.” He poured a third unsteady glass and I half-rose to take it from him.
Sam savored, swallowed, and said, “What's going on, Thad?"
"I'm old and I'm tired and I'm lonely,” Thad said pretty crisply for a guy who'd apparently downed a half bottle of cognac. “I've come to the end of my rope."
Sam didn't have an answer for that, and I recognized it would be best if I kept my mouth shut. I swirled the tulip-shaped glass and then sniffed the volatile aroma.
"I want Oliver to come home,” Thaddeus said. “If he loves me, he'll come."
"You know it's got nothing to do with that,” Sam said.
Thaddeus turned his dark, bitter gaze my way. “I know what it has to do with. It has to do with using pretty little boys like that one to keep the dark at bay."
I lowered my glass. Granted, I was outside my weight division with those two, but I wasn't a midget, and I was over thirty. I opened my mouth, but caught the warning look Sam shot my way. By now I had an idea of Oliver's track record, so I bit back what was on the tip of my tongue.
"It's still got nothing to do with you,” Sam said.
"No?” Thaddeus laughed—nothing like his usual nutty chuckle—and tossed back the rest of his drink.
Sam said quietly, “Thad."
Thad refilled his glass from the decanter at his elbow. “Don't be a boor, Sammy. Allow me my little farewell party.” He raised the glass and toasted something out there in the night.
"Oh, that's just great,” Sam said disgustedly. “What? You're planning to off yourself because Oliver's a spoiled, overgrown adolescent?"
Thaddeus glared. “This is farewell to a dream,” he said with great dignity. “I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of killing myself."
"For what it's worth, I don't think Oliver would find your death very satisfying."
"It doesn't matter what he would or wouldn't find,” Thad returned. “It's over. I've finally given up. I've been a fool. I see that now. Flesh and blood can't compete with.... “Once more he turned that dark hostile gaze my way. “Well, it's finished. Over. Oh, don't worry. I won't do anything drastic. That's why you're here, I suppose. You can call Oliver right back and assure him I'm not going to cut my throat. I'd have to care to cut my throat, and I don't care anymore. I don't feel anything anymore."
And he drained his glass once more.
"Why don't I help you to bed, Thad?” Sam suggested. “You'll see things differently in the morning."
"Oh, go home, Sam,” Thad said wearily. “And take him with you."
Sam's eyes met mine apologetically. I shrugged. I accepted that Thad's dislike wasn't personal; I just happened to represent everything he blamed for his unhappiness.
We didn't stay much longer. Sam made a couple more attempts to help Thad to bed, but they seemed to piss the old man off more than anything, and in the end even Sam had to concede defeat. Thad seemed to be settling into a boozy doze when Sam nodded silently to me. I rose, setting my empty glass aside.
We let ourselves out, standing for a moment on the porch. The wind had picked up again, rustling the tree leaves around us.
"Will he be all right?"
Sam shrugged. “I guess so. He's not a child. And he's not self-destructive—unless you count wasting your life loving someone like Oliver."
"Oliver must care a little. He called you to come check on Thad."
"Oh, he cares. In his own way.” He added quietly, “The best thing for Thad would be if he could stop loving Oliver. But how do you break the habit of a lifetime?"
That was a depressing thought. I f
elt tired and dispirited as we headed back to Oliver's. No wonder Sam was cynical about relationships with a role model like Oliver. And, if I remembered correctly, his parents were divorced as well
"They grew up together?” I asked.
"Oh, yeah. They were boys together, went to art school together, achieved fame and fortune together."
"They were lovers."
"They are lovers. That's the weird thing. No one means more to Oliver than Thad."
"I guess I understand Thad's confusion.” My own sour memories must have echoed in my voice because Sam glanced my way and then put an arm around my shoulders.
He said, “I don't understand Oliver. I don't understand why being with the person he loves the most isn't enough for him. But it's not. He needs the fame and he needs the adulation—he likes being a celebrity and he likes being a legend in his own lifetime. And if that's all it was, it would be difficult enough for Thaddeus, who doesn't care about any of that."
"But Oliver also likes pretty little boys."
"Yes.” He sighed. “Thad isn't in the best of health, although he won't tell Oliver that—won't let me tell Oliver that. So Oliver's going to wait too long, and that will be that."
"And you don't think maybe you should speak up before it's too late?"
I felt him glance at my profile. “No, I don't."
I thought it over, comfortable in the circle of his arm.
"Did you ever hear the story of David Berkeley?” I inquired. “He was a Twentieth Century magician who was so busy building a career based on creating illusions that he fooled himself and lost the woman he loved to another man."
He said wryly, “Okay, okay. I know about Berkeley, and Oliver knows about Berkeley. Oliver knows life is short—that's a big part of Oliver's problem."
"Non-interference. It doesn't seem like a cop attitude."
"I'm not a cop with the people I love.” His voice was different, although I couldn't define how. “And if it was me, I'd try to spend every minute with the person I loved, instead of focusing on the pain of losing him one day."
"Is that what it is?"
Scared Stiff Page 14
