Terminal House
Page 20
Melanie stood now, pulling him to his feet, saying, “I’m not that kind of hungry.”
And repeating an act that propelled him back across the years as effectively as any time machine, she led him upstairs by the hand.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sunday, September 17 – The Barbeque
QUINN GUIDED HIS AGING Chevy Cruze along the gravel cottage road at half the speed limit, checking each overgrown entryway for the sign Ben had said to watch out for: Hunter’s Hollow. Wilder, hunched in the shotgun seat, was supposed to be watching for the sign, but he was too busy screwing with the radio and complaining about every little thing.
The car hit a pothole now and Wilder bumped his head on the dash. Cursing, he switched the radio off. “Nothing but Country anyway.” He touched his forehead, then checked his fingers for blood. “Why in the name of Christ would you own such a runty little shitbox, man? Look at you. Your big melon barely fits in here.”
Quinn chuckled. “Room for your ass and a gallon of gas. It was my wife’s car.”
“Well, you should junk it and buy a Humvee. Show a little pride.”
“Who can afford a vehicle like that? And I drive what, maybe once a month?” He pulled up next to a homemade sign partially obscured by goldenrod, but it said, The Gallaghers. He rechecked the map Ben had drawn. “Shit, it’s gotta be around here someplace.”
“Didn’t you drive the man two days ago?”
“Yeah, but he knows where the friggin place is.”
Wilder said, “And you didn’t pay attention.” He pointed through the windscreen. “Next one up on the left.”
The asshole was right.
Quinn said, “You been here before?”
“No, but I still have my eyesight.” He rubbed his forehead again. “Goddamn, that’s gonna raise a goose egg.”
Continuing to idle under the baking sun, Quinn said, “I hope it worked out between him and Mel. Poor bastard’s still head-over-heels.”
“If you took your foot off the brake, maybe we could find out.”
Ignoring Wilder now, Quinn made the left-hand turn, entering a sun-dappled tunnel of birch and poplar, the gravel lane rutted from neglect.
They came to the foot of a steep rise and Wilder said, “According to the map, he should be right at the top of this hill. I hope the son of a bitch has HP Sauce. I meant to bring a bottle and forgot it on the counter.”
Lumbering up this last stretch of road, Quinn said, “Or confused it with a beer and chugged it.”
“Funny.”
They crested the hill and came to a stop, both men silent now, taking in the view.
Grinning, Quinn said, “Look at this place. It’s paradise up here.”
“Notice anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“No car.”
Quinn thought, Shit, and felt his grin fall away.
Wilder said, “No nooky for Benji,” and patted the bulge in his pocket. “Good thing I brought combustibles. If I gotta look at long faces all day, I’m gonna need to be high.”
“You’re always high. Maybe they went for a drive. Ben said there’s a grocery store nearby. Maybe they went for HP Sauce. You’re always so negative.”
“Well, park this Dinky Toy and let’s see what’s up.”
* * *
Knocking hard on the front door for the third time, Quinn said, “See? No one’s here. Dimes to doughnuts they went to the store.”
“Or the dozy bugger cabbed home with his tail between his legs and neglected to tell us. Jesus Christ, it’s hot out here.”
Realizing Wilder had a point, Quinn knocked again, then cocked an ear to the door, listening into a silence marred only by the distant rattle of a chainsaw.
Wilder said, “Screw this nonsense,” and turned the knob. The door swung open onto a blast of dry heat more stifling than outside. Stepping into the foyer, Wilder said, “No A/C in here?”
Quinn watched him stride across the main floor and open the deck door, admitting a gentle river breeze. Now the man hollered, “Anybody home?” and Quinn shushed him, saying, “Hey, man, keep it down. If Melanie stood him up, he might still be sleeping.”
“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” Wilder said, checking the fridge now, saying, “No beer? What kind of Sunday-school barbeque are we in for here today?”
Quinn said, “Like you’ve never slept in.” He glanced into the stairwell. “I’ll go upstairs and see if he’s there. And keep it down, will you? If he’s still asleep, we’ll smoke a bowl and wait for him on the deck.”
“Good idea. I’ll see you out there.”
Quinn started into the stairwell, wincing every time a riser creaked under his weight. If Mel had stood Ben up, he was going to need a sympathetic ear—which made Quinn wish he’d left that mocking dickhead Wilder at home.
There was a landing about a dozen steps up, then a ninety-degree turn followed by another six steps. At the top of the second flight, Quinn glanced in both directions along a tiled hallway, seeing a bathroom to his right and what looked like a couple of bedrooms to his left.
No one in the bathroom. No one in the first bedroom, either. A glance from the hallway had him convinced the second bedroom was deserted as well, the drawn curtains admitting only a pale sliver of light.
Then his eyes adjusted and settled on the bed.
Ben lay on his side in there, cast in a stillness too profound for sleep. His topmost arm lay slung across the handle of a mop with a porcelain opera mask tangled in its ratty strands. The man’s eyes were open, fixed on that ghostly mask.
Swallowing hard, Quinn padded into the room, drawn by a tiny, star-shaped reflection on Ben’s hand…an engagement diamond, Quinn realized, snugged against the first knuckle of his ring finger.
“Aw, Benji.”
Wanting to be certain, Quinn checked for a pulse—there was none—and thought he saw a glint in his friend’s eyes, eyes that seemed to track him in the chancy light. Instead of the dull black gaze of the dead, Quinn believed he saw an eerie contentment in those eyes, as if with his final breath, his old pal had beheld the face of God.
Overcome by a sense of trespass now, Quinn backed out of the room and crept into the stairwell, hackles bristling as the creep became a dash and he burst out the front door to throw up in the hedge.
* * *
Roxanne flew home for the memorial service, hosted by the chapel and presided over by the diminutive Sister Mary Grace. In accordance with Ben’s wishes, his ashes were secured in a plain oak box Ely had built for him when he was a kid. With Gram’s help, Roxanne enshrined it on a bed of petals surrounded by elaborate flower arrangements, many of which had been sent by prominent people: the mayor; the prime minister; the billionaire Francis Riley and his wife; and Ben’s many other friends and colleagues. Quinn had provided an enlarged photo of Ben as a much younger man, dapper in his black graduation togs, the Oxford cap on his head tilted at a rakish angle, his smile as brilliant as the flash-glare on his framed MD degree.
In the car on the way to the service, Gram had told Roxanne she hadn’t called Ben yet to apologize, and had no idea he’d been waiting for her at the cottage. As was her way, she didn’t try to sugarcoat what her response would have been had she known. “I was honest with him, honey,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I loved the man once. Loved him like crazy. But that was a long time ago. And he was sick, we both see that now. I just couldn’t go through that again, Roxanne, watching someone I care about wither away. I hope you understand.”
“Of course I do, Gram. I just wish things could have been different.”
“Me too, sweetie. Me too.”
Several people got up to say a few words, including Ely, Quinn, Wilder, Francis Riley, and the old Russian physicist Ben had told Roxanne about. But it was Gram’s brief contribution that affected her most.
Dry-eyed now, the old woman spoke directly to Ben’s photo. “This is from Tolkien, old friend. Sweet lover.” She cleared her t
hroat and said, ‘All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.’
“If God is good, Benjamin Hunter, I’ll see you again soon.”
* * *
On the day before her return flight to Halifax, Roxanne borrowed Gram’s car and drove to Ben’s cottage in the rain. His ashes rested next to her on the passenger seat, her right hand breaking contact with the box only infrequently.
She parked at the top of the hill and tucked the box into a plastic bag to protect it from the rain, which had tapered now to a chill September drizzle. She strode to the front of the cottage and chose a spot she knew Ben adored, an enormous shade tree with a lofty view of the river and the forested hills beyond. Sheltered in its lee, she removed the box from the plastic bag and opened the lid, starting when a gust tugged a wisp of her friend’s remains into the air.
She said, “I love you, Ben. Thank you for loving me back.”
Reverently, she tilted the box, watching as Ben's ashes blossomed around her, a fresh gust dispersing them in gossamer curtains.
She lingered a while, remembering, then made her way back to the car, autumn thunderheads grumbling at her heels.
Thanks for reading Terminal House.
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Books by Sean Costello
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sean Costello is the author of eight novels and six screenplays, one of which has been optioned to film by David Hackl, director of Saw V. Depending on the whims of his muse, Costello's novels alternate between two distinct genres: Horror and Thriller. His horror novels have drawn comparisons to the works of Stephen King, and his thrillers to those of Elmore Leonard. In the real world he's an anesthesiologist, but, if asked, he'd tell you he'd much rather be writing. Sean is currently hard at work on his next novel
Copyright © 2017 by Sean Costello
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Red Tower Publications
Sudbury, Ontario
www.seancostello.net
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Terminal House / Sean Costello – 1st eBook edition.