The Sound of Midnight - An Oxrun Station Novel

by Charles L. Grant

  Plenty of time, she thought, to get up enough nerve to go inside and search out a book that might help explain her dreams. Maybe Nat Clayton . . . but Dale didn't want to reveal too much, and in deciding that realized that for a woman her age she had no real female friends in whom she could confide. It had always been her mother, and since taking over the store she had convinced herself she was far too busy to cultivate the frivolous.

  Now she regretted it, half hoped Natalie would come striding out on her way to meet her husband, the editor of the local newspaper. There was no serious thought of speaking to Bella; the old woman, she knew, would only homily her to death and pass it off as a phase all young women endured while waiting for a husband.

  The players. She watched them set up a new game. With age comes wisdom, she thought for no reason at all; maybe they could help me since they don't even know who I am. And as the temptation to interrupt them grew stronger, she tried not to smile, to grin, to break into laughter. She was ready to leave, then, before she succumbed when a shadow darkened the concrete at her feet. Startled, she looked up and back, and relaxed.

  "Ed," she said in mock scolding, "it isn't polite for local shrinks to sneak up on unescorted ladies like that"

  McPherson tugged at his forelock in apology and moved to sit beside her, maintaining a carefully wide space between them.

  "You looked rather lonely, Dale, and I decided to see what was bothering you. Troubles at the store?"

  The long face, the heavy brows that glowered over his eyes were set in such an obvious attitude of professional attention that she couldn't help but laugh aloud, more so when he frowned puzzlement and began rubbing the side of his nose vigorously. The old men, she saw, hurriedly swept their pieces into coat pockets and scurried off to the library without a glance in her direction. McPherson ignored them or, she thought, more likely hadn't even known they were there.

  "Ed," she said, sobering, "I'm sorry, but you look so . . . so office-bound sitting there. Don't you ever relax?"

  He glanced sheepishly at his crossed legs, his hands placed just so in his lap. He tried to assume a more casual position, with one arm draped along the back of the bench.

  "A habit," he said. "People seem to expect it of me so I naturally comply before I even read the signs." He pulled a cigarette from a crushed pack in his jacket pocket. She declined his offer of one, watched as he lighted it and shoved the burnt match into a pocket. "So. I'm relaxed."

  "Good for you," she said.

  "So tell me anyway. What's with the long face? Man trouble?"

  "Oh, brother, don't I wish. No, I've got sleep troubles."

  "The store, right?"

  "You know something, Doc," she said, pushing herself into a corner so she could see him without turning her head, "for a man who makes a living unbending folks' minds, you sure don't know how to fish very well. Why don't you just say: Dale, do you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

  "All right," he said, smiling. "Dale, do you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

  "No, not really," she said, laughing anew when his lips opened in surprise and the cigarette fell to the ground. But as he scrambled for it and straightened, she decided there was no reason why she shouldn't get an expert's opinion instead of rooting through musty library shelves with no real idea of what she was seeking, no notion of what it would be when she found it. "Dreams," she said finally, softly. "Well, not dreams exactly. One dream is more the case. I had it once a month or so ago, more than that I think, and several times over the past few weeks." She described it to him, hugging herself as the cloud superimposed itself in the air over the Pike. And when she'd done, she looked at him and was disappointed. He only sat there, staring, with no hint of revelation, no beaming grin. Just a stare that passed through her as if she wasn't there.

  She smiled; the smile faded.

  "Well?" she prodded. "How crazy am I?"

  "No crazier than anyone else, Dale. That much I can tell you without a fee."

  "Oh come on! You mean you're going to charge me for this outdoor session?"

  "I was kidding, Dale."

  She shrugged. Ed's one major fault—one among many, she corrected herself—was his inability to signal to others that he was trying, though failing, to be humorous. "I thought maybe it was guilt or something about Willy Campbell's death. You know . . . not being able to save him and all."

  "Well, you thought rightly, Dale. That's exactly what it seems to be. It's one thing to tell yourself in the mirror, to intellectualize if you will, that it is precisely what you said . . . but it's quite another to let your subconscious guilt feelings in on the dialogue. The . . . what shall we say? . . . the hatred the boy's face appears to project your way isn't his reproach for your seeming—and I stress that word 'seeming'—failure to save him. It's your own interpretation of how he might feel if he were in any shape to feel anything at all. It was, simply and unalterably, a freak accident which you were powerless to avert and unable to thwart the consequences of. Since you had seen him only a couple of hours earlier, it's only natural that your shock at finding him drowned be all the greater. And when the second death occurred, that of his father which was also something you weren't able to prevent, all you did was equate the two in your mind and what you get . . . is a beaut of a nightmare."

  She listened carefully, following without much difficulty as he continued, repeating himself several times though the message was the same. And it was true. So simply true that it was small wonder she couldn't convince herself of it. What it took was the word of a professional.

  "You see," he concluded, his hands spread wide, "complexity is not always involved in something like this. By taking my word for it, and thereby seeing yourself how right I am, you shouldn't be bothered again. Maybe once more for good measure, but beyond that, well . . ." and he slapped his leg, making her jump. Her smile was weak, and a helpless feeling of the ridiculous made her refuse to meet his gaze. Finally she held out her hand and he took it. His palm was warm, dry, and she pulled her hand away as if she were a schoolgirl again, meeting the football god she'd admired only from the sidelines.

  "Well," he said after an awkwardly long silence, "so how's business?"

  She blinked, put a hand to her cheek, and rubbed slowly. "Well enough, thanks. Which reminds me—how are you enjoying that chess set you bought? I should warn you that if I'd been there instead of Mrs. Inness, I probably would have tried to goose up the price a bit."

  Ed laughed dutifully. "And well you could have, Dale. It is without a doubt the prize of my meager collection. So much so, in fact, that I never use it for games. It just sits on my mantel where I can stare at it."

  "An expensive stare, if you ask me," she said.

  He took a deep breath, lighted another cigarette. "With only a son to watch over, I can afford such things. And besides, it's far too rare to fool around with."

  "One of a kind," she said quietly, thinking of Dave and the way he had called off their names.

  "Indeed it is," Ed said briskly, and rose suddenly. "But that's the way life is, you know, as much as one tends to hate it for being that way. And now that you've brought it up, I think I'll go home and have a good, long, expensive stare at old Gower and company again. Something to ease my mind after a hard day's work at the bench."

  She didn't stand but rather twisted around on the bench. "Hey, Ed!" she called as he headed down the Pike. "Did you say Gower and Company?"

  McPherson stopped, not turning until several seconds had passed. "Why, yes, I did. The rooks, you know. Gower Castle."

  "How'd you know that?"

  He put a hand to his chin, then shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I don't really know. Dave must have told me, I guess. Or a bit of esoterica that pops up in my fertile and useless mind once in a while."

  "Oh. Okay," she said.

  "Why?"

  She shook her head. "No reason. I just remembered what Dave told me about them, and I didn't think anyone else knew what they were supp
osed to be. And why I thought that I just don't know."

  He smiled. "You're only annoyed because it was just another selling point to help part me from my money."

  "Hey, I'm not annoyed, Ed. I just didn't expect you to . . ." She waved the words away. "Forget it. It's not important. Esoterica, as you said."

  "Right. Now I really must go, Dale. Take care of yourself, will you? And should those dreams come back, don't be too shy about calling me, okay? You know where you can find me."

  He waved, walked briskly away while Dale resettled herself to face the traffic and wonder why his knowing about the Children of Don, the Children of Llyr should bother her.

  "It shouldn't, and it doesn't," she told herself firmly. "And if you believe that, Dale Bartlett, I'll tell you another."

  CHAPTER V

  The night was still, the air like a sheath of thin ice over black water. The sky was filled with staring stars, the roads crisscrossed with shadows from moon and street lamps.

  Dale stood on the broad open porch of a blue Victorian home still gleaming with a summer coat of paint. Diagonally opposite was the sedate amber glow of the Chancellor Inn, the half-lit parking lot where Vic had left his car. As he rang the doorbell he looked down at her with an apologetic grin. She smiled encouragement while thinking the evening shouldn't be all that bad, even if her hostess would be Liz Provence. A few hours away from the house had been Vic's persuasive argument, a chance for her to loosen up and get drunk if she wanted to, at least have an opportunity to reacquaint herself with the rest of the world.

  Privately, she'd also decided it would be a night of celebration. For over three weeks since her library session with Ed McPherson, her sleep had been undisturbed by the face in the cloud. Though she had afterward questioned his quick, seemingly superficial diagnosis, something there must have reached her subconscious because it and the water were gone. So . . . a chance to laugh, to lift a glass or three, and get home at whatever hour she chose because the following day was Sunday and the wrong side of noon was reserved for those who needed the sunrise to wake up to.

  Within the house were explosions of laughter, the faint and unintelligible shouts of men already halfway through the famous Provence punchbowl. There was music, but all she felt was a thudding bass that threatened to shake down the walls. While not necessarily the socially imperative place to be seen, Liz's parties had always held a snakelike fascination for her, a last resort for the not-quite-rich of the Station to mend their wounds for not being invited to the affairs in the estates on the other side of the park

  "Maybe," she said finally, "she knows it's us and won't let us in."

  "Not funny," Vic grumbled, blowing into his hands and stamping his feet. "It's that stereo of hers. I think she's trying to turn the place into a rocket ship or something." He pressed the bell again, held it until he snorted in exasperation and opened the door. "In!" he shouted over the noise that flooded onto the porch. "We'll announce ourselves and wait to be thrown out."

  The tiny foyer, already jammed with benches and chairs hidden under topcoats, was separated from the house by a paned-glass door through which Dale could see the drifting, swirling party. Women in light gowns and billowing slacks, see-through blouses and rainbow caftans; men in suits, leisure jackets, printed shirts and jeans. Vic took her coat and his and jammed them into an overflowing closet. He wore a black corduroy jacket and open-necked shirt, Dale a glinting green satin blouse and matching skirt. After a quick mutual appraisal, flicking imaginary lint off shoulders and elbows, they opened the second door, and flinched.

  The music deafened, the conversations shouted, and just below the ceiling writhed a blue-gray pall of smoke that resisted the efforts of open windows to disperse it. Indecision froze them momentarily, then Vic took her arm and led her to the right through an arch into a large dining room in which a buffet had been spread on a massive circular table. Glasses empty and glasses half-filled littered the window sills and the spaces on the tablecloth where heaping plates of sandwiches had been picked over. Streamers hung limply from a crystal chandelier and deflated balloons shifted weakly as people passed uncaringly beneath them. Vic sighed loudly, grabbed two plates and filled them while Dale snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drank it without stopping.

  She was bored already, and already began a fight to keep Vic from noticing.

  Most of the food was tepid. Some of it soggy. Dale grimaced, forced herself to eat not because she was hungry but because she wanted as large a foundation in her stomach for her drinking as she could get. It was going to be that kind of a night, she thought. A long, long one.

  Vic evidently felt the same way. He gulped down one sandwich, winced, and returned the plate to the table. Then he pulled her into a corner and searched the room for someone they knew. Failing that, he groaned and leaned down to be heard.

  "I don't see Liz anywhere," he said.

  "If we're lucky, she'll be lost for the rest of the night. How did you get invited to one of these things?"

  "Pure chance," he laughed. "She wants my superb form to grace her bed for an evening."

  Dale punched him, harder than she thought, and quickly rubbed his chest. A woman in red stopped and stared through glazed eyes, swayed toward them and swerved abruptly away. Dale stuck out her tongue at the backless dress and Vic yanked on her hair.

  "How many times have I told you, you have the wrong attitude about life?" he said.

  "This is life? Ye gods, pray for the angel Gabriel."

  He chuckled, grabbed two glasses from a tray carried by a harried-looking man in a rumpled waiter's uniform. The man stopped, glared, swept himself away into an adjoining room. Dale stuck her tongue out again, then yelped when Vic clipped her lightly under the chin, forcing her teeth to bite down.

  "Hey, that hurt!"

  "You think that's bad, just wait a minute," he said, nodding toward the room on the other side of the foyer.

  Dale poked her head around the jamb and sighed. Liz Provence was coming toward them, her face gleaming with perspiration, her thick lips working as she whispered to a bald-headed man beside her. Dale knew she was close to forty and did her best to hide it: her black hair was brushed to a sheen and lay delicately on rounded bare shoulders, her face handsome in the Roman manner. Her figure she displayed in a simple black cocktail dress that barely reached the center of her thighs, flowed out from her hips to give the illusion of motion even as she remained still. The neckline was high, and between her breasts dangled a gold chain without pendant.

  They tried to duck back into their corner, but Liz had spotted them. She dismissed her escort with an imperial wave and turned to confront them, smiling, her hand out for Vic to take and bow slightly over, for Dale to touch and release without ever feeling the contact.

  "Vic, Dale," she said with a moue and a shake of her hair, "it's about time someone with a little wit and intelligence showed up. I don't know why I bother with these things. It's so damned masochistic."

  "Nonsense," Vic said politely. "It looks like everyone is having a fine time."

  "Yes," Dale said, standing decidedly closer to him. "If noise is any indication, these folks aren't going to forget this one for a long time."

  Liz lowered her high, thin eyebrows slightly, turned away for a moment when the waiter returned to whisper something in her ear. Dale looked to Vic for a conspiratorial exchange, but he was preoccupied with Liz's figure. She wanted to punch him then, hard. But a voice called her name, and she waved too heartily at one of the store's regulars. The faces came into sharp focus immediately thereafter and she recognized more of the merchants who shared her block, the bankers and jewelers whose establishments took up almost the entire opposite side of the street. They saw her, nodded or smiled or beckoned out of courtesy, and she returned the gestures with broad demurrals of her own. Sooner or later she knew she would be caught up with them, exchanging gossip, sniping at Liz behind her back—but at the moment she decided it wouldn't hurt to let Liz kn
ow that she had a stake in the ex-teacher and wasn't about to release it without a skirmish.

  "Crap." Liz's exclamation snapped Dale back to the party, made her blink as she watched the hostess bend over and take off her shoes to hold in one hand while she rubbed her soles without leaning against either of them for balance. "You know, Dale, these things are a drag. If that slimy waiter tries once more to get me upstairs, I'm going to shove his tray where it'll do the most good. And I doubt that he'll take the hint."

  Dale laughed in spite of herself, was about to comment, when a second waiter, far broader than any man had a right to be, interrupted and pleaded with Liz to allow him to open another case of champagne. Liz tightened her lips, tapped one bare foot angrily before nodding sharply.

  "And that one," she said glumly, "is the worst organizer in the whole universe. Brother, am I tired!"

  Suddenly the mask slipped, the face shouted its weariness and well-disguised disgust at what Liz was doing. Dale couldn't resist a hand to her shoulder and was surprised when Liz covered it briefly before turning and Dale had to pull back. And it was a reluctant move because Dale had seen something in the Provence woman she'd never expected was there: a humanness that instantly brought her down from her artificial Olympus and reinstated her with the rest of the normal living. It was a revelation she wanted to share, but Vic had gone, vanished into the crowd.