by Mort Castle
But inevitably her future glimpses were not assurances of glad tidings. Others with psychic gifts might predict winning racehorses or know that a tumor would prove benign. Claire’s intuitive impressions varied only in the degrees of misfortune they foretold.
She felt this precognition—You nasty thing!—lurking just past the border of consciousness. Glumly, the told herself, I will see what I see when I see it. That was how the tricky whatsis operated. She could neither avoid a look at the future nor hasten its arrival.
When Claire rose, book in hand, she was dizzy and a shower of sparkling angel’s hair floated before her eyes. Definitely hypertension, she thought. Her dizziness passed and she went into the house, leaving Tomorrow’s Forevers on the kitchen table. In the living room, she clicked on the old, nineteen-inch black and white television. She seated herself on the couch for the Channel Nine News. The six o’clock anchorman was smiling as he reported the firing squad deaths of forty-six “enemies of Islam” in Iran. The “close-up” reporter smiled through his feature on teenage suicide. On a commercial, a woman grinned at learning her husband preferred stuffing to potatoes.
Claire had enough of capped-teeth artificiality and she got up and turned off the set. The picture vanished, leaving behind a white dot in the center of the screen, a white dot that glowed and spun as something cold and spider-legged scurried down Claire’s spine.
Claire staggered back a step. She straightened, eyes fixed on the pinwheeling, expanding dot. The television screen was smeared with globs of whiteness then shadow, and Claire thought, Now…
And now became the future as she saw… A mouth and eyes. The mouth is wrapped around a terrible scream and the eyes are screaming too. A child screams, flies and floats and twists so slowly through depths of air, flying and floating and screaming.
The child is… All mouth and eyes… I cannot see. Who… She… This little girt so terrified… I feel her fear…
I cannot see!
I cannot see but somehow I know and this is my grandchild, the child of my child…
But Kim? Or Marcy? I hear the scream and I feel the fright but so dark this vision, I cannot see her face…
Cannot see!
The scream ends with the thudding brutality of the pain-enveloped fall, the impact on the ground, the darkness…
Claire Wynkoop blinked. It was finished.
Shivering, she exhaled and then nodded, her decision definite. She had to call. Beth would laugh and try to pretend there was no reason to be upset. But you’ve learned, haven’t you, my dear? One of the children, Marcy or Kim, was in danger, or would be.
And this time, oh please this time, let the awareness of danger-to-be prevent it coming to pass!
Claire dialed her daughter’s number. Circuits hissed and crackled and then there was a ringing.
Sixty miles north, in Park Estates, Beth Louden answered the telephone. “Michael?”
“It’s…”
“Oh. Mom.”
Claire squeezed shut her eyes. She heard it in Beth’s voice. Something was wrong—now.
“The children… Are they all right?”
“Of course, Mom,” Beth said. “Home from camp today. They’re fine.”
“I saw something, Beth.”
Beth’s sigh was a breathy dismissal. “Not now, Mom. I’m just not in the mood, okay?”
“Beth…”
“Mom,” Beth curtly interrupted, “the girls are all right, I’m all right. Michael’s all right and that’s it.”
“Then what’s bothering you?” Claire demanded, because Beth’s words thrummed with tension.
“Nothing I feel like talking about, okay I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“All right, then,” Claire said quietly. There was nothing else she could do now except worry.
Before she hung up, Beth assured her mother yet again that everything was all right.
No, Claire Wynkoop silently responded, it was not.
Nor would it be.
“Dad’s here!” In a Camp PineTop T shirt and raggedy-kneed jeans, Kim shot down the stairs. Smiling, Marcy trailed her younger sister.
Eight-year-old Kim was solid and chunky, able to belt a softball farther than most boys her age. With the short, brutally blunt haircut she’d insisted on before camp—she was then in one of her “I hate Marcy” periods and didn’t want anyone saying they looked like sisters—her ‘round face sunburned and peeling, and two missing lower teeth, Kim was straddling the borderline between cute and homely.
Not so Marcy, so lovely that people frequently commented that she ought to model or do TV commercials. Summer sun had lightened the blond hair that tumbled onto the ten-year-old’s shoulders. Her oval face was delicately featured and her lip line was finely sculptured so that her mouth didn’t have the poutiness common to many children. In green, white-trimmed jogging shorts and a sleeveless yellow top, Marcy radiated the graceful, yet unmannered poise of a ballerina born to the dance.
In the foyer, Michael braced himself for the children’s rush. Squatting, his arms encircling the girls, he kissed them and then, with a grin said, “Don’t get the idea we missed you brats. It was so nice and quiet around here, Mom and I were thinking of leaving you at camp for the next ten years.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Marcy whimpered, clinging to his neck.
Oh, Daddy! Michael thought. Marcy was a beautiful mouse who usually responded to his teasing with a helpless “Oh, Daddy”—unless she failed to realize he was joking, in which case her wounded feelings were likely to prompt tears.
Quavery-voiced, Marcy said, “Daddy, you did so miss us, didn’t you.
“Hey, I was only fooling, baby.” As Michael assured Marcy, “just how much you kids mean to me,” Kim broke in with a nyah-nyah inflected, “So what, Dad? There’s this camp where you send grownups, you know. I’ll put you there!”
“Oh, that so?” Michael said. He let Kim wriggle free of his arms. When Kim chose, Michael thought, she could be something else. He’d tease and she’d tease in return. If he yelled, she yelled. And there were times when her high spiritedness led her across the border from the realm of mischievousness to the domain of pure brattiness, times when Michael could almost feel his hand gripping her throat and…
“I’ll send you to… Camp Crummy it’s called!” Kim said.
“Never heard of it,” Michael said placidly. “Is it a nice place?”
“It stinks. They feed you stale bread with lots of yucky bugs on it. How do you like that?”
Michael pretended to ponder, then said, “Toasted.”
Kim doubled over in laughter. Giggling, Marcy said, “You are so funny, Daddy.”
“Yup, shore am,” Michael drawled. “Yuh bet yore life I am, l’il Missy.” He tickled Marcy, a finger scooting down the ribs, and, still giggling, she jerked away from him.
Michael straightened up. “Where’s Mom?” Ordinarily when he came home at the normal 6:30 or so, Beth greeted him at the door.
“In there,” Kim pointed, and then led the way into the living room. Holding Marcy’s hand, Michael frowned.
Not quite whispering, Marcy said, “Something bad happened today, Daddy. Mom’s real upset.”
She was; he knew that when he saw Beth seated on the sofa, jerking her head with a sharp start-stop movement like a bird when he and the kids entered. “I… I’m so glad you’re home, Michael,” Beth said, her face sickly pale.
Michael let go of Marcy’s fingers. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Beth blinked as though the question hadn’t registered. It was Kim who shouted the answer as if she had a wondrous secret she’d been saving: “Someone went and killed Dusty, Mr. Zeller’s dog. Isn’t that gross?”
Oh, that so, Michael thought. How about that?
“God,” was all he said. He sat down, turning to face Beth and taking her hand. He sent Kim and Marcy up to their room and then asked Beth, “What exactly happened, honey?”
“It’s just awful, Michael,” Beth said,
shaking her head. “So wicked and senseless.”
Michael quietly urged, “Tell me, Beth.”
She did not, not right away. Michael understood. Wifey dear had to approach this horrible thing at her own slow pace, lessen its impact by creeping up on it with a recitation of the typical, common normal things that had preceded it.
“I started out feeling so fine today,” Beth said wearily. “Before I got the kids, I did go out to Lincoln Junior College. It was something. As soon as I stepped in the building, I felt ten years younger.”
“Sure,” Michael said.
“I spoke with the advisor. He was nice. I’m going to take the abnormal psych class.”
“That’s just great,” Michael said. “I’ll bet it will be interesting.” Get on with it, you silly bitch, he mentally commanded.
After the college visit, Beth had picked up the children, and then they’d gone shopping, stopping at McDonald’s for lunch on the way home. “Then we got in, oh, it must have been 1:30, I guess.”
They hadn’t been back five minutes when there was a pounding at the front door—a visitor. “Brad was drunk. I’ve never seen him like that. I never saw anyone that drunk.”
“Jeez,” Michael said.
“I thought he was going to pass out. Every time I got him to sit down, he’d bounce right back up. He wasn’t making much sense at first. He kept asking, ‘Who’d want to hurt good old Dusty?’ Finally he managed to tell me…the story.”
Beth squeezed Michael’s hand so hard his fingers went numb. “Someone broke Dusty’s neck,” Beth said. “Killed him and left the body in the garbage.”
“Good lord,” Michael said. “And the kids heard all of this?”
“Pretty much,” Beth said miserably. “I tried to shoo them away, but Brad was so loud…”
“Sure,” Michael said. “I understand. It’s awful. It’s just awful for Brad and for the kids and you.” Michael fell silent a moment, then asked, “Did Brad call the police?”
“Yes,” Beth said. “They came out and took…the dog. They’re investigating, of course.”
Right, Michael thought. No doubt the local version of Quincy was seeking fingerprints on a deader-than-shit dog this instant.
Michael dipped his head. “I’d better take a walk,” he said. “See how Zeller’s holding UP.”
“I knew you’d do that, Michael,” Beth said.
“Are you okay now, honey?”
“Not okay,” Beth answered, “but better. I’ll try to put together some kind of dinner.”
“Not for me,” Michael said. “My appetite is pretty well gone.”
Before Michael left the house, he told Beth to put the chain on the door. He’d knock when he returned.
Beth’s eyes acknowledged the warning and he knew she understood what he wanted her to. Somewhere—outside—perhaps living in this very neighborhood! was a person who killed, a person who killed dogs, who could possibly kill… Why, it might even be someone they knew very well.
Goddamn, it was funny! Michael Louden, the Stranger, laughed to himself as he went next door to be a “good neighbor.”
««—»»
I am all alone. Brad Zeller sat in the kitchen thinking that one thought. His hand was wrapped around a nearly empty glass and only three inches remained in the Imperial bottle on the table. But—not to worry—another fifth waited in the cabinet. Sure, it would be a bitch to walk all the way over there the way the floor was pitching and rolling, but then, journey’s end! and he’d reward himself with a drink. And a drink. And a drink. He hoped he might eventually pass out.
And then, well, tomorrow would be another day…
Another day of all alone. There was a thought for you. The thought.
Dusty…
Dusty. Was. Dead.
The hurt tore through Brad Zeller all over again. His glass was empty. His hand floated to the bottle’s neck. With slow, drunken precision, he poured without spilling a single drop.
When the front doorbell rang, Brad struggled to his feet and managed a wide-legged, swaying stance. He staggered from the kitchen. The walls and furniture became handholds and resting points to keep him erect.
He opened the door. He was not all alone.
His friend was here.
“Muh… Michael,” Brad said, working to control lips and tongue.
The floor thrust up under his heels. He rocked forward.
Michael quickly stepped in and caught Brad under the arms. “Steady, big fellow,” he said, easing Zeller around. Michael draped Brad’s flopping arms over his shoulder.
“Sudbody killed Dusty,” Brad mumbled, heavily leaning on Michael. “You hear ‘bout it?”
“Yes, Brad,” Michael said. “Believe me, I know all about it. Let’s sit your sagging ass down now, all right?”
“Kitchen,” Zeller insisted. “Got somethin’ to drink in the kitchen.”
“Right you are,” Michael agreed. “You’re a guy who needs a drink, yessir.”
In the kitchen, Michael deposited Zeller in a chair at the table. Brad used both hands to pick up the glass. Some whiskey flowed down his chin but most of it went down his throat.
“Join you for a drinkee, pally,” Michael said. He took a can of Old Milwaukee from the refrigerator and popped the top. He sat down across from Zeller. “Drink up, Brad. That’s the way.”
Brad’s head lolled from side to side as though he were undergoing a slow motion petit mal seizure. “Dunno who killed my nice dog, Michael. Figure maybe a kid? Figure some teenage punk sonofabitch of a kid?”
Michael shrugged. “I doubt it. After all, there’s no such thing as a bad boy.”
“A sonofabitch,” Brad said, “that’s who it was.”
“Just remember, Brad, there’s some good in the worst of us and some bad in the best of us. That’s what I think, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Brad said, head bobbing. He wasn’t really sure what it was that Michael had just told him. It was difficult to make sense of the words, connect them up with one another. It didn’t matter, though. Things were better now because Michael was here and someone did give a goddamn about Brad Zeller and he, was not all alone.
Brad’s eyes became wet. “You are my friend, Michael. You are my very good friend.”
“Gee,” Michael said, “Golly. Holy smoke. It’s an honor, Brad. No shit and honest Injun, I really mean that.”
“See, a person’s gotta have somebody.”
“That’s true. Everybody needs somebody sometime. Wouldn’t that make a great song title?”
“Used to be times… I get lonely, y’know?
But there was always old Dusty. He was my friend, too. My very good friend.”
“Yes, a dog is man’s best friend, Brad. A fucking shame somebody killed your dog.
“Yeah.”
“Say, you’re crying, Brad.”
“Yeah.” Brad ran his hand over his face, smearing the wetness around. “Got a daughter. Nice kid, Joanie, doesn’t give a damn about me. Lives in California. Never calls. Shit, she didn’t even show for her own mother’s funeral.”
Michael said, “Try to be optimistic, pal. Maybe Joanie will drag her ass here for your funeral.”
Brad squinted. Michael was smiling. Had Michael made a joke, trying to make him feel better? He thought so, but he wasn’t certain.
Brad pushed back from the table, the chair legs squeaking on the floor tiles. “Gotta take a leak.”
“Be my guest, Brad. Man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
“I…” Zeller grinned loosely. “I can’t stand up too good.”
Michael rose. “Hey, I can’t let my chum, my buddy, my compadre sit there and piss his pants, can I? That wouldn’t be neighborly.”
Michael hoisted Zeller to his feet. “Here we go,” he said.
As Michael helped him down the hall, Brad Zeller felt the warm, welcome emotion of gratitude filling him. “Thank you, Michael. You are a good man.”
Michael laughed, a crisp bar
k. “Hell, I’m a fucking angel, Brad. Haven’t you ever noticed my halo?”
Flicking on the bathroom light, Michael propped Brad against the wall. Michael raised the toilet seat. “Okay, buddy. Piss your brains out.”
Brad lurched toward the stool. On his third attempt, he caught the catch of his fly and unzipped his trousers.
“Ah, what the hell,” Michael said to himself. Brad was two feet from the toilet when Michael kicked the back of his left knee.
I’m falling Brad Zeller thought. He tried to ready himself for the impact. It wasn’t that bad, he thought, not all that much pain as he went down on his knees.
The pain exploded a moment later. Zeller’s head between his hands, Michael grunted with total, all-out exertion, and pushed Brad’s skull forward and down.
Zeller’s forehead smashed into the rim of the toilet bowl. Brad felt a steel net of agony squeeze his brain. A black balloon expanded inside his skull and he thought his eyes were going to pop from their sockets.
Then Brad slowly tumbled from his kneeling position, as though he were a penitent yielding to the exhaustion of days of prayer. He rolled onto his side, then to his back.
There was only a smear of scarlet on the toilet rim, but blood welled thickly from the trench in Brad’s crushed forehead.
Michael smiled, gazing down at Zeller. “Most fatal accidents occur right in the home, Brad. Think I saw that pleasant little item in the Reader’s Digest.”
Brad blinked. The pupil of his left eye was so dilated that the cornea had virtually disappeared. Blood seeped from his ears and trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“Yessir,” Michael said, “damned near every day you hear about some stupid old drunk taking a flop in the bathroom and fracturing his skill. Sure looks like that’s what happened to you, pal.”
Brad’s left leg jerked.
“Next time, you watch your step, hear?” Michael said.
Zeller’s arms flapped. He kicked out, the final actions ordered by his ruined brain. Then the electro-chemical processes of his mind ceased. His chest rose and fell, and deep in his throat, there was the sound of water slipping through a sluggish drain.
