The wildside book of fan.., p.16
The Deathstone, page 16
“Ah, yes. But every good has its evil. There are many ways of being.”
Ron now made his way past Mrs. Taylor who, it appeared, was discussing her brother Clayton; the last sentence was still ringing in his ears. There are many ways of being...
“His work,” said Mrs. Taylor, “was a union of mind and blood. A merging of instinct and spirituality. While writing here in Brackston—while creating his music, he found no barriers. His work became a marriage, not a war. In other words, he discovered his true self.”
Ron passed her quickly, avoiding her smiling glance.
A small distance ahead, Chandal’s image stood out, her fine hair shimmering in the sunlight, pouring golden shadows across her placid face. She looked so relaxed, Ron thought. So peaceful.
“How fascinating,” Chandal said.
“Del?”
She looked up. “Oh, Ron, here you are.” She took hold of his arm. “Mrs. Thomas, this is my husband Ron.”
The woman in green chiffon studied him intently over the top of her bifocals. “Oh, how do you do. You’re such a lucky young man. Your wife is so charming. And that daughter of yours. Delightful. Just delightful.”
“Thank you.” He glanced at Chandal.
The woman continued, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must step over and say hello to Erica. So nice to have met you, Mr. Talon,” she said and dissolved into the crowd.
“Del, I—”
“Well, stranger,” she interrupted, “what brings you to this end of the room?”
Her gaze, he thought, was of studied casualness; too casual. Her hands were too busy for that gaze as they smoothed the front of her candy-striped skirt, working each pleat amidst all the stripes. She looked cool and light in the heat of the morning, but just a little antsy.
“I’m going to take a walk into town,” he said. “See if the tires are in.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, you don’t...”
“Nonsense. I don’t want you running off without me. Besides,” she whispered, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe if we’re clever, nobody will notice we’re gone.”
They had barely reached the front door when they caught sight of Mrs. Taylor’s blue eyes peering at them. She tapped long slender fingers over her lips to stifle a yawn before she said: “I don’t blame you. These affairs tend to exhaust even the heartiest of souls.”
“We’re going into town,” Chandal said. “Do you need anything?”
“New feet!”
The women laughed. Ron endeavored to look amused.
“I’ll be sorry to see you go,” said Mrs. Taylor. “There is a dinner planned for this evening. Oh, not a maddening cluster of people. Just a few close friends. Will you consider joining us?”
Ron’s answer came too quickly. “I’m afraid we have to go.” He softened his response with a gentle shrug.
Chandal remained silent.
From beneath her lashes the woman thoughtfully regarded Ron. “Not a chance of changing your mind, I suppose?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Her face hardened for a moment, then for a reason which Ron hadn’t the inclination to analyze, she smiled. “So you’ve had enough of Brackston,” she said. “Well, if you haven’t, mark my words, I have.” Her laughter was brief. “Run along, enjoy yourselves. By this evening, you’ll be on your way to San Francisco.”
Her glance at Ron belied her words. It was oddly challenging. It was all he could do not to retort: “You bet your ass we’ll be on our way to San Francisco.”
Instead he turned and mutely followed Chandal down the path. She glanced back at the house for a moment. When she spoke there was a note of awe to her voice.
“Do you realize,” she said, unlatching the gate, “that most of the people of Brackston have spent their entire lives on the same land that supported their fathers and grandfathers and heaps of generations before that even. Some have never been more than a few miles from their homes. Incredible.” Smiling, she shook her head. “But it’s good, though; good to see such a genuine commitment to tradition.”
They strolled along the side path leisurely. Chandal continued to smile faintly. Glancing sideways at her, Ron was suddenly reminded of what a superb actress she used to be. Today, there was that something unique about her, larger than life, that had given her what he had considered to be star quality. Even in the way she moved now, her legs pushing forward with large brisk sweeps out into the stark sunlight. But there was also a quality he had never seen before. She was the same, but different; a woman going somewhere special.
Shaking his head, he said: “I don’t quite see the people of Brackston as you do.”
“Oh?”
“Most of them appear small-town, but...” He stopped himself.
“But?” she asked quickly.
“They are all different. As if they’ve come from different backgrounds. Different parts of the country.”
“Ron, look at that house. Now tell me you don’t expect to see Huck Finn running out the front door. All of them right out of the pen of Mark Twain.”
Emphatically, he shook his head. “I don’t think so. They give that appearance, but I don’t think so.”
Images merged, the town came into view as simultaneously the great stone atop the mountain leaped out from behind the trees. Wondrous, yet capable of arousing fear.
“Del?”
“Yes?”
“Last night—you and I...” Ron’s words trailed off. He had a sense of shame about last night, whether he cared about admitting it or not. That’s just how it was, because his actions, their actions, he knew, had magnified his worst hidden desires.
To his amazement, Chandal threw him a tremulous smile, her eyes glowing. “Last night,” she whispered, “was wonderful. Just wonderful.”
Her response was so unexpected, so disturbing, that he could think of nothing to say in return. Instead he squeezed her hand and walked silently until suddenly she pulled him to a stop.
Just ahead was a small unpainted church with a steeple. It was a one-story building sitting back from the road. It was evidently newly built, for an accumulation of debris, left by the workman, still littered the ground in its vicinity.
Ron could feel the brilliance of her smile as she said to him, “Let’s stop for a moment.”
“All right.”
They moved closer. Through the open doorway a chorus of children’s voices rose soaring on the wings of organ music. The children, Ron realized, were singing in... Latin? He cocked his head. That’s odd.
Chandal said, “Go on. Look inside.”
He studied her face, shrugged. “Why?”
She laughed lightly. “A surprise. Go on, take a peek.”
Moving to the door, he turned back, looking at Chandal searchingly. She coaxed him forward. Hesitantly, he peered in.
It was a small quite plain chapel with wooden pews to accommodate perhaps eighty people. The altar was made of carved stone. Above the altar was fixed a golden sunburst emblem of sorts. Nothing that Ron had ever seen before. There were none of the usual statues, nor was there a crucifix of any kind. What denomination, he wondered.
He moved further into the doorway, inch by inch, until he was far enough inside to see the entire room. Off to one side, almost to the front of the chapel, sat an organist. A small, wiry man with glasses, and next to him, three rows of children arranged according to their heights. Front row center stood Kristy. Her voice rang out in the room, rose on the still warm air; became absorbed in a chorus of other voices.
The music burst out triumphantly and then softened to a gentle harmony. Ron heard Kristy’s voice above all the others.
“Isn’t Kristy’s voice beautiful?” Chandal whispered. Kristy stood relaxed, her hands at her sides, one clinging to her newly clothed puppet. Beneath the organist’s feet a cat, paws curled under its chest, opened its eyes like steel gates, deliberately; closed them again.
Ron turned. “But... how can she know Latin?”
“She can’t, silly. She’s just faking it. Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
“Faking it?” he repeated disbelievingly. “She’s doing a damn good job of faking it.”
He quickly backed out the door. “What is she doing here?” he asked sharply.
Chandal instantly sensed his harsh tone. “I don’t understand?”
“Del, I thought she was at home. With us. With Mrs. Taylor.”
“Mr. Gill came to the house earlier. He’ll bring her back.”
“Who is Mr. Gill?”
“The organist.”
“A stranger for Chrissakes. You don’t even know the man.”
“Of course I do.”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just so goddamn insecure all of a sudden. But I should know where my daughter is, don’t you think? Or maybe you don’t think I should.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ever since we’ve come to this town, you two are never around. I look up, where did everyone go? I looked for you Saturday night—the dance was over. Where were you and Kristy? Gone. Yesterday it was Mrs. Wheatley’s—then shopping. I woke up last night and found you...’’He broke off.
“Found me where, Ron? I was there for you last night, wasn’t I?”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Del—I blacked out. Isn’t that right? I blacked out. And before that, I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“And you don’t know what you’re saying now either. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? You seize on something, blow it out of proportion, then brood about it for days. Kristy is in there having the time of her life. She feels important. Let’s not spoil that for her. Please, Ron.” She touched his lips very lightly. “She’s having a wonderful time and you’ve lost a little sleep. Let’s leave it at that and not spend the rest of our vacation brooding. All right, sweetheart?”
She looked at him for a second in that warm, sad way, her eyes very large in her little face. Fleetingly he wondered if her words were meant as a pacifier. He felt guilty now. His suspicions were killing him.
Relax. I must relax.
“Wait for Kristy,” he said softly. “See that she gets home safely.” He brought her head gently forward and pressed it to his shoulder. The smell of shampoo assailed his nostrils. But it was a good smell though; genuinely clean.
Smiling faintly, he left Chandal waiting outside the church door and moved away quickly. For the last time he told himself there was absolutely nothing to worry about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE TOWN WAS MORE THAN AWAKE. UNLIKE SATURDAY, THERE was a bustle of people everywhere. Ron hurried down the busy street, crossed the square and glanced swiftly at the Texaco sign ahead. He walked aways further, past small shops, decaying buildings and a single squat building topped with a large sign: HOMEMADE ICE CREAM.
Drained of energy, his stomach still a bit queasy, he stopped long enough to order a milk shake. It ran down to his stomach and dissolved as though it hadn’t been, leaving a milky paste coating his parched lips. He was just turning to go when Cynthia Harris appeared in his peripheral vision. For a while he could not look at her. He was afraid to look at her. Finally, trembling a little, he glanced up. She had come to the doorway in a blue skirt with bare midriff—tall, sleek headed, crowned in flaming red; hand on her hip.
He watched her tall, lithe form hover for a moment in indecision, then disappear down the street.
“Now that’s what I call tail!” shrilled the young boy from behind the counter.
In a thin, hesitant voice Ron said, “Yeah, she’s nice looking.” He paused, then added: “Do you have a pay phone around here?”
“In the back next to the restrooms.”
“Thanks.”
Ron dropped a dime into the slot, dialed 0, waited. A voice burst through for an instant, shrieked, then vanished. Turning slowly, peering, he saw Cynthia Harris approach the doorway again, her shoulder bones sharp, erect. After a few seconds she disappeared from view.
“Must be waiting for someone,” the boy said with a smile.
Ron did not reply. A voice broke on the line. “Yes, operator, long distance call. Credit card.” After accepting his card number, the operator rang him through to his office in Los Angeles. A distant rasp: a muted telephone. On the fourth ring, the answering service got it. Ron left Mrs. Taylor’s number and instructions for Mimi to call him later in the day.
“She’s back again!” the boy cried.
Ron turned and passed his hand across his brow, greased with sweat. Great and powerful, the earth moved beneath his feet.
The boy laughed, a low murmuring laugh, then asked: “She looking for you?”
“No,” Ron said and ducked into the men’s room. He paced the room for a moment, flushed the john to make it appear official, then slowly moved to the door. He closed his eyes for an instant and blew a loud sigh through his lips, as if to blow away the girl who now seemed to be stalking him.
When he emerged, Cynthia Harris was gone. He stepped cautiously out into the street. She was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, he moved on.
There were three cars parked in front of Matthew Todd’s gas station. Yet, there was nobody sitting in them; nor were they being serviced.
For a moment Ron thought the station was closed. A tattered shade had been drawn down over the office window and the work area seemed deserted.
Ron went in at the front door and ducked into the office. Todd was there, behind his desk. Ron had a very distinct feeling Todd had heard him come in, although he had not raised his head.
“Has your man returned from Salt Lake City yet?” Ron asked.
Todd looked at him with blank eyes. “Oh, hi, Mr. Talon. Warm enough for you?”
“I guess,” Ron said drily.
Todd slumped back in his chair and grinned up at him. “My man should be back any time now. He’s been gone since six this morning.”
“Oh.” Ron nodded and felt the strain of disappointment. “It’s after one now.”
“Is it?”
“What time are you planning on closing?”
He shrugged. “Somewhere around five.” He got up suddenly and stretched, rising stiffly on tiptoe. “How about a beer?”
“No, thanks. You are planning on getting those tires on my car before you close, aren’t you?”
“Well, sure, sure,” Todd said and snapped the shade up. Bemused, he looked toward the hills. “Look at it out there, Mr. Talon. Those mountains... It’s magic, that’s what it is. It’s everything right on the edge of something, all the time,” he murmured. “Always there, as if everything that’s ever happened in the world can be seen in them. It’s magic, that’s what,” he said.
Ron sensed that the man was stalling.
“How goes it at the Taylor place?” Todd asked suddenly.
“She’s a nice woman.”
“Hell, Erica’s all right. She’s invited me for dinner tonight. I kinda doubt if I’ll go though.” Raising his arms, he stretched once again, slowly, his neck cording against the light. He stopped, then, and glanced over Ron’s shoulder.
Ron turned and saw Frank Hadley and his brother slipping out of the back door from the work area. Todd pulled back and gave them a solid looking-over. Ron could tell he was seriously appraising the situation, deciding whether to ignore them, or call them forward.
“Frank, Tim—you finished back there?” he called out.
“Hell, Matt, that engine is shot,” Frank Hadley said and moved into the office. His brother Tim had taken but one hesitant step. “Well, Mr. Talon. I see you got to Brackston all right.”
Ron could feel his heart banging away. He glanced again at Tim Hadley. When their eyes met, he acknowledged Ron only by the slightest change in expression, the tiniest flicker of a smile and a sort of a nod, but nothing more. Yet he kept his gaze fixed on Ron.
“Tim, come in here, for Chrissakes. Say hello to Mr. Talon. Tell him how sorry you are for scaring his little girl like you did.”
Tim merely shrugged, rebuked himself in silence.
“We were out hunting,” Frank said. “The boy had too much to drink, didn’t you, Tim? The beast and the spirits, that’s all it was. Just drunken foolishness. Damn it all, Tim—apologize!”
“I didn’t mean it,” Tim said quietly. “I don’t know why I did it. But I’m sorry. Real sorry for it.”
He had walked the length of the work area slowly and now stood in the open doorway, his gray eyes fixed on Ron’s face. He had a half-annoyed, half-hurt look on his face as he held out his hand.
Something, Ron found himself musing, was different about the man... then in a rush it came to him. He had considered Tim Hadley a simpleton. He wasn’t, not in the typical sense. His eyes were too knowing, his expression too complex for your run-of-the-mill bumpkin.
Tim Hadley extended his hand further and said, “Friends?”
Ron hesitated. The other two men were silent, their eyes turned intently on his face. He felt like a museum specimen. Reluctantly, he accepted the handshake. Almost before their hands unlocked, he wished he hadn’t.
“Well, now, what do you say? Let’s all have a cold beer!” Todd flipped the lid on the cooler and ran his arm to the elbow in crushed ice. “Nothing better than a cold beer on a day like this.”
Out of the graveled drive, leather heels crushed pebbles in a heavy rhythm; paused. Beyond the screen door a narrow figure stood, muted by the mesh.
“So this is where all the cocksuckers hang out! Oh, sorry, Matt; I didn’t know you—”
“That’s all right,” Todd said. “Come on in, Lou. Like you to meet a friend.”
The figure stepped into the office; the face sullen, stretched taut as parchment, sharp featured. The man’s hair was a wild shock of gray, his skin a faded tan, yellowish.
“Ron Talon, this is Lou Harris,” Todd said, gesturing. “Lou’s a schoolteacher. The whole damn school actually.” He handed Ron a beer. “Mr. Talon’s in show business.”
Lou Harris nodded, moved about the room, his eyes darting. “Nice to have variety in the town for a change. Hi, Tim, Frank.”
