The wildside book of fan.., p.20
The Deathstone, page 20
And then there was silence. It confused him. There ought to have been sound. He rubbed his dust-filled eyes and peered beyond the rocks and saw Cynthia trying to climb to the next ridge, but there was no place to go. Other children waited for her above. They had her now—she was trapped. She glanced around, then froze. From all sides, they had begun to swarm in. Ron could see she had closed her eyes. He wondered if she even knew who she was.
Bizarrely, she laughed. It was as if she were suddenly playing a game she’d played back in school. Then with a long, shuddering cry, she leapt over the edge of the canyon, her young perfect body disappearing into the awaiting arms of the Goddess Mother of Creation.
A moment later the children were gone. In a paroxysm of excitement, they had fled, their laughter and jeers ringing in the air, their grotesque faces displaying ugly little grins as, one by one, they had disappeared into the stone, until all that remained was the settling of dust, a frozen panic, and then—silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THEY TOOK THE MAIN ROAD OUT OF TOWN AND HEADED NORTH. The houses along the road were mostly old. Many had log facings. Some had been deserted, others burnt out, leaving only the hearth, fireplace and chimney looming in the rubble.
“You all right?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes,... it’s just the heat.”
“Put your head down. Better?”
“Yeah.” Ron was sweating heavily. His upper arm moved like grease against his body where his shirt was torn. His cheeks and the back of his neck were wet. He opened his mouth and tried to breathe more deeply as his hand massaged the large bump on the side of his forehead.
“You say they chased her?” the sheriff asked and turned the car off the main road.
“Chased her, beat her...” Ron’s voice broke.
“Go on. It’s... quite a story,” he said, biting down on his cigar.
“Quite a story! I know what I saw. I was there, wasn’t I? Look, take my word for it. There were at least twenty of them. They chased her until finally she was driven over the cliff.” Furious, he faced the sheriff, adamant, staring him down.
The sheriff appraised Ron for a moment, then said: “I’m trying very hard to understand... but it just doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the children sometimes play in the hills. Strange games, yes. They play mountain games. But they are always harmless games.”
“They attacked me, didn’t they? I would hardly call that a harmless game.”
“Maybe you frightened them. They got confused—”
“Oh, for Chrissakes! Cynthia Harris is dead, I’m telling you. And they killed her.”
Nash sighed heavily. “Well, like I said—once we get to Lou’s place, you let me do the talking.” He turned again and aimed the car deeper into the woods. Just beyond was a row of tattered old houses. Shacks, actually, some of them painted an ugly red. Several of the houses had no trace of paint at all, just bare wood, weather-beaten and worm-holed.
But Nash wasn’t looking at the houses. No, his eyes kept glancing through the windshield toward the great stone. When he realized Ron was watching him, he pretended to brush a fly away from his face. For a moment he held his bony white hand in front of his face for effect, then let it drop again to the steering wheel.
“The stone around which moving is done, right?” Ron asked.
“What?”
“Isn’t that what it’s called?”
The sheriff glanced at him quizzically. “Where did you hear that?”
“Is it true?” Ron pressed.
Nash shrugged. “I’ve never heard anyone call it that before.”
In the small dim vehicle the man stared at Ron, one hand lowered at his side, his eyes narrowed. Ron steadied himself against the door as the car took a couple of rough bumps. The still air was heavy with the smells of sweat, stale cigar smoke, and another smell, less tangible—that of futility.
Ron leaned forward slightly. “Who are the Town Elders?”
Nash laughed. “Oh, hell, what can I say?”
“You can tell me who they are.”
The man yawned. “No one knows for sure.”
“They’re elected, aren’t they?”
“Not officially. People get together. Form a few committees—call themselves the Ruling Elders. But no one pays attention.” He nodded his head. “That’s Lou’s house up ahead. Like I said—let me do the talking.”
“Why?” Ron asked stubbornly.
Nash stopped the car suddenly, shut off the ignition, and jammed his foot down hard on the emergency brake. It took a little time for him to face Ron squarely. Even then, before he spoke, Ron could tell he was choosing his words carefully.
“You know,” he said slowly, his words riding on a puff of cigar smoke, “when a fella travels far from home, he’s gotta be prepared to forget the things he’s learned. Habits, ideas, opinions... they just aren’t any good to him in a new place. He’s got to try real hard to understand new ways—get a feel for the landscape. He’s got to adapt or...”
“Or what?”
“Mr. Talon, I don’t want trouble. Lou Harris, he’s a strange fella. Sometimes he’s pleasant, sometimes he’s not. If you’re wise, you’ll let me handle things.” He ran his finger under his nose before he pointed. “That’s him sitting on the porch over there.”
Ron’s eyes darted to a dilapidated white-washed dwelling surrounded by a rough-hewn fence the pickets of which resembled nothing so much as giant match sticks. The house stood lopsided and slanted to the lower side of the road. A stone path zigzagged drunkenly up the side of the mountain. Preoccupied, Lou Harris sat on the front stoop, his eyes fixed on a small fire that sent smoke rising into the air in a perfect cone.
Without saying a word, Nash swung himself out of the car and hooked his thumb in his belt. Ron stepped from the car shakily. He still had a slight headache and his legs trembled against the weight of his body.
“Hey, pissweed!” the sheriff boomed. “You got a permit to burn on a dry day like this?”
“Hell, no,” Lou Harris said. “Didn’t know I needed one.”
Nash grinned. “Let’s go,” he whispered to Ron.
“What brings you out here, Earl?” Harris squinted at Ron. “Hi.”
“Hello, Lou.” Ron suddenly felt panicked. He wasn’t sure just why. Maybe the sheriff was right. His ways weren’t their ways. Maybe he should have just shut his mouth and gotten the hell out of town.
“Thing is,” Nash said, exhaling cigar smoke, “I’ve got to talk with Cindy.”
Harris shook his head and broke into a shuddering laugh. “Shit,” he mumbled. “You’re a bit late.”
Ron tensed, stared anxiously at the man who was still laughing. Only sadder now, a sudden confusion crossing his face.
Sheriff Nash chuckled. “Late? How’s that, Lou?”
The man stopped laughing then, sniffled, his eyes blinking uncontrollably. He stared into Nash’s face, then into Ron’s. With an uncoordinated gesture of his hand, he said: “She’s gone, Earl. Gone. Went off to Denver to visit her aunt.”
“When?” Ron asked a little too hastily.
Harris stared at him, his face dropping into hard lines. “Yesterday. Soon as she got home from Beatrice Wheatley’s place.” He paused. “I thought I told you that last night over dinner?”
Ron shook his head. “No—no, you didn’t.”
“Trouble is, Lou, Mr. Talon seems to think something’s happened to her.”
“Like what?”
Nash shrugged. “Just worried, that’s all. You sure she’s in Denver?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Are you positive?” Ron asked.
“Well, hell!” Harris shouted angrily. “Of course, I’m sure. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Take it easy, Lou.”
“Listen, son. You’ve got something to say—say it!”
Ron started to speak. Stopped. He looked nervously at the sheriff.
“Hell, you don’t believe me, we’ll call her!” Harris muttered.
“You don’t have to do that, Lou.”
“No, hell—let’s call her!” he shrilled.
The sheriff rubbed his hand slowly across his face, his eyes displaying an annoyance good and proper. “I’m a damn fool, you know that?” he said in a low voice. “A goddamn fool.”
“Well, you coming in or aren’t you?”
He sighed and threw his cigar to the ground. “We’re coming in, Lou. We’re coming in.”
Harris unlatched the screen door, led them inside and into the living room, where the faintly pungent smell of wood-smoke drifted through an open-screened window. The small room was a mess. Towels lay on the floor, stained and crimped by wet hands, and were exceedingly frayed and soiled. The wood-smoke smell gave way to the more penetrating, sweetish, acid odor of bourbon, gin and whiskey. Off to the side was a large railway stove with footrest covered with thick black soot.
In the corner was a small desk crammed with school books, old newspapers, tobacco tins and liquor bottles. A mirror hung crooked on the wall above it, its glass chipped from one corner and a crack running the full length across the surface, which was fly specked.
“Hello, Helen. Lou Harris. Put me through to my sister’s house in Denver. Same number, yes.”
Ron glanced nervously at his watch. It was going on seven o’clock. Looking up vaguely, he watched Lou Harris disappear behind a little roll of smoke from his cigarette; a small body, narrow shoulders tilted, phone held between his chin and his shoulder. His hands shoved papers around the desk.
“Margaret? This is Lou. No, no trouble. Listen, is Cindy there?” He moved to the end of the desk and glanced at Ron, his face drawn up tight. He smacked his hand over the mouthpiece. “Says Cindy’s asleep on the couch. You want my sister to wake her?”
And now below him, below his feet, Ron could feel the earth tremble. Shake, shake, in miniscule rhythms, sickly, remote. He knew it was his legs shaking, and not the earth.
“Well, go on,” Nash said. “That’s what you came out here to find out, wasn’t it?”
Harris held the phone out to him. His face was cool, with that narrow set look in the eyes. Ron paused, contemplated them both, then breathing hard against his chest’s constricting, he said: “No, don’t wake her. That’s not necessary.”
It would not be Cynthia’s voice, that much he knew. The rest was unclear, part of the enigma of mountain ways, not to be understood by him, not ever to be understood. The other thing was—caught between the two men’s glances—he simply dared not take the goddamn phone. He could not.
Harris ran his hand through his thick gray hair quickly, frowning harder, his gray brows down low over his eyes. “Margaret? Just tell Cindy I was asking for her. No, don’t wake her up, for Chrissakes, just tell her I called.” He paused to listen. “Hu-ah. Well, soon as I get a chance, I’ll write. Bye, Margaret. Oh, Margaret, tell Cindy...” He looked away at the two men, then lowered his voice, “... you tell her—hell, tell her I’m sorry. For everything. And that—” He ran his finger over his top lip as if to force out the words. “...Bye, Margaret,” he said and replaced the receiver. He remained facing the wall, intensely still.
Nash removed his hat, wiped sweat from the band with his handkerchief. Then moving to the desk, he pressed his thigh against the rough wood, bracing himself. “I’ll assume all responsibility for this, Lou.”
“Earl,” he whispered. “I’ve lost her.”
“No, no, you haven’t.”
“She’s gone,” Harris said, shaking his head. With a swallow of smoke, he turned and began to speak in a low tone. It was barely intelligible, father talk about the problems of raising a daughter, and whether it wasn’t better that Cynthia had decided to live with her aunt for a while. As he talked, his words became garbled, his meaning more abstruse, until he was unable to go on. He tried. He murmured. The words were blurred, like the mutterings of a beaten man, altogether unintelligible.
“Take it easy, Lou. She’ll be fine. Why, in a couple of days she’ll be begging to come back. You know how the young ones are. Anywhere is better than Brackston. That’s what they say. Then—” he shrugged, “they realize what they have here. She’ll be back.”
“No,” Harris said. He lifted his arm heavily and dropped it on Nash’s shoulder. “She’s gone this time for good.” He pushed past the man and went to the window. The sun had vanished, and the thick clouds had turned the mountains a deep and remote purple. A weird light lay over the landscape, burying it rather than giving it life.
“It’s going to rain, I think,” he said in a far-off voice.
“Rain? Hell, it isn’t going to rain today, Lou. It’s Mardi Gras, remember?”
“Mardi Gras,” Harris repeated in dead tones.
Ron was sure he was witnessing grief, that this was the very deadness of grief. And not just for a daughter who had decided to live with her aunt for a while.
The bells of the church, miles away, began to clang discordantly to Ron’s ears.
“That’s First Calling, Lou.”
Harris nodded and started away from the window. He did not look at Ron. He was far away, remembering nothing, forgetting everything. He brushed by Ron as he went from the room.
“Well,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got to be getting back.”
Outside the sheriff’s office the street was calm, silent, without humanity. Then suddenly it became clamorous with harsh and busy voices. Now the people of Brackston were everywhere—all in a rush, hurrying on toward the carnival grounds.
Ron turned his back on the sheriff and began to trudge the four streets home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK WHEN HE FINALLY ARRIVED AT THE HOUSE.
Before he went inside, he stood on the porch and stared at his car parked in the drive. He had all but forgotten Todd’s promise to have the new tire on the car by noon today. No matter. Todd had not made good his promise. The rear tire was still flat. It figured.
He let his gaze drift back toward the town. The clouds, which had been scattered throughout the day, had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. Far in the distance, he saw the illuminated Ferris wheel and roller coaster rising above the mist which had gathered over the valley, their hazy lights mingling with the changing hue of the night sky. Faintly he could hear the hum of voices and laughter. Other than that, the town was almost unnatural in its stillness.
When he entered the house, Nancy handed him a note. It was from Chandal. She wanted Ron to meet her and Kristy at the pavilion at ten. Kristy’s puppet had been entered in the contest. Ron read the note again before he looked up. When he did, Nancy was gone.
He went immediately into the living room and helped himself to bourbon. Plenty of time, he reflected. He needed a drink. The house was oppressively quiet. It had the musty odor of withered flowers. He stared at the chandelier, the elegantly stuffed chairs and couches with their lavish floral patterns and immaculately placed doilies. Mrs. Taylor, he thought, had put her life, her very soul, into this house.
He had another drink. Yet he could not bring himself down. An overwhelming sense of doubt gripped him. He felt trapped and incapable of doing anything about it, as if he were an instrument reacting to a gravitational field set up by powers beyond his comprehension. He suddenly felt that he was heading to a destiny he was powerless to foresee or control.
He poured himself another bourbon and drank it down. Then he went upstairs and took off his clothes. Naked, he went to the window and opened the drapes. The night remained black before his eyes, the glass mirroring his own reflection. He noticed for the first time the teeth marks and bruises on his legs.
He took a long breath, drew the drapes, then ducked into the shower. He ran the water steaming hot. His flesh reddened. Yet he did not adjust the temperature. It was as though he wanted to burn away the memory of hideous little faces, purify his body, ridding it of the faint remains of any contact he had had with the children. He scrubbed himself vigorously with soap, rinsed off, then scrubbed again. Then for a long time, he just stood still and let the water pinch his flesh.
Suddenly he jerked his head around, thinking he’d seen a shadow move outside the shower curtain, the curtain itself moving slightly. It seemed incredible that someone had entered the room while he was showering, but the feeling was there.
The shower curtain moved again.
Slowly he reached out and shut off the water. He stood motionless, water and sweat coursing down his face. It was difficult to tell the difference.
And then it moved, billowing the shower curtain. He lurched forward, ripping the curtain aside. The bathroom was empty. Everything was quiet. He couldn’t see into the bedroom, only its dim light filtering through the bathroom doorway. It contained no shadows.
Carefully he stepped from the tub and wrapped a towel around himself. He moved forward, stopped. Written in lipstick across the mirror:
“I WAS QUEEN. THEY”—
The message ended abruptly.
He cautioned himself to remain calm; he must not get caught in a sudden hysteria. He moved closer to the mirror and saw a lipstick tube lying in the sink. Whoever wrote the message had fled in a hurry. The letters on the mirror were childlike, the e’s and a appearing to have been written by a first-grader. He was sure a child had written the message, and not a grownup. But why? What was the child trying to tell him? “I WAS QUEEN. THEY”—
“Mr. Talon?” a voice shrilled from below. “Are you up there?”
It was Mrs. Taylor’s voice. Hurriedly Ron took a wet washcloth and rubbed away the message. It left the mirror streaked. He reached for a towel,
“Mr. Talon?” The voice was closer now.
“Yes, Mrs. Taylor. I’m in the bathroom.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be right down.” He ran the towel over the glass several times until all traces of lipstick were gone. He took the lipstick tube and dropped it into the wastebasket. Satisfied, he stepped into the bedroom and began to dress.
