The deathstone, p.23
The Deathstone, page 23
“Chilidog.”
“You little prick. You know I like chilidogs!”
“Ahhh, I’m sorry; I forgot...”
“Well, don’t forget it again. You’re always forgetting.”
“All right, all right.” He slammed the paper bag down on the desk and dashed into the work area.
“Get those batteries charged!”
“Yeah, yeah...”
Todd shook his head. “Just like his goddamn mother. Hasn’t got the sense he was born with.” He tore the top page from the pad. “I didn’t charge you for changing and mounting the tires. Only for the tires themselves.”
“Thanks,” Ron said, and eased himself out the door. “Thanks again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
HE WALKED EAGERLY TOWARD MRS. WHEATLEY’S HOUSE. CONFUSION. Waves of it washed over him. It started with a general sense of numbness, then grew into a slight trembling of his hands and legs.
He had only one thought on his mind. To get his wife and daughter, pack, and get as far away from Brackston as possible. As soon as possible.
He turned onto a narrow dirt path, where the town fell away to smaller back streets and cottages. Through openings in the trees and fences he caught glimpses of the town square, in which he heard no sound, no busy hum of human activity. Amidst the stone crept lizards and grasshoppers, and here and there a solitary bird burst into sudden song, as suddenly stilled.
There was a deep calm around, but not the calm of night; the air still breathed the heat and life of day, if only for the hordes of insects that stirred beneath his feet.
He began to move more forcefully, his feet warming and the sweat starting to drench his shirt and the waistband of his trousers. Without conscious thought he realized he had entered a stand of pines from the sound of the pine needles crackling under his feet. Suddenly the area became thick with trees, too thick to see anything. He stopped. Everything was still. His breath came in short gasps.
He glanced over his shoulder. His wariness was habitual.
Like a blind man, he used his hands, feeling as much as seeing his way through the trees, watching intently for any sign of life. The way was endless. All he could hear was the noise and commotion of his own body, still panting slightly, still blundering through the trees.
At first the noise seemed just part of the racket he made. But farther on he realized it was music. Chamber music: a violin, viola, cello and piano. A soft sound, restful and calm.
His breathing slackened as he rounded a turn; a large house came into view. He slowed his walk as he approached, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. He saw familiar sights now. The back of Beatrice Wheatley’s house. Off in the distance, Mrs. Taylor’s house. It was odd to look at the town from that angle. It all looked so different from where he stood now. Unbelievably different.
He had stopped outside the entranceway leading to a lush garden. The faded brass plate above the gate read: The Carrolls. He glanced around. Was this Alister and Isabelle’s house? It had to be. Alister had said they only lived a few blocks over. That was about right. The music coming from inside the house was also right. The mood matched the couple perfectly.
Rising on tiptoe, Ron tried to peer over the wall beyond the garden. He was unable to see over the ledge. Without conscious thought, he entered the garden and followed the stone flagging that led to an arched doorway.
Hesitantly, he pushed open the door to reveal an expansive inner courtyard. The house was larger than he had imagined, neat and freshly painted, shadowed and root-embraced by three large trees. Anyone could tell at a glance it was a house well maintained, a house of a man who had done well in all his business dealings and was proud of it.
The shades were all up, as though to proclaim to the world that the Carrolls had nothing to hide, and through the large bay window, Ron could see the thin Alister Carroll sitting at the library table, reading. If anyone was honest enough to tell Ron what was going on, it was this man.
He had barely knocked when the music abruptly ceased. A slight creaking of sound said that perhaps someone had approached to study him from the small peephole below the knocker. If an eye had appeared, it was withdrawn before Ron could decide it was there. He waited a moment before knocking again. Still no one came to the door. “Shit,” he grumbled and turned.
Unexpectedly, the front door opened, and Alister Carroll stood peering out through the screen.
“Hello, Mr. Carroll. It’s Ron Talon.”
“Oh... hello. I hardly recognized you.” He still made no move to open the screen door. “The women aren’t here. They’re down at Beatrice’s house getting ready for tonight.”
“I know.”
“Oh.” He opened the door apologetically. “Well, hell— come in! Don’t mind me. You took me by surprise.”
Nervously Ron moved into the hallway. Sweat beaded his brow. Instinctively, he wiped it with his handkerchief.
“It looks like you’ve been out running.”
“No,” Ron said. “Just a hot day.”
“Nice to see you. Come inside here. The air conditioner is going full blast.”
Without protest, Ron allowed himself to be led into the library. The room was immaculate and designed in good taste. Two brown leather chairs and a massive couch flanked the fireplace; solid oak bookshelves were lined with books bound in expensive red jackets. Plants were strategically placed. French doors, perfectly appointed, opened out to a glassed-in richly furnished patio.
Alister was behind the bar. There was a contentment, a grace about his movements, that suggested a man who enjoyed his home.
He passed a glass to Ron and settled on the couch, his body diminished by the large cushions that swallowed the heaviest part of his buttocks, making him tilt forward like a small hunched-over gnome. His eyes contained their usual clever sparkle over his long sharp nose that appeared to almost meet his chin. He was the same man Ron had come to know, except today he wore a tweed jacket and a cap of the sort that is associated with gents who frequent the race tracks.
Ron picked up his bourbon glass clumsily. He was unaccustomed to handling a drink this early in the day. He took a sip and grimaced.
“Too strong?” Alister chuckled.
“A little.”
“Would you—”
“No, I think I can handle it. It’s excellent bourbon. A little stiff going down, but smooth in the stomach.”
“I appreciate fine liquor. I’m an Irishman. Perhaps that accounts for it. Haven’t seen Dublin in forty years. Still like a strong drink though.” He grinned. “You look a little tense today, Mr. Talon.”
“I am, a little.”
“How long have you been in...”
“Brackston? Five days.”
He gave Ron a sidelong glance. “That’ll do it to you.”
“I don’t understand,” Ron said cautiously.
“Just a strange place. That is, until you get used to it.”
“Oh.”
“You know, not everything I say means something, son, as much as it feeds my ego to have you clinging onto my every word. It would be a horrible world if a man couldn’t make a casual remark without drawing suspicion.” Absently he sipped his drink, sighed appreciably, and settled back. “But then again, you probably haven’t come here for casual conversation, have you?”
“No—no, I haven’t.”
“Then what is it you have come here for—a glass of decent bourbon?”
“I want to know about Brackston. What’s going on.”
He sighed profoundly, then sat up straighter. When he spoke, it was slow and easy. “It’s a thankless business to interfere with the goings on here in Brackston. Perhaps you’d do well to remember that.”
Ron opened his lips to speak, closed them as he met Alister’s eyes. “The mountains,” Alister added, “have their own ways. What you’ve learned in the city will do you no good here.”
“Tyler Adam. Tell me why everyone at dinner the other night seemed so frightened of him.”
“The man is an alcoholic. His behavior is erratic. He is capable of doing anything at any time. Hell, he’s tried to solve his problems, but he suffers torments unimaginable to you or me.”
“He didn’t seem drunk. You yourself said he wasn’t drunk.”
“Only trying to cover for him. Anyone could see he was experiencing a fit of d.t.’s. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come to the house like that.”
“The Elders. He called everyone there Elders.”
“Oh, maybe he thought there were Elders present. But there weren’t.”
“Then there is a group of people collectively known as the Ruling Elders.”
Alister grinned. “Seems to me you’re sure working up a powerful curiosity about this town, son.”
“Is there anything wrong with that? Any reason why I shouldn’t?”
Now Alister was frankly staring, his pale blue eyes studying Ron’s face intently with no pretense of doing otherwise. And Ron had the sudden conviction that the man was learning a great deal about him, more than Ron knew himself.
“I believe,” Ron said on sudden impulse, “that Cynthia Harris is dead. That she was forced over the edge of a cliff by children. Children that live in this town.” Ron shot a keen glance at Alister’s face; it was impassive as stone. He continued. “I also believe her death has something to do with the carnival.”
Alister considered this for a moment or so. Then he chuckled—deprecatingly, as though he were about to tell a joke that wasn’t very funny. “You know,” he said casually, “we often get people who come to Brackston. Some by choice, others by accident. Like yourself. Some find our ways strange. Others do not. But none have ever called our children murderers. That’s a pretty powerful statement—and one that might not go down too well with the citizens of Brackston. Children are what this town is all about. Brackston tradition passed on to its children. This—”
“Is that why children are allowed to run naked in the hills?” Ron interrupted. “Why they are encouraged to burn their toys, to watch brutal puppet shows... I was attacked the other day by Brackston children. Brutally attacked. Is this part of your tradition? They actually went—”
“You needn’t give me a synopsis. The sheriff has already done that.”
“And?”
“And—like him, I found it hard to believe. But when he told me Cynthia Harris was involved, I began to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Guilt is a funny thing.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Almost everyone in town knows that you slept with her. All except her father, that is.” He grinned. “I must admit that when I heard the news, I was a bit envious.” He paused, then added, “Naturally, when the others heard the news, they responded with an odd sense of hatred toward the girl.”
“Naturally.”
“But that’s irrelevant. What may help you is the fact— mark this—that Cynthia Harris knew she’d done wrong and decided, wisely, I might add, to leave town.” He leaned back and assumed a comfortable position. The sunlight had deepened to bronze; on the patio shadows had begun to gather.
“Do you really expect me to believe that?” Ron asked sarcastically.
Alister laughed. An open full laugh without restrain. “If I were you, I would. Hell, let it go. Enjoy yourself. Forget Cynthia Harris. We all know redheads are a confusing lot.”
In spite of the lightness in Alister’s voice, Ron was conscious of an undercurrent of steady warning in his words. His eyes evaded the man’s as he drawled: “The stone around which moving is done. The stone on the hill. Will you tell me about it?”
“Nothing to tell,” he said. “There’s always superstition in small towns. It’s here. It’s been here for ages. Christ Almighty, some of the old women in town still wear charms around their necks.”
Ron looked up quickly, and was surprised to see Alister’s face was affable as ever. Was it possible that the man wasn’t hiding anything? That Ron was mistaken? But how the hell could that be? He’d seen Cynthia driven over the cliff. The children had attacked him, hadn’t they?
“Charms,” he mumbled. “What are they for?”
Alister shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a hundred reasons. All just superstitious foolishness. That’s no great mystery sitting up there on the hill, son. It’s just what it appears to be. A big ugly stone. Nothing more. Oh, if you want, you can make it other things. But that’s true of most things. That’s why the Christians make pilgrimages to the Vatican, the Muslims to Mecca and the Jews to Jerusalem. All trying to make things what they want them to be. People here in Brackston aren’t any different. Some call it religion. I call it plain foolishness.”
“But you still haven’t told me what that foolishness is,” Ron pressed. “Just what is it the people of Brackston believe?”
“The issue is God and their hope of resurrection. Fear of death, son. All of them afraid of dying. Nothing unusual about that, now is there? Death scares the hell out of most people. Especially old people. So they begin doing things to make death a little more palatable.”
“Like what?”
“Like worshipping that damn stone. Some call it the navel of the earth where all creation began. The umbilical cord, if you will. Some just call it the center or the cornerstone. Others believe it holds down the head of the snake. Don’t ask me what snake. Without the stone, the snake would shake his head violently; if this occurred, it would shake the world to pieces. To some,” he went on, “the stone represents all life. Oh, to you—you see it only from one side. Maybe, if you are curious, you take the time to glance at it from another angle. You see a different shape entirely, a different texture. You become confused; you may even forget you’re still observing the same stone. But to the people of Brackston, ah, they see it as one complete whole. All sides at once, all textures as one texture, all shapes as one shape, all sides merging into one another: the present into the future, the future into the past, the past again into the future. There is no time then, you see. There is only the stone. If they have suffered in the past, it was because they did not have the stone to protect them. Some of the older generations of the valley suffered cruelly at the hands of others. Some were even tortured, I am told. Now they look to the stone for their protection. Perhaps even their salvation. It’s sad, really.”
For a moment Alister stopped speaking, his bony white fingers probing at his jowl and the grayed stubble under the bone of jaw. Then he lifted his eyes to meet Ron’s gaze squarely.
Ron said, “And you? What do you believe?”
“Me. I believe in nothing,” he said flatly.
“Corpse Lights. I’ve seen them in the hills.”
Alister looked at him curiously. “That’s odd.”
“How so?”
“There haven’t been Corpse Lights seen in these parts in years. Ever since—”
“The Widow Wheatley saw them right before her two sons died.” Ron smiled now, sensing that he had finally caught Alister off guard. “That’s right, isn’t it? Widow Wheatley?”
“Widow? Where did you hear that?”
“Does it matter?”
He shrugged. “As far as I know, Thomas and she are married.”
“Or they’re brother and sister... living together.”
A heavy silence hung in the air for a moment, before Ron went on. “And Mrs. Taylor. It’s an odd coincidence that her brother’s name is also Taylor. Unless, of course, she is married to Clayton Byron Taylor. Her brother. Then it would make sense.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Is there some way you can be more specific? Some word that you could, perhaps, use to...” Alister paused, smiling suggestively.
Ron’s face reddened, but he said it nevertheless. “Incest.”
“Dear boy.” Alister’s eyebrows rose.
“It’s all around us, isn’t it? Every marriage is a cousin to a cousin, or—”
“A cousin to a cousin, perhaps,” he interrupted. ... “Of course, you’re suggesting something quite different. A brother to a sister... surely—”
“Clayton ran away, didn’t he? Perhaps that’s what he was running away from. That would have been a reason to run.” Alister maintained a bemused silence. “Well, go on,” Ron added, “deny it.”
“Consider it denied,” Alister said promptly.
Ron said, “It doesn’t pay to ask questions around here, does it? The answers are scarcely answers, are they?”
“I’ve tried hard to be honest with you, son. Wouldn’t you say?”
“The stone. What does the carnival have to do with the stone?”
“Nothing. Not a thing. The Carnival of Summer is just that—a silly once-a-year excuse to raise hell.”
Ron looked at him, frowning, perplexed. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something more to the carnival?”
“Well...” He smiled generously. “People are always particularly vulnerable on vacation. They become uneasy. They find themselves in a different world. Everything looks different. But are they really? I don’t think so. Your ways are our ways... I believe it was Camus who said: ‘The only value of travel is fear.’”
“Fear?”
“Yes, fear. Strange places, different people, not sleeping in your own bed. You have chosen to remove yourself from all familiar things. That is why people enjoy repetition—because they are not confronted with anything new.”
He paused to massage his chin, fully embarked upon a lecture. “They like that. They like their little habits, their cozy ruts. It’s safe there, you see. They know the territory. Ah, but to climb out of that rut, to venture into a new world—that can be quite frightening. It can also...”
Ron wasn’t really listening now. In his mind he heard other words, words that Alister was probably saying to himself. Look, son, don’t give me a hard time, will you? I’m just passing on what I’ve been told to say by the Elders, and that is, relax. Sit back and let things happen because you won’t be able to stop them from happening anyway. You know the old saying: “If you’re going to get fucked, why not lie back and enjoy it?”
