Bag of Bones (24 page)

“There's a couple of plastic owls around here someplace. They might be in y'basement or out in Jo's studio. They come in by mail-order the fall before she passed on.”

“The fall of 1993?”

“Ayuh.”

“That can't be right.” We hadn't used Sara in the fall of 1993.

“'Tis, though. I was down here puttin on the storm doors when Jo showed up. We had us a natter, and then the UPS truck come. I lugged the box into the entry and had a coffee—I was still drinkin it then—while she took the owls out of the carton and showed em off to me. Gorry, but they looked real! She left not ten minutes after. It was like she'd come down to do that errand special, although why anyone'd drive all the way from Derry to take delivery of a couple of plastic owls I don't know.”

“When in the fall was it, Bill? Do you remember?”

“Second week of November,” he said promptly. “Me n the wife went up to Lewiston later that afternoon, to 'Vette's sister's. It was her birthday. On our way back we stopped at the Castle Rock Agway so 'Vette could get her Thanksgiving turkey.” He looked at me curiously. “You really didn't know about them owls?”

“No.”

“That's a touch peculiar, wouldn't you say?”

“Maybe she told me and I forgot,” I said. “I guess it doesn't matter much now in any case.” Yet it seemed to matter. It was a small thing, but it seemed to matter. “Why would Jo want a couple of plastic owls to begin with?”

“To keep the crows from shittin up the woodwork, like they're doing out on your deck. Crows see those plastic owls, they veer off.”

I burst out laughing in spite of my puzzlement . . . or perhaps because of it. “Yeah? That really works?”

“Ayuh, long's you move em every now and then so
the crows don't get suspicious. Crows are just about the smartest birds going, you know. You look for those owls, save yourself a lot of mess.”

“I will,” I said. Plastic owls to scare the crows away—it was exactly the sort of knowledge Jo would come by (she was like a crow herself in that way, picking up glittery pieces of information that happened to catch her interest) and act upon without bothering to tell me. All at once I was lonely for her again—missing her like hell.

“Good. Some day when I've got more time, we'll walk the place all the way around. Woods too, if you want. I think you'll be satisfied.”

“I'm sure I will. Where's Devore staying?”

The bushy eyebrows went up. “Warrington's. Him and you's practically neighbors. I thought you must know.”

I remembered the woman I'd seen—black bathing-suit and black shorts somehow combining to give her an exotic cocktail-party look—and nodded. “I met his wife.”

Bill laughed heartily enough at that to feel in need of his handkerchief. He fished it off the dashboard (a blue paisley thing the size of a football pennant) and wiped his eyes.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

“Skinny woman? White hair? Face sort of like a kid's Halloween mask?”

It was my turn to laugh. “That's her.”

“She ain't his wife, she's his whatdoyoucallit, personal assistant. Rogette Whitmore is her name.” He pronounced it ro-GET, with a hard
G.
“Devore's wives're all dead. The last one twenty years.”

“What kind of name is Rogette? French?”

“California,” he said, and shrugged as if that one word explained everything. “There's people in town scared of her.”

“Is that so?”

“Ayuh.” Bill hesitated, then added with one of those smiles we put on when we want others to know that
we
know we're saying something silly: “Brenda Meserve says she's a witch.”

“And the two of them have been staying at Warrington's almost a year?”

“Ayuh. The Whitmore woman comes n goes, but mostly she's been here. Thinkin in town is that they'll stay until the custody case is finished off, then all go back to California on Devore's private jet. Leave Osgood to sell Warrington's, and—”

“Sell it? What do you mean,
sell
it?”

“I thought you must know,” Bill said, dropping his gearshift into
DRIVE
. “When old Hugh Emerson told Devore they closed the lodge after Thanksgiving, Devore told him he had no intention of moving. Said he was comfortable right where he was and meant to stay put.”

“He bought the place.” I had been by turns surprised, amused, and angered over the last twenty minutes, but never exactly dumbfounded. Now I was. “He bought Warrington's Lodge so he wouldn't have to move to Lookout Rock Hotel over in Castle View, or rent a house.”

“Ayuh, so he did. Nine buildins, includin the main lodge and The Sunset Bar; twelve acres of woods, a six-hole golf course, and five hundred feet of shore-front on The Street. Plus a two-lane bowlin alley and
a softball field. Four and a quarter million. His friend Osgood did the deal and Devore paid with a personal check. I wonder how he found room for all those zeros. See you, Mike.”

With that he backed up the driveway, leaving me to stand on the stoop, looking after him with my mouth open.

*   *   *

Plastic owls.

Bill had told me roughly two dozen interesting things in between peeks at his watch, but the one which stayed on top of the pile was the fact (and I did accept it as a fact; he had been too positive for me not to) that Jo had come down here to take delivery on a couple of plastic goddam owls.

Had she told me?

She might have. I didn't remember her doing so, and it seemed to me that I would have, but Jo used to claim that when I got in the zone it was no good to tell me anything; stuff went in one ear and out the other. Sometimes she'd pin little notes—errands to run, calls to make—to my shirt, as if I were a first-grader. But wouldn't I recall if she'd said “I'm going down to Sara, hon, UPS is delivering something I want to receive personally, interested in keeping a lady company?” Hell wouldn't I have
gone
? I always liked an excuse to go to the TR. Except I'd been working on that screenplay . . . and maybe pushing it a little . . . notes pinned to the sleeve of my shirt . . . 
If you go out when you're finished, we need milk and orange juice . . .

I inspected what little was left of Jo's vegetable garden with the July sun beating down on my neck and thought about owls, the plastic goddam owls.
Suppose Jo
had
told me she was coming down here to Sara Laughs? Suppose I had declined almost without hearing the offer because I was in the writing zone? Even if you granted those things, there was another question: why had she felt the need to come down here personally when she could have just called someone and asked them to meet the delivery truck? Kenny Auster would have been happy to do it, ditto Mrs. M. And Bill Dean, our caretaker, had actually been here. This led to other questions—one was why she hadn't just had UPS deliver the damned things to Derry—and finally I decided I couldn't live without actually seeing a bona fide plastic owl for myself. Maybe, I thought, going back to the house, I'd put one on the roof of my Chevy when it was parked in the driveway. Forestall future bombing runs.

I paused in the entry, struck by a sudden idea, and called Ward Hankins, the guy in Waterville who handles my taxes and my few non-writing-related business affairs.

“Mike,” he said heartily. “How's the lake?”

“The lake's cool and the weather's hot, just the way we like it,” I said. “Ward, you keep all the records we send you for five years, don't you? Just in case IRS decides to give us some grief?”

“Five is accepted practice,” he said, “but I hold your stuff for seven—in the eyes of the tax boys, you're a mighty fat pigeon.”

Better a fat pigeon than a plastic owl,
I thought but didn't say. What I said was “That includes desk calendars, right? Mine and Jo's, up until she died?”

“You bet. Since neither of you kept diaries, it was
the best way to cross-reference receipts and claimed expenses with—”

“Could you find Jo's desk calendar for 1993 and see what she had going in the second week of November?”

“I'd be happy to. What in particular are you looking for?”

For a moment I saw myself sitting at my kitchen table in Derry on my first night as a widower, holding up a box with the words Norco Home Pregnancy Test printed on the side. Exactly what
was
I looking for at this late date? Considering that I had loved the lady and she was almost four years in her grave, what
was
I looking for? Besides trouble, that was?

“I'm looking for two plastic owls,” I said. Ward probably thought I was talking to him, but I'm not sure I was. “I know that sounds weird, but it's what I'm doing. Can you call me back?”

“Within the hour.”

“Good man,” I said, and hung up.

Now for the actual owls themselves. Where was the most likely spot to store two such interesting artifacts?

My eyes went to the cellar door. Elementary, my dear Watson.

*   *   *

The cellar stairs were dark and mildly dank. As I stood on the landing groping for the lightswitch, the door banged shut behind me with such force that I cried out in surprise. There was no breeze, no draft, the day was perfectly still, but the door banged shut just the same. Or was sucked shut.

I stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, feeling
for the lightswitch, smelling that oozy smell that even good concrete foundations get after awhile if there is no proper airing-out. It was cold, much colder than it had been on the other side of the door. I wasn't alone and I knew it. I was afraid, I'd be a liar to say I wasn't . . . but I was also fascinated. Something was with me.
Something was in here with me.

I dropped my hand away from the wall where the switch was and just stood with my arms at my sides. Some time passed. I don't know how much. My heart was beating furiously in my chest; I could feel it in my temples. It was cold. “Hello?” I asked.

Nothing in response. I could hear the faint, irregular drip of water as condensation fell from one of the pipes down below, I could hear my own breathing, and faintly—far away, in another world where the sun was out—I could hear the triumphant caw of a crow. Perhaps it had just dropped a load on the hood of my car.
I really need an owl,
I thought.
In fact, I don't know how I ever got along without one.

“Hello?” I asked again. “Can you talk?”

Nothing.

I wet my lips. I should have felt silly, perhaps, standing there in the dark and calling to the ghosts. But I didn't. Not a bit. The damp had been replaced by a coldness I could feel, and I had company. Oh, yes. “Can you tap, then? If you can shut the door, you must be able to tap.”

I stood there and listened to the soft, isolated drips from the pipes. There was nothing else. I was reaching out for the lightswitch again when there was a soft thud from not far below me. The cellar of Sara Laughs is high, and the upper three feet of the concrete—the
part which lies against the ground's frost-belt—had been insulated with big silver-backed panels of Insu-Gard. The sound that I heard was, I am quite sure, a fist striking against one of these.

Just a fist hitting a square of insulation, but every gut and muscle of my body seemed to come unwound. My hair stood up. My eyesockets seemed to be expanding and my eyeballs contracting, as if my head were trying to turn into a skull. Every inch of my skin broke out in gooseflesh. Something was in here with me. Very likely something dead. I could no longer have turned on the light if I'd wanted to. I no longer had the strength to raise my arm.

I tried to talk, and at last, in a husky whisper I hardly recognized, I said: “Are you really there?”

Thud.

“Who are you?” I could still do no better than that husky whisper, the voice of a man giving last instructions to his family as he lies on his deathbed. This time there was nothing from below.

I tried to think, and what came to my struggling mind was Tony Curtis as Harry Houdini in some old movie. According to the film, Houdini had been the Diogenes of the Ouija board circuit, a guy who spent his spare time just looking for an honest medium. He'd attended one séance where the dead communicated by—

“Tap once for yes, twice for no,” I said. “Can you do that?”

Thud.

It was on the stairs below me . . . but not
too
far below. Five steps down, six or seven at most. Not quite close enough to touch if I should reach out and
wave my hand in the black basement air . . . a thing I could imagine, but not actually imagine doing.

“Are you . . .” My voice trailed off. There was simply no strength in my diaphragm. Chilly air lay on my chest like a flatiron. I gathered all my will and tried again. “Are you Jo?”

Thud.
That soft fist on the insulation. A pause, and then:
Thud-thud.

Yes and no.

Then, with no idea why I was asking such an inane question: “Are the owls down here?”

Thud-thud.

“Do you know where they are?”

Thud.

“Should I look for them?”

Thud!
Very hard.

Why did she want them?
I could ask, but the thing on the stairs had no way to an—

Hot fingers touched my eyes and I almost screamed before realizing it was sweat. I raised my hands in the dark and wiped the heels of them up my face to the hairline. They skidded as if on oil. Cold or not, I was all but bathing in my own sweat.

“Are you Lance Devore?”

Thud-thud,
at once.

“Is it safe for me at Sara? Am I safe?”

Thud.
A pause. And I
knew
it was a pause, that the thing on the stairs wasn't finished. Then:
Thud-thud.
Yes, I was safe. No, I wasn't safe.