Dead Voices (26 page)

“Don’t!” Elizabeth said quickly, looking at him in the darkness of the car. She reached out and touched the side of his face, stroking his cheek with her fingertips before letting her hand drop back into her lap. She couldn’t stop the trembling building up inside of her as her mind raced to process everything she was thinking and feeling about tonight ... and all those other nights twenty years ago. She knew that if she didn’t say or do something soon, she was going to explode into tears.

“Elizabeth ...
please
, “ Frank said. He reached for her and tried to pull her close, but she held back.

She clenched her hands into tight fists just to stop them from shaking. “Let’s not ruin anything else tonight, all right?” she said tightly. “I had a good time. I really did, and I don’t regret anything that happened.”

“I do,” Frank said.

Elizabeth knew immediately that this was his own clumsy way of apologizing for all the wrong things he had said, tonight and all those years ago.

Leaning over toward him, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Thanks,” even as she thought that, if she had any sense left at all, this would be her last date with Frank Melrose. She opened the car door to get out, but just as she put her feet on the ground and began to stand up, a blaring sound filled the’ night, making her jump. She banged her arm on the open car door. “Shit!” she shouted, as sharp bursts of sound cut through the darkness like swift slashes of a knife.

“The town fire horn,” Frank said calmly. Elizabeth was still cursing her hurt arm, but he hushed her with a quick wave of his hand and said, “Shush! I’m counting the code.”

Elizabeth leaned down into the car as Frank counted the series of blasts on the fire horn. When there was a long pause, marking the end of the first cycle, they waited tensely for it to begin again so Frank could make sure he had gotten it right. He counted each blast with a light tap on the steering wheel. When the second cycle ended, he looked at her and said, “It’s three-three-five.”

“Holy shit!” Elizabeth said. “That’s the code for Brook Road! It must be somewhere nearby!” She straightened up quickly and glanced around the yard, suddenly fearful that the fire might be in her parents’ house or the bam out back.

Frank got out of the car, too, and looked around. Just before Elizabeth ran out to the backyard, he called her name and pointed up the road toward town.

“Look,” he said.

Elizabeth turned and saw a flickering glow of orange above the dark border of trees that lined the road. Thick smoke, looking soft gray in the moonlight, masked a long stretch of the starry sky.

“Come on,” Frank said, as he slid back behind the steering wheel and waved her into the car. “Let’s go see where it is. Maybe we can help.”

With a whining squeal of tires, Frank backed out of the driveway, and they raced into the night up Brook Road.

4.

Henry Bishop woke up to the sound of a floorboard creaking. He shifted around as he sat up in bed, listening intently to the silent house, waiting for the sound to be repeated. For several tense seconds, he held his breath; when the sound didn’t come again, he told himself to forget about it and go back to sleep. If there was any problem, like a prowler or burglar, Murf would be barking his ass off. With a sigh, he sank back into a tangle of sheets and blankets that were long overdue for a washing.

“Sum-bitch ... “ he muttered as he scrunched up his pillow and buried his face in it.

But now that his sleep had been disturbed, it wasn’t all that easy to drift back off. No matter how much he reassured himself that he had no reason to be nervous about burglars or anything else, he couldn’t settle down again. He lay there, staring at the ceiling and wondering how in the hell such a small noise like a squeaking floorboard could wake him up.

“Ahh,
fuck
it!” he muttered. He swung the bedcovers aside and got out of bed. “Might’s’well go down stairs for a nip or two. That’ll help me get back to sleep.”

Without turning on the light, he shuffled across the bedroom floor and into the hallway, all the while imagining the smooth taste of a glass of whiskey. Once he was at the top of the stairway landing, though, he noticed something that made him freeze in his tracks. From downstairs, coming from the kitchen, he saw the faint flicker of what looked like candlelight. Either that, or else he had left a light on and his eyesight, adjusting to the darkness, was making it flicker. His hand reached out blindly for the hallway wall switch; then — again — he heard a floorboard downstairs creak.

“What the be’
Jeezus
?” he hissed. He tried to reassure himself that he must have left the light on in the kitchen; but, as best as he could remember, he had turned everything off. Besides, the light he could see really was flickering, so it couldn’t be just his failing eyesight.

Moving as silently as he could, he went down the stairs, noticing for the first time in his life how damned many of the steps squeaked. He wished he’d made it a practice to keep one of his shotguns in his bedroom, but his guns and ammunition were in the hall closet by the front door. If there was an intruder, Henry knew he was going to have a hell of a time getting the gun and loading it without being found out.

And where the fuck was Murf? Henry wondered all the way down the stairs. Murf should’ve been barking his sorry ass off!

At the foot of the stairs, Henry paused, trying to think through very clearly the next few steps he should take. Should he go for the shotgun in the hall closet, or just barge on into the kitchen and tackle whoever the fuck was in there? Surprise might work in his favor ... then again, the intruder might have a gun of his own.

Glancing back and forth between the closet door and the kitchen entry, Henry suddenly had any and all decisions taken out of his hands when a deep, resonant voice spoke from the kitchen.

“Ahh ... there you are, Mr. Bishop. I was wondering when you’d get around to coming downstairs.”

Henry was totally taken aback. He could do nothing more than stammer senselessly. His eyes were bulging out of his head as he watched the flickering glow of light get brighter.

“Henry ... Do you mind if I call you Henry? Don’t be shy. This is your house, after all. Come right on in here so we can have a little talk. Will you?”

“Who the hell are you, ‘n’ what in the name of
fuck
are you doin’ in my house?” Henry snarled as he took several hesitant steps forward. The entire kitchen was suffused with a warm orange glow that might have been downright cheery if Henry hadn’t felt such a tight knot of tension deep in his groin. He entered the kitchen and saw the dark silhouette of a man standing by the sink. He was keeping one hand behind his back; that hand obviously held the candles, which were blazing, creating a yellow aura all around his black silhouette.

“‘N’ what in the fuck’d you do to my dog?” Henry snapped, as the realization came that
something
must have happened to Murf; otherwise, by now this guy — whoever the fuck he was-would have been tom to bloody pieces ...

Like Barney Fraser’s body in the woods
, Henry thought, unable to keep the memory of that horrible, dead, pale face out of his mind.

“Have a seat, Henry. Please, have a seat,” the man said, indicating with a wave of his arm the solitary chair at the kitchen table. Henry didn’t have any company other than Murf, so he had never seen the need for a second chair. In spite of his impulse to charge the man, wrestle him to the floor, and then pummel the living piss out of him, Henry did as he was told and sat down.

“I want to know who the fuck you —”

“I’ll do the talking, if that’s all right with you, Henry,” the silhouette said. The voice was firm and commanding, and, against his will, Henry found himself nodding his agreement.

“Now, the first thing I want you to do” — as the man spoke, he slowly withdrew his hand from behind his back-”is sit right there. Don’t you even think of moving a muscle, all right?”

Henry couldn’t believe what he saw. The man wasn’t holding candles. No, not at all! Only after several seconds did Henry realize what the object was; at first, he was simply entranced by the five flickering points of light. A numbingly cold rush coursed through his body, instantly freezing his muscles, when he saw that the man was holding a black, twisted-looking thing that sure as shit
looked
like a withered human hand, cut off halfway between the wrist and elbow. A little spur of bone protruded from the bottom, glowing like dull metal; the fingers curled like a claw, and on the tip of the thumb and of each finger, a tongue of flame flickered softly. Each burned with an oily blue core, like the flame of a gas stove.

“Wha — ?” Henry said aloud, even though it took a great effort to move his jaw. “What the ... fuckin’ hell — ?”

The light from the five fingertip candles underlit the intruder’s face, but Henry was damned if he recognized the man, who was holding the hand off to one side so that only half of his face was illuminated. The other half was cast into deep shadow.

“Scratch your head,” the man commanded.

“Huh — ?” Henry said, even as he tried to raise his own hand. He was shocked to discover that he couldn’t budge it-not an inch. It was as if his hand had been Super-glued to his pants. Henry tried harder, but the effort only made sweat break out on his forehead. His whole body shook with a deep, useless tremor. He stopped trying once he realized that he was immobile and that any struggle was useless. Chilling fear rippled through him even as his leg and back muscles seized up.

“What the fuck’d — you do — to me?” Henry wailed, only slightly grateful that he could still move his mouth to speak.

As the man waved the horrible candles in a wide are, the flames made soft little puffing sounds in the draft. He brought the light so close to Henry’s face that he could feel the shimmering waves of heat it gave off. The cloying stench of burning flesh filled Henry’s nose. If he had had control of his neck muscles, he would have turned away and gagged. As it was, his revulsion merely twisted like heavy, black smoke in his mind.

“I have ...
control
over you,” the man said, lowering his voice to a deep, thundering boom. “It’s that simple.” He turned and walked out the mudroom doorway, returning a moment later with a rusted five-gallon gasoline can in one hand, the flaming human hand in the other.

“What ... are ... you ... “ Henry said. Each word felt as though it were being pried out of his mouth with a crowbar. Strong, frigid hands were squeezing up his jaws, and every effort to move his muscles sent blades of pain slicing through his body.

“You must recognize this,” the man said. To help Henry see, he raised the horrible five-pointed candle to illuminate the can he was holding. “This is a gasoline can.” He gave the can a quick shake and smiled at the heavy sloshing sound it made. “Sounds just about full, too.”

“... I ...” Henry began, but then he gave up the effort of trying to speak as his neck muscles contracted into painfully hard knots.

“I’m just going to open the can,” the man said, “and-
oops
! I seemed to have spilled a little on the floor here. How clumsy of me!”

Henry’s eyes felt cemented in place, but he tried to force them to move so he could see what this madman was doing. He watched, horrified, as the man splashed more than a little gasoline around on the kitchen floor, right up to Henry’s feet. When the can was empty, the man put it down beside the gas stove.

“Now, then, Henry,” he said in a mockingly smooth voice. “I assume your gas stove has a pilot light. “ He raised one of the burner covers and looked inside. .. Ahh, yes — there it is.” Puffing his cheeks, he blew the pilot flame out. Picking up the other burner cover, he did the same, carefully replacing the covers.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a pack of cigarettes and a Bic butane lighter. Placing them carefully on the kitchen table, within easy reach of Henry if he could have moved his hand, the man pointed up to the wall and said, “You can easily see the clock?”

Unable to speak or nod, Henry simply glared hatred and fear at the man. He tried to consider
why
this was happening to him, if maybe it was some terrible dream from which he would soon wake up, but more than that, he was wondering
how
this man was doing this. How was he making it so that Henry couldn’t move a finger, couldn’t even speak? It was almost as if, the instant he had seen the five fingers flickering with blue flame, he had begun to lose his strength and will ... as if he had been hypnotized, somehow.

“It’s just about eleven-fifteen,” the man said. “In another fifteen minutes, it’ll be time for Johnny Carson. Do you like to watch Johnny Carson?”

Henry, of course, couldn’t respond. His vision had begun to swim as tears filled his eyes.

“There, there,” the man cooed. “Don’t cry! You’re a grown man, and grown men don’t cry. Besides, if you cry, you won’t be able to see what time it is, now, will you? Do you know what I want you to do, Henry?”

From deep inside his chest, somehow, Henry made a soft gagging sound .

“Oh, I see,” the man said. “You want to know what’s going on. Well, I suppose, since you’ll be dead soon, there’s no harm in telling you. You see, Henry, you pissed me off.” The man jabbed him in the chest with his pointed finger. Surprisingly, Henry didn’t feel a thing. “Do you want to know how you pissed me off?”

He leaned so close to Henry’s face that Henry could feel the warm wash of his breath over his numbed skin. The five points of light danced in the watery spheres of his eyes, waving in and out, leaving long tracers, like comet tails.

“Well — I’ll tell you how. You and your half-assed mutt ... What did you say his name was? Murf? Well, don’t you worry about Murf any more. He’s beyond your — or anyone’s — help now. But you know, Henry, you really pissed me off when you reported finding that body out there in the woods. You know ... Barney Fraser? Well, that created for me” — the man glanced over at the stove for a second —”some problems. Now, you don’t know me, but I’m the kind of man who, when I meet up with an obstacle or a problem, I don’t waste my time worrying or fussing over it. No, I
do
something about it. And tonight, I’m going to
do
something about you!”