Ghost Story (29 page)

"Who the hell would do a thing like that?" Freddy asked, still shocked by the sight of the long wound in the horse's neck.

"Norbert Clyde claims it's Martians. Says he saw one. Didn't you hear about that?"

"I heard something," Freddy admitted. "Are you going to check into where Jim Hardie was last night?"

"Mister, I'd be a damn sight happier if people didn't tell me how to do my job." He bent over the old woman. "Miss Dedham, you settled down now? You like to sit?" She nodded, and Hardesty said to Freddy, "I'll hold her up, you open the door of my car."

They propped her up on the car seat, her legs dangling out. "Poor Chocolate, poor Chocolate," she moaned. "Horrible ... poor Chocolate."

"All right, Miss Dedham. Now, I want to tell you something." Hardesty leaned forward and propped a foot up on the car. "Jim Hardie didn't do this, you hear me? Jim Hardie was out drinking beer with Pete Barnes last night. They drove up to a beer joint outside Glen Aubrey, and we got them checked in there till damn near two o'clock. I know about your little feud with Jim, so I asked around."

"He could have done it after two," Freddy said.

"He was playing cards with Peter Barnes in the Barnes's basement until daylight. That's what Pete says anyhow. Jim's been spending a lot of time with Pete Barnes, but I don't think the Barnes kid would do a thing like this or cover up for someone who did, do you?"

Freddy shook his head.

"And when Jim hasn't been with the Barnes kid, he's been with that new dame, you know who I mean. The good-looker—looks like a model."

"I know who you mean. That is, I've seen her."

"Yeah. So he didn't kill this horse, and he didn't kill Elmer Scales's heifers either. The State Farm Agent says it was a dog turned killer. So if you see a big flying dog with teeth like razors, I guess you got it." He looked at Freddy hard, and turned back to Rea Dedham. "You about ready to go inside now? Too cold out here for a old lady like you. I'll get you inside, and go back and get someone to get rid of that horse for you."

Freddy stepped back, rebuffed by Hardesty. "You know it wasn't a dog."

"Yep."

"So what do you think it was? What's going on?" He looked around, knowing that he was missing something. Then he had it, and opened his mouth just as he saw a bright bit of cloth fluttering on the barbed-wire fence near the stables.

"You want to say?"

"There wasn't any blood," Freddy said, looking at the cloth.

"Good for you. Farm Agent decided not to notice that. You gonna help me with this old lady?"

"I dropped something back there," Freddy told him, and walked back toward the stables. He heard Hardesty grunt, picking up Miss Dedham, and when he got to the stables, turned around to see him carrying her in the door. Freddy went over to the barbed wire and pulled the long bit of cloth from it—silk. It was torn from a scarf, and he knew where he had seen it.

Freddy began—it was not the word he would have chosen—to scheme.

Back home, after he had typed up his report and mailed it and the signed forms off to the head office, he dialed Lewis Benedikt's telephone number. He did not really know what he would say to Lewis; but he thought he had the key he'd been looking for.

"Hey, Lewis," he said. "Hey, how are you? This is Freddy."

"Freddy?"

"Freddy Robinson. You know."

"Oh yes."

"Ah, are you busy right now? I've got something I want to talk to you about."

"Go ahead," Lewis said, not very promisingly.

"Yeah. If I'm not taking up your time? ... Okay. You know about those animals that were killed? Did you know there was another one? One of those old horses the Dedham sisters own, I wrote the policy on it, well I don't think any Martian killed it. I mean, do you?" He paused, but Lewis said nothing. "I mean, that's screwball. Uh, look, isn't that woman who just moved into town, the one who sometimes hangs around with Jim Hardie, isn't she working for Sears and Ricky?"

"I've heard something to that effect." Lewis said, and Freddy heard in his voice that he should have said Hawthorne, James instead of Sears and Ricky.

"Do you know her at all?"

"Not at all. Do you mind if I ask what the point is?"

"Well, I think there's more going on than Sheriff Hardesty knows about."

"Could you explain yourself, Freddy?"

"Not on the phone. Could we meet somewhere to talk about it? See, I found something out at the Dedham place, and I didn't want to show it to Hardesty until I had talked with you and maybe with, ah, Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. James."

"Freddy, I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Well, to tell you the truth I'm not so sure myself, but I wanted to get together with you, have a few beers maybe and bat a few ideas around. Sort of see what we can come up with on this."

"On what, for God's sake?"

"On a few ideas I have. I think all you guys are just terrific, you know, and I want you to know if there's any kind of trouble coming your way ..."

"Freddy, I've got all the insurance I need," Lewis said. I'm not in the mood to go out. Sorry."

"Well, maybe I'll see you in Humphrey's Place anyhow? We could talk there."

"It's a possibility," Lewis said, and hungup.

Freddy put his receiver down, satisfied that he had planted enough hooks in Lewis for now. Lewis was bound to call him back once he'd thought about everything Freddy had told him. Of course if everything he was thinking was true, then it was his duty to go to Hardesty, but there was plenty of time for that—he wanted to think out the implications before he spoke to Hardesty. He wanted to make sure that the Chowder Society was protected. His thoughts went more or less in this order: he had seen the scarf from which the piece had been torn around the neck of the girl Hardesty called "the new dame." She had worn the scarf at Humphrey's Place on a date with Jim Hardie. Rea Dedham suspected Jim Hardie of killing the horse; Hardesty had said something about a "feud" between the Hardie boy and the Dedham sisters. The scarf proved that the girl had been there, so why not Hardie too? And if these two had for whatever reason killed the horse, why not the other animals? Norbert Clyde had seen a big form, something peculiar about the eyes: it could have been Jim Hardie caught in a ray of moonlight. Freddy had read about modern witches, crazy women who organized men into covens. Maybe this new girl was one of them. Jim Hardie was fodder for any lunatic who came down the pike, even if his mother would never see it. But the reputation of the Chowder Society would be damaged if all this were true, and if it got out. Hardie could be shut up, but the girl would have to be paid off and forced to leave.

He waited two days, anxiously waiting for Lewis to return his call.

When Lewis did not, he decided that the time for aggression had come and once again dialed Lewis's number.

"It's me again, Freddy Robinson."

"Oh, yes." Lewis said, already distant.

"I really think we ought to get together. Hey? Honestly, Lewis, I think we should. I've got your best interests at heart." Then, searching for an unanswerable appeal, "What if the next body is human, Lewis? Think about that."

"Are you threatening me? What the hell are you saying?"

" 'Course not." He was flattened. Lewis had taken it the wrong way. "Listen, how about tomorrow evening some time?"

"I'm going coon hunting," Lewis immediately said.

"Gosh," Freddy said, startled by this new facet of his idol. "I didn't know you did that. You hunt raccoon? That's really great, Lewis."

"It's relaxing. I go out with an old boy who has a few dogs. We just go off and waste time in the woods. Great if you like that sort of thing." Freddy heard the unhappiness in Lewis's voice, and for a moment was too disturbed by it to reply. "Well good-bye," Lewis said, and hung up.

Freddy stared at the phone, opened the drawer where he had put the section of scarf, looked at it. If Lewis could go hunting, so could he. Not really knowing why he felt it was necessary, he went to the door of his study and locked it. He searched his memory for the name of the old woman who worked as receptionist for the law firm: Florence Quast. Then he got her number from the book and mystified the old lady with a long story about a nonexistent policy. When she suggested that he call either Mr. James or Mr. Hawthorne, he said, "No, I don't think I need bother either of them, I think that new girl of theirs could answer my questions. Could you give me her name? And just where is she staying again?"

(Are you thinking, Freddy, that somehow she will be living in your house very soon? And is that why you locked the door of your study? Did you want to keep her out?)

Hours later, he rubbed his forehead, buttoned his jacket, wiped his palms on his trousers and dialed the Archer Hotel.

"Yes, I'd be happy to see you, Mr. Robinson," the girl said, sounding very calm.

(Freddy, you're not really afraid of meeting a pretty girl for a late-night conversation, are you? What's the matter with you, anyhow? And why did you think she knew exactly what you were going to say?)

"Aw, this is great," Hardie said, and banged the horn. Even in the dark his face was a red mask in which the eyes were slits: that was the way Jim Hardie always looked while he was doing his most outrageous stunts, and whenever Peter Barnes ever took the time really to think about it, he was grateful that in a year he was going off to college and getting away from a friend who could look as crazy as that. Jim Hardie, drunk or otherwise stimulated, was capable of frightening wildness. What was either almost admirable or even more frightening was that he never lost his physical or verbal efficiency, no matter how drunk he was. Half-drunk, like now, he never slurred his words or staggered; wholly drunk, he was a figure of pure anarchy. "We're gonna tear things up," he said.

"Great," Peter said. He knew better than to protest; besides, Jim always got away with everything he did. Ever since they had met in grade school, Jim Hardie had talked his way out of trouble—he was wild, but not stupid. Even Walt Hardesty had never gotten anything on him—not even burning down the old Pugh barn because dumb Penny Draeger had told him that the Dedham girls, whom he hated, were using it as a stable.

"Might as well catch a few grins before you go to Cornell, hey?" Jim said. "Might as well catch all the grins you can get, because I hear that place is the pits." Jim had always said that he saw no point in going to college, but he occasionally showed that he resented Peter's acceptance, by early admission, to Cornell. Peter knew that all Jim Hardie wanted was for them to go on raising hell, a perpetual eighteen, forever.

"So is Milburn," Peter said.

"Good point, my son. It sure as shit is. But let's at least liven the place up, huh? So that's what we're going to do tonight, Priscilla. And just in case you thought you were going to dry up in the course of our adventures, your old friend James took care of that." Hardie unzipped his coat and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. "Golden hands, you turd, golden hands." He unscrewed the cap with one hand and drank while he drove, and his face grew red and taut. "You want a shluck?"

Peter shook his head; the smell nauseated him.

"Stupid bartender turned his back, right?
Zoom.
Asshole knew it was gone, too, but he was too much of a dipshit to say anything to me. You know something, Peter? It's depressing, having competition no better than that." He laughed, and Peter Barnes laughed too.

"Well, what are we going to do?"

Hardie passed him the bottle again, and this time he drank. The headlights swam apart and became four, and he shook his head, forcing them back to two.

"Hah! We are gonna peep, my boy, we are gonna take a look at a lady." Hardie palled at the bottle, chuckled, dribbled bourbon down his chin.

"Peep? Like a peeping Tom?" He let his head roll toward Hardie, who could obviously steam on to morning and through the next day, getting less predictable all the time.

"Peep. Look. Shoot a beaver. If you don't like it, jump out of the car."

"On a lady?"

"Well, not on a man, shitface."

"What, hide in a bush and look through ..."

"Not exactly. Not exactly. Someplace much better."

"Who is it?"

"That bitch at the hotel."

Peter was now more confused than ever. "The one you were talking about? The one from New York?"

"Yeah." Jim swung the car around the square, passing the hotel without even bothering to look at it.

"I thought you were balling her."

"Well, I lied, man. So what? So I exaggerate a little. Truth is, she never let me put a hand on her. Look, I'm sorry I made up a little adventure about her, okay? She made me feel like a jerk. Taking her out to Humphrey's, giving her all my best lines—well, I want to take a look at her when she doesn't know I'm there." Jim bent forward and, disregarding the road altogether for a reckless amount of time, groped under his seat. When he straightened up again, he was grinning widely and holding a long brass-trimmed telescope. "With this. Hell of a good scope, Junior—cost me sixty bucks in the Apple."

"Mmn." Peter lolled back against the seat. "This is the grungiest thing I ever heard of."

A moment later, he became aware that Jim was stopping the car. He pushed himself forward and peered through the window. "Oh no. Not here."

"This is it babe. Move your ass."

Hardie shoved his shoulder, and Peter opened the door and half-rolled out of the car. St Michael's cathedral loomed before them, huge and forbidding in the darkness.