Night Songs (17 page)

    "I would think so, but your friend obviously doesn't."

    "I think," said Vincent, "I don't like the trouble you're causing."

    "All right, Bob," he said, "I've had enough." He turned to leave, and a hand clamped on his upper arm and spun him around. His mouth opened, and his right hand listed, but he only had time to blink once before he felt a fist slam sharply into his stomach.

    Instantly, he folded his arms over his belt and dropped to his knees. The air in his lungs was gone; when he inhaled, nothing happened. There were tears in his eyes, and a spreading ache in his chest. When he inhaled, nothing happened, and the noise he made trying to breathe frightened him to gasping. He swayed, he heard voices, and when he inhaled a third time, nothing happened.

    A hand gestured feebly for help; his mouth opened wider; motes of black winked in and out of his blurring vision. He tried to focus on the pattern of the carpeting, and he couldn't. He tried to keep himself from toppling, but he fell slowly, heavily, onto his side, legs curled up, one arm beneath his head.

    Then his breath returned abruptly, and he rolled to his knees again and tried not to retch.

    A hand patted his back, another took hold of his shoulder. Someone was asking if he were all right, if he wanted water, but all he could do was move his lips and make gagging noises like a man near drowning.

    He sagged.

    One moment every muscle in his body had been drawn tight and was quivering, the next he had to snap out a hand to keep himself from falling. His head lowered, weighted and aching, and he swallowed bile convulsively.

    "Col, for God's sake, say something!"

    He opened his mouth, and choked.

    "Goddamn, I'll get a doctor."

    Colin lifted a hand to stop him. When his vision cleared, he rocked back onto his heels and tilted his head to stare at the ceiling while his hands gripped his waist. He drew in a breath, and another, and allowed Cameron to help him to his feet. When he could see without tears, Cameron's face was gray beneath the tan. They were alone; Lombard and Vincent had left them alone.

    "Colin?"

    The light from the office turned the air sickly yellow. "Colin, please."

    "You're stupid," was all he could say before he shoved the man away and staggered to the door. He closed his eyes, one hand on the brass knob, breathed again, and was outside without Cameron responding.

    It was almost sunset. The storm clouds were dark, and they left little room between them for twilight to prepare. The blue that remained was indigo and cobalt, yet there was nothing on the breeze that heralded rain.

    The cooling air revived him. He moved stiffly to the sidewalk and winced when his belt buckle dug into his stomach. Instead of heading for Tabor, he walked straight to his home. He stumbled up to the door and almost sat on the threshold. Then he flung the door open, letting it slam against the wall.

    "Stupid," he muttered, his mouth tasting like iron.

    He closed the door behind him, didn't turn on a light.

    In the bathroom he pulled his shirt from his trousers and stared at the bruise spreading over his abdomen. A fingertip brushed over it gingerly, and he drew in a hissing breath. He shook his head, chiding himself for not going to Garve and pressing charges against the man; then he chided himself for thinking the man would be arrested. Oh, Garve would bring him in, of course, and both Lombard and Cameron would deny that anything had happened. Then later, much later, shadows would move and he had no doubt at all the next message sent wouldn't stop at a single punch.

    He changed his shirt, put on his boots and jeans, found his denim jacket and stood in the living room, hesitant, wondering.

    
The Screaming Woman
on the table watched him, unmoving.

    This is stupid, he thought then; this is really and truly and unquestionably stupid.
He
was stupid. He and his white horse had run into the real world without knowing what had happened. Haven's End, for all its insulation, wasn't a paradise found in some romantic's dream; it was a large plot of land that attracted interests more powerful than any fishing industry. He was only a teacher, and a part-time one at that, and someone who dared commit dreams to a canvas. What chance did he have then against men like Michael Lombard?

    He crossed the room and dusted the carving absently.

    In a way, he was very much like Gran, he thought. He didn't care for the comparison, though much of it rang true.

    A shudder began in his shoulders and traveled to his neck, made his head palsied for several too-long seconds. Then he spun around and strode quickly outside, slid into his car and drove to Atlantic Terrace. He knocked on the door; twice more, and it opened.

    

    

    When he was inside, both he and Peg began talking at once, laughing by the time he'd crossed the threshold, holding hands without thinking when they walked into the front room. Matt was sprawled on the window seat, and he was giggling when he saw them. Colin instantly tried to pull away, but Peg wouldn't let him.

    Then he suggested the drive a third time, telling her he was worried about Lilla; after all, her real home was only two doors down and there was no reason at all why she should stay out at the shack, especially since Gran's place would probably flatten in the Screamer. Peg had agreed without hesitation, and Matt was already charging for his coat and telling them the Foxs' invitation to dinner was still good. He had the door open long before they got there, giving them a mock bow from the waist and winking at his mother.

    "You okay?" Colin asked, bending over at the threshold to examine the boy's eyes.

    "Sure." Matt shrugged.

    "She scared you, huh?"

    "She's
weird!"

    "No, she's just… unsettled, Matt. It isn't easy for someone like her to lose what's left of her family." He crouched, his hands draped over his knees. "Eighteen may seem awfully old to you, pal, but believe me, it isn't."

    "Eighteen isn't old," Matt said. "Thirty is."

    "Thank you," he said, frowning and throwing a mock punch at his arm. "And your mother thanks you, too."

    "Colin!"

    He exaggerated a wince, winked once, and stood. Five minutes later they dropped him off at the marina, Alex Fox waiting by the door with a reassuring wave.

    "Are you sure you're all right?" he said as he steered the car onto Neptune and headed slowly south toward the cliffs. The road was narrow and slightly humped in its center, the broken yellow lines fading nearly to gray. Though it wasn't really cold, he had his jacket zipped up to his chin.

    "I was spooked, that's all," Peg said. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, exposing her ears and the side of her pale neck. Her coat was red, her shirt a vivid plaid, and she was slumped in her seat so her knees rested against the dash. She turned her head toward him and smiled. "Really. Seeing Matt like that just scared me to death."

    "Well, if you're sure."

    She looked at him, almost laughing. "Yes, Mother Ross, I'm sure. I've been on edge all day. For that matter, it hasn't been a very pleasant week, either."

    They rode past the drug store, a pair of clothing stores, the luncheonette, all on the right. The bench where Gran did many of his carvings was deserted, and Colin shook his head.

    "It doesn't look right, does it?" he asked.

    Peg glanced at the bench, and the thin oak sapling struggling beside it. "No."

    They passed the chalet-shaped bank, the movie theater Bill Efron's brother ran, and Syd Naughton's market, all on the right. There were several cars in the parking lot, and he was tempted to stop when he saw Syd pushing several shopping carts toward the door, at the same time arguing loudly and with violent, one-handed gesticulations with three men who trailed behind him. They were in workclothes, fishermen just off their boats.

    "No catch," Peg said when she saw him looking. "Soon as I got home I got a call from Ed Raines' wife complaining. All day, and they didn't catch a single damned fish."

    "Why'd she call you?"

    She twisted a stray hair around her finger. "She owes for a prescription. A pleasant way to spread gossip and tell me she can't pay me this week." She stared until the market fell behind them, was replaced by a gas station, three houses, and the forest. "Matt thanks you."

    "For what?"

    "For taking me out. I was driving him crazy."

    He grinned. "I was driving myself crazy." He slumped a little to ease the strain on his stomach, and saw Peg watching him with a concerned frown. "Exercising," he explained. "I lost my balance and fell into the kitchen table."

    She looked straight ahead. "You're driving awfully slow."

    "It's a lovely day."

    "It was."

    The clouds in twilight deepened the shadows on the road. He switched on the headlights. His stomach ached, and there was pressure in his chest that made him breathe through his mouth. He sniffed, rolled up his window and planted his elbow on the frame. He hummed, whistled a bit, sniffed a second time and was silent.

    "What happened at Bob's?"

    With his right hand on the steering wheel, and left raked into his hair, he shrugged. "We discussed his visit to you and his call to me."

    She looked at him skeptically. "Discussed?"

    "I met Lombard and Vincent, too."

    Her mouth opened to say, "Oh, but nothing came out. She only looked out the window, at the trees and the underbrush and the midnight darkness beneath the boughs.

    They drifted between the two motels, had gone only a hundred yards beyond when he pulled over to the side, turned off the ignition, and twisted around on the seat with one arm stretched across the back. Peg straightened, her hands in her lap.

    "There was never anything between Lilla and me, Peg."

    Her hands clasped, and she stared at them, nodding. "Really."

    "I believe you. I told you it was the day, that damned storm coming."

    He tried to see through her, into her, find the paths that led to whatever created her thoughts and emotions and the laugh that made him smile even when he was sleeping. He had been frightened in the restaurant, just before he was struck, but the fear he knew now was something considerably more.

    "You know," he said, "once, when I was in Massachusetts, there was this old man who lived down the street. He ran an antique shop for the tourists and for the college students who needed furniture for their dorms. He'd charge one price for the students and twice as much for the others. He-"

    She looked at him suddenly, one corner of her mouth pulling back in a smile. "Is this one of your stories, Col?"

    "Huh?"

    "One of your stories," she said. "Every time you want to say something you think is important, you have to start off with a story of some kind. And every time," she added with a disarming smile, "it doesn't have a thing to do with whatever you're saying."

    He leaned away slightly. "I do that?"

    She nodded.

    "All the time?"

    She nodded again.

    "I'll be damned."

    She laughed soundlessly and lay a palm to his cheek, pulled the hand away and covered his on the seat's back. "Just tell me, Col. This once, just tell me."

    His tongue swiped at his lips once, and his cheeks puffed with apprehension. "It's-"

    "Just tell me."

    He watched her for a long time, and she didn't look away. Then he tucked his chin toward his chest and took a deep breath. "I want to marry you, Peg. I mean, I want you to marry me. I mean, will you marry me is what I mean. I mean. Yes." He nodded once, sharply. "Yes, I want to marry you."

    "Then it's mutual," she said.

    "No joke," he said, his stomach suddenly feeling queasy and hollow.

    "No joke, Colin."

    He frowned. "But I've never said I loved you."

    She slid toward him and laced her hands around the back of his neck. "Yes you have," she said quietly. "Every time I see you." She kissed him, and he sighed and wrapped his arms around her, kissed her gently and leaned his chin on her shoulder while he stared at the trees.

    "This is… nice."

    She said nothing.

    "I mean, this is great! I mean-" He pulled away and looked at her, frowning until he saw the color slipping from her face. "Peg?" Her lips were quivering just enough for him to see, and her right hand was pushing hard at his shoulder. He turned. "What's…" His eyes widened.

    Across the road was an elm whose branches had been shaped by the wind until they grew around the trunk, leaning away from the ocean. The bole was wide and gnarled, several knobs of roots thrust through the ground.

    He saw a hand there, part of an arm, a dark shape beyond them stretched under the tree.

    The hand was a dull red, and so were the leaves beneath it. Peg was out of the car before he could move, waiting by his door when he finally realized she was gone. They held hands as they crossed the tarmac, slowly, trying not to stare and staring just the same. At the opposite verge she stopped and pulled back, but Colin released her and kept going until he could see Warren Harcourt sprawled in the shadows.

    A fly walked across the dead man's brow.

    "Oh… Jesus," he whispered, and closed his eyes, too late. At the man's neck, over his coatfront, and staining the tops of his sandy bare feet… never in his life had Colin seen so much blood.

    

    

    Tess Mayfair liked to cook. If she had her way, she'd stay in the yellow-and-copper kitchen from breakfast to dinner and do nothing but watch the blue flames on the stove reach under the pots to boil the water and brown the fries and crisp the potato skins and curl the bacon. All while the TV on the windowsill would play her favorite western.