Quarrel with the Moon (22 page)

She stood in the front hall breathing raggedly, one hand pressed to her heart, the other holding on one of the brass coathooks jutting from the hall rack. Her heart slowed down until its beat was very nearly normal. Jewell licked her dry lips. Her mouth was stale with liquor and the coppery taste of blood. She turned to look into the mirror centered in the rack. But it wasn't herself that she saw reflected. It was the grinning corpse of Faye Brooks.

Jewell threw back her head and howled.

The hall was suddenly filled with the unmistakable aura of decay. Jewell had a tenuous grip on her sanity and prayed that reason would reassert itself. It was a hallucination, nothing more. She looked back into the mirror.

In the mirror Faye was visibly rotting. She glowed with a certain phosphorescence, and a putrid yellow slime began to ooze from the open wounds. The spoiled flesh began to curl and drop in chunks from the rapidly decomposing body.

Jewell flung out her arms, shielding her eyes with the backs of her hands, and ran into the parlor to escape the apparition. She stumbled over a low table and went sprawling to the floor. Jibbering with fright, Jewell dragged herself to her feet and fled into the kitchen.
Faye Brooks lay across the sink and draining board.
Her head turned toward Jewell, the lone eye staring at her intently. The rotting features were blending, merging, running together like melted tallow. She didn't look like a person at all; she looked like a bundle of rags and butchered meat. Flies tracked across the gaping wounds, buzzing sonorously as they deposited their eggs.

The hair on Jewell's arms and neck rose. Her mouth worked frantically, but nothing came out except a bloody froth. Nausea overcame her, and a bitter bile began to fill her throat. Jewell pressed her body rigidly against the wall. The moldering arm moved upwards and stretched toward her. The hand was folded except for the extended ring finger. Jewell tore at her hair and shrieked. She lurched to the door and stumbled into the weedy back yard, featureless save for the stone well. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer, and an incredibly sharp pain tore through her chest. She made weak, gurgling sounds as she stumbled through the tangle of weeds. She twisted her ankle on what might have been a ground squirrel's hole and fell down. Something slithered through the dry grass and touched her shoulder. Even before she turned, Jewell knew what she would behold.

The moonlight had become brighter. The resurrected visage was flaked with putrefaction. Maggots fretted the remaining flesh, which glistened with slime. Jewell screamed and pulled away from its touch. Bits of rotting flesh clung to her shoulder. She got to her feet, clamped her hands to her head and rocked it back and forth. There was only one way to escape.

The well.

Jewell flung aside its wooden covering and fumbled for the rope which held the bucket. She was surprised how easily the rope freed itself from the handle. She wrapped it around her throat once, tied a bulky knot and clambered up onto the rock rim. Her hands hung loosely at her sides, her arms twitched aimlessly. She cocked her head sideways, as if listening to someone calling her from far away.

The cadaver was coming toward her, shedding flesh and maggots as it shambled through the weeds. A maniacal laugh erupted from Jewell's lips. She jumped.

As she plummeted downward, Jewell saw Faye Brooks' grinning skull reflected in the still waters. And she knew she hadn't escaped after all.

There was no escaping death.

The rope was jerked taut. Jewell's body was suspended half in the water and half out.

Crawfish swam toward the partially submerged body and began their work.

Josh was painfully aware that everyone in the diner was listening to him. The pasty waitresses, the burly truck drivers and the beehived cashier were all giving him their undivided attention. Why wasn't the phone enclosed by a booth? He turned his back on his audience and cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. The help and the customers leaned forward and strained to hear the stranger's words.

"What! ... What, operator? ... No, it's a collect call, person to person, to Dr. Raymond Phelps." Josh sighed and patiently repeated the number. "It's the direct line to Dr. Phelps ... Jesus." Muttering, Josh looked over his shoulder. Everybody turned back to their plates, their order pads and their grills. Josh drummed his fingers against the coin box and waited.

It was the third day after the storm. The mountain road still hadn't been cleared; Josh had borrowed a horse from Orin. His only experience with riding had been canters on horses more used to non-riders than riders. Orin's lumbering black gelding was just the opposite. Josh rubbed his aching buttocks. The uncomfortable journey had made his vile mood worse.

The illness had left Cresta in a weak and nervous condition. She looked terrible. There was a pallid cast to her skin, her hair was dull and lusterless, and she had lost several pounds, making her face look drawn.

Because of her fever, Cresta and Josh had not been sleeping together. And that circumstance had become an integral part of their bitter argument this morning.

Josh had eyed Cresta as she picked at her food. "Try to eat more, Cresta. You need it to gain back the weight."

"Where were you last night?"

"Where?" Josh had replied uneasily. "Why, right here."

Cresta had pushed back her chair. "Why are you lying to me? I got up in the middle of the night to get a drink. You weren't here. The couch was empty, and you were gone."

Josh had run his tongue over his lips. "Oh, that. I couldn't sleep. I took a short walk."

"That short talk took almost three hours. I know. I sat up watching the clock."

"That's not going to make you better."

"I know what I need to make me better," she had retorted.

Josh had risen from the table and attempted to kiss her. She had pulled away, saying, "And did you meet anyone while taking your walk?"

"What do you mean?" Josh had snapped. "Who in the hell would I meet wandering around the mountains in the middle of the night?"

"Weren't you with that girl, that Roma?"

Josh had sighed. "Cresta, I think the fever's affecting your judgment."

She had slammed down her coffee cup. "Goddamn you! You're not going to make me think I'm paranoid. I saw the looks you were giving each other."

"What looks?"

"I'm going to Jericho Falls with you," she had said defiantly.

"What in hell for?"

"I'm going to call Jason and accept those bookings in Europe."

"You're not going anywhere. You're not well enough to go horseback riding down the mountainside."

Cresta had lain her head down on the table and begun to cry. "It seems like I'm too sick for anything, and I look like a Goddamned hag!" She'd run into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. He hadn't followed her.

***

What in the hell was taking so long? "Operator! Operator ... The call's to New York City, not Nagasaki. What? ... Phelps! Dr. Raymond Phelps!" He scratched the back of his head in exasperation. Finally the connection was made. The operator garbled his name to Elsa Krupp, who had answered. Josh yelled, "Elsa, this is Josh Holman. I'm trying to get through to Dr. Phelps ... Well, find him!" Josh turned back to the fascinated diners. He crossed his eyes and let his tongue loll from the corner of his mouth. They quickly returned to their blue-plate specials.

"Dr. Phelps ... I'm at a pay phone in Jericho Falls ... What? ... There
are
no phones up on the Ridge. Listen, did you call Harry and company back from the digs? ... No? Well, I wonder where the hell they are.... No, they aren't there. I trekked down the mountainside several days ago. The burial mound was there, but no camp.... Yeah, yeah, I find it strange, too. Well, I guess Harry has his reasons, and I'm sure you'll be hearing from him soon. If he's had half as much trouble trying to reach you as I did, he may very well have given up and sat down to write you a letter. Christ, what a production!" Josh lowered his voice. "No, nothing so far." He started to mention the cave, but decided better of it. After all, there was no proof that it was linked to the strange bones. "I'd like to stay on for.... Stay on!" There was a crackling on the line, followed by a dull metallic buzz. "God damn it, I've been cut off! Operator!
Operator!
Shit!" Josh hung up the phone, swung around and caught the diners watching him. He smiled sarcastically and offered them a deep bow before leaving.

Josh paced aimlessly for several blocks, trying to come to terms with his anger, his guilt, the fight with Cresta. He found himself standing in front of a tavern colorfully named Big Tilly's. A couple of beers would put him in a better mood.

From behind the bar, a broad muscular man sporting a crewcut said, "We ain't open till twelve, pal."

Josh looked at the clock. It was five to. "It's almost that now."

The bartender shrugged. "So sit down an' wait it out."

Josh sat. He cast a friendly smile in the bartender's direction and asked, "What time does Big Tilly get in?"

"I'm here," growled the bartender. "It's short for Tilford, pal." Then, despite the two minutes remaining until noon, he drew two beers and set one down in front of Josh. "Here. You look like you had a rough night." Josh drank it greedily and was finished before Big Tilly even lifted his glass. The bartender gave Josh his untouched beer and went to draw himself another one.

"What's your business?" he asked bluntly.

"I've just come down from the Ridge to pick up a few things," replied Josh easily. "I'm up there snooping around the Indian burial mound."

"Oh, yeah? The one on Cheat River? Not a very lucky place for tourists."

"What do you mean?"

"They have a way of disappearin' in that part of the country."

"What do you mean?"

"Disappearin', you know ... poof! Gone! Just like they never existed. No bodies, no nothin'. Everybody thinks they somehow got drowned, but I think different."

"Oh?" Josh pushed a five-dollar bill across the bar, indicating that he was buying the next round. He hoped that Big Tilly would expand on his viewpoints.

The ploy worked. Big Tilly downed his beer and drew another. "I remember the first bunch. It was in '48-'49. I was fresh out of the army an' had just bought the place." Josh stared at him; he hadn't figured Big Tilly to be that old. "A group of kids from Wesley College. They stopped in here the night before they took off on a canoe trip up the river. Not an easy trip. The river looks calm, but there are a lot of surprisin' currents. Yeah, they all got pretty drunk that night on beer an' bourbon. Nice bunch of kids. Let's see, there were seven or eight of them. Three girls, the rest guys." He paused to take a swallow of beer.

"So what happened to them?" asked Josh.

Big Tilly wiped the foam from his upper lip. "Dunno. They were never heard from again. Their canoes were found all battered to shit, but no bodies. Not even pieces of bodies."

"Then they must have drowned."

"That's what I thought, everybody thought, until it happened again." Big Tilly bit into a beef jerky, swallowed his mouthful and continued. "It seemed like it became a regular thing. Tourists an' such goin' up to the Ridge an' never comin' back."

"Did anybody do any investigating?"

"The sheriff's office." The bartender snorted. "The sheriff an' his men couldn't find a flea on a hound dog."

"So how did they explain all those disappearances?"

"Drownin'."

"And never any bodies recovered?"

"Nary a one, pal."

What if Harry, Amy and Ted weren't on their way back to New York City? What if they were also among the missing? "You didn't happen to run into a guy named Harry Evers, did you? And his two assistants, a couple named Ted and Amy, hippie types?"

"From New York, were they?" Josh nodded. "Yeah, they was here. The state store was closed. They stopped off an' picked up some sixpacks of beer." Big Tilly's face clouded. "Say, they were goin' up the Cheat River."

"They went there all right, but they're not there now."

"I take it they're supposed to be."

"That's right."

They stared at each other.

Josh said, "Maybe I ought to stop in at the sheriff's office and report them missing."

"For all the good that'll do."

"Ah, they're probably driving through the Lincoln Tunnel at this very minute."

"Probably." Big Tilly wasn't convincing.

Another beer, and Josh's inherent optimism surfaced. "Yes, probably hitting the Lincoln Tunnel right about now." He finished his beer, overtipped Big Tilly and left.

On his way back to the borrowed and tethered horse, Josh made a stop at Jericho Fall's only drugstore to buy a present for Cresta. A peace offering. They had Je Reviens, Cresta's favorite perfume. He hoped that would do the trick. Sure, he'd spent the last few nights at Roma's, returning to his bed on the couch just before dawn. But Cresta hadn't missed him until last night. He just had to be more careful.

Josh reached the local feedstore where for a few dollars, they had taken care of Orin's horse. The gelding eyed him with suspicion as he prepared to mount. The store owner laughed. "I don't think that horse much cares for you."

"Well, that makes it mutual," replied Josh.

The trip back up the mountain took most of the afternoon until it was nearly dark. Orin was out, so Josh left the horse in the stable and hurried back to the camper. Cresta was gone, but she had left a note.

"Josh, I went to Aunt Avvie's for dinner and will stay there until you get home - Cresta."

At least the note didn't seem unfriendly. He tucked the bottle of perfume in his back pocket and decided to have a drink before picking up Cresta. After all, it was seven o'clock, way past cocktail hour. Josh poured a double vodka and sat down at the kitchen table. From his vantage point he could see the bedroom and the unmade bed. Josh frowned. He didn't like being around people who were sick or incapacitated in any way. Perhaps when Cresta was well enough he'd let her go back to New York on her own. He'd stay in Chestnut Ridge for a few weeks and complete his investigations. He wished he hadn't missed old Harry. What a drinking companion he was. Josh poured another double.