Spawn of Hell (32 page)

“Aww,” she said in commiseration.

“We’re about halfway there now. To the plant, that is”

“Sounds a lot closer,” she said. “Listen.” They both came to a halt. They could hear people talking, a dog barking, the cries of children. A car horn honked. A screen door slammed and a woman called, “Johnny. Oh, Johnny.” It sounded like there was an encampment just around the bend.

“It can’t be,” David said. “There’s nothing in here but trees.”

“I think you’ve found something to tell the kids about,” she teased. “Isn’t that nice? It may take a while, but some dreams do come true.”

“I guess so. Seriously, I wonder what
is
up ahead.”

They continued up the hillside trying to see through the trees, the voices and noises getting louder with each step. “Are you sure we didn’t take a wrong turn?”

“Positive. There
are
no turns.” They reached the top of the hill, turned left and stared into the enclosure beyond.

“Don’t look now, Livingstone, but I think we’ve just found Brigadoon.”

David looked around in puzzlement. “No. This must be where old TV commercials come to die.”

Nestled in a large clearing in the woods before them was a short street with houses on either side, as if a suburban block had been somehow teleported into the middle of the forest. The street ended abruptly at their feet, and stretched out into the opposite woods, until it reached a curve and vanished. The houses went on for only about the length of the block, then were replaced with lots where, presumably, new houses would be built for about another half a block. Then the woods crowded in again on either side of the road.

The houses were not unusual. They were all square and one-storied, with brick stoops, bay windows and a side entrance, as well as a front door. They each had driveways and hedges to separate them. All of the houses had backyards, and one or two had screened-in porches, where they could see people sitting through a gray and hazy gauze. The whole village, if that was what it was, had an unfinished look to it, as if it had been assembled in a hurry. Not all of the houses—there were about twelve—were completely painted, and the lawns in front looked freshly-seeded and sparse. There were some kids playing ball in the street. In the backyard of the nearest house, a man was cooking steaks on a barbecue grill. A woman sat on the front lawn two houses down, doing needlepoint in a lawnchair.

“This must have sprung up in the past couple of months,” David said. “This road here must go out and join the main highway.”

“David, look.” Anna pointed to a sign that was nearly level with the spot where they stood, a few feet to the left. They walked over to get a better look. It read:
FELICITY VILLAGE
home development, a project of
Clarence Realty.

“Poor David,” Anna said, “the woods aren’t your own anymore.”

“It’s spooky,” he agreed, “this thing springing up in the middle of nowhere.”

“People have to live somewhere, I suppose,” Anna continued. “Although I don’t know why anyone would want to live here. You might as well live in Queens. Why move to the country when your next-door neighbor is still two feet away? The houses are awfully ugly, too. No imagination at all. Remember Pete Seeger’s song ‘Little Boxes’? ‘They’re all made of ticky-tack, and they all look just the—’ David. What
is
the matter?”

He was still staring at the sign, his eyes glued to the small print. He had not moved, had not acknowledged anything Anna had been saying.

“David, what’s wrong?”

“Oh my God.”

“David!”

He was hoping it meant nothing, that it was just a funny coincidence, but nothing he could do or say to himself would dispel the creepy feeling in the center of his gut. He was foolish to assume that there was anything wrong, anything to worry about, but his mind still raced off in dizzying, morbid directions. He thought of a two a.m. phone call, and whispered, frantic words, a call for help. He thought of missing men, and another man driven insane. He thought of Jeffrey. And he thought of Anna. Should he remind her of the significance of these words, which might mean nothing, which might mean everything.

“David, please tell me what’s the matter.”

Involuntarily he pointed to the bottom of the sign where it read:

C
LARENCE
R
EALTY—
A D
IVISION OF THE

B
ARROWS
C
ORPORATION.

Chapter Twelve

Joey’s Bar and Grille hadn’t been this busy on a week-night in months. The Hillsboro ladies’ club had had a special night meeting to plan their annual September auction and flea market, and some of the members had come to the bar for a nightcap. In addition to the ladies’ club women, Joey’s was also playing host to a large group of teenagers who had just come out of the early show at the moviehouse, a bunch of business men from New York passing through town on their way to a convention in Rutland, and David Hammond and Anna Braddon.

Ordinarily respectable women stayed away from Joey’s, as it was predominantly the hang-out of the plant men and other male blue-collar workers, and they disliked trespassers of either sex. Still, even they couldn’t stop the tide of customers coming in sometimes, and owner Joey wouldn’t have wanted them to, for he cleaned up on those nights. They made up for the slow ones during the winter.

David and Anna had eaten dinner at the fancy French restaurant across the street, then come to Joey’s for another drink or two. David had suggested they do so for nostalgic reasons: His first real drunk had been in Joey’s—hardly a memorable occasion, but unforgettable nonetheless. He’d had a lot of good times in here. Anna welcomed the chance to sample some quaint country nightlife.

Joey’s had been built in 1950 as a private residence, and was located just within the Hillsboro border. A. few years after his family had moved in, as the town became more and more inhabited; Joey thought there might be a definite need for a tavern. The kitchen was enlarged so that they could serve sandwiches and easy meals, and the whole living and dining room scooped out to make way for a circular bar counter and lots of tables. Recently they’d put in a small stage where local bands could perform, and they pushed some of the tables up against the wall when they needed a dance floor. The family itself was moved up to the second story and the attic; one of the unused bedrooms was turned into a lounge where guests could be received.

The lights were kept low in the place, most of the illumination coming from candles in small red goblets on every table, as well as from lights over the bar. The wood counter and square wooden tables, decorated with red and white checkered tableclothes that deliberately covered only about half of the tabletop for contrast, were smooth and brilliantly polished. The paneled walls were attractively decorated with pictures and plaques. Some of the customers considered the place’s most attractive addition, however, to be Jeanine, the bar maid, who went from table to table balancing trays and taking orders clad in a white apron, a tight-fitting top and a short, creased skirt. Other customers preferred Bobby, the handsome twenty-seven-year-old bartender, with his crisp white shirt and black tie. Counted among his admirers were Wilma Waters, Eleanor Morrison, and Clair Bartley, Ted Bartley’s wife. They sat at one table talking, the heavyset Wilma unable to refrain from making politely lewd remarks. Though Clair blushed a lot, she enjoyed the conversation and the direction it was taking; things were always so polite and stuffy at the ladies’ club meetings—it was nice to let your hair down afterwards. Eleanor agreed that the young man was handsome indeed, and laughed at Wilma’s comments, although she herself had long since stopped thinking of herself as a sexual being. She hoped Wilma would not become too vulgar or crude from the liquor she had consumed; Eleanor was so frightened of being home alone at night that she’d probably have put up with the coarsest remarks just so she’d have company. Jeanine came over in answer to Wilma’s gesturing, and the women ordered another round of gimlets.

David and Anna sat a few tables away, conversing quietly over background music and amiable chatter. David had been the one to suggest they eat out; he did not want to sit at home and brood, although Anna had assured him that he was letting coincidence go to his head. (She had bullied him into letting her pay for the dinner. More accurately, he had
allowed
her to.) Every now and then the subject of Felicity Village came up again, and this was one of those times.

“For one thing,” she was saying, clutching a martini in her right hand, “we don’t know if the Corporation— what was it? Winnoes?”

“Barrows,” he corrected.

“We don’t know for sure if it had anything to do with my brother’s death. They rented the building next door to the hardware store, and something funny happened there, but that’s all we know. There’s no reason for us to jump to conclusions.”

“I know. But it’s just so odd. First I find out they’ve built a development in my home town, and then my father tells me that they were also the ones who took over the pharmaceutical company.” He had called his father to inquire about the housing development out by the plant, and his father had recalled the name, and made the connection. “Maybe there
is
nothing to worry about,” he continued. “But the Barrows Corporation was somehow mixed up in the trouble in Milbourne; there’s no way around that. There’s no proof, of course. All they did was rent a building for a while. But I feel it in my bones.”

“I know, David. But I’m sure that they must be a pretty huge conglomerate. Nowadays these corporations own just about everything: movie production companies, publishing houses, real estate firms. Everything. And they get blamed for everything, too. Even if they were involved in some funny business in Milbourne, that’s no reason to assume anything odd is going on here.”

“I guess so. There’s nothing I can do about it anyway.”

“Maybe you could talk to Mr. Bartley about it. You said he was supposed to be a big shot in the firm now.”

“Only in the pharmaceutical division. He might not know anything of importance. It might be worth a try, though. But would he talk to me?”

“He did before.”

“He had no choice then. I was asking about his son. This is different. He can’t give out company information just like that.”

“If only there were some connection. I’ve done a good job of putting Milbourne and Jeffrey’s death out of my mind—”

David interjected. “And here I am bringing it all up again.”

“Now don’t blame yourself, I would have badgered you until dawn if you hadn’t told me why that sign was upsetting you. I can handle it, really I can. Anyway, what I was saying—if only Bartley
did
know something about Milbourne, something to finally clear up the mystery of Jeffrey’s death and everything else once and for all. Oh, David, what if there’s a chance?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes. No matter what. I have to know.”

“All right. I’ll pay another call to Bartley. Although the chances he would know what had gone on in the Forester Building are pretty remote.”

“But he might know someone who does know. Look David, you don’t have to do this. I don’t mean to put you on the spot. If you think the man lied to you about his own son, I’m sure he’ll probably deny everything about Milbourne, assuming the corporation
was
somehow involved. It’s just that—”

“I understand. I’ll give it a shot. Tomorrow. How’s about that?”

“Great.” She leaned over and kissed him on the side of the mouth.

He was peering over her shoulder, his attention focusing elsewhere. “Say, I wonder if that’s—? It’s been quite a few years, but. . .”

“What are you talking about?”

“George’s mother. Mrs. Bartley. I think that’s her. She’s with some women over there. She’s put on a little weight, but she’s still a good-looking lady.”

“Oh, do you like older woman? Perhaps I should check out the competition.”

“Be my guest. But I doubt if you’ll be jealous.”

Mrs. Bartley turned out to be an attractive middle-aged woman with fading brown hair set in a wavy permanent that curled over her forehead. She had bright green eyes and a nice smile. Her mouth was small and her nose slightly long for her face. She was wearing a plain green dress, and was smoking a cigarette in a thin white holder. Her face was somewhat puffy, probably from an excess of calories, constant grief, or both. The woman on her right was fat but pretty, with curly brown hair worn down to the shoulders, and a slash of red lipstick on her mouth. The other woman was thin and gray-haired, in her fifties, all tucked in on the chair, as if fighting off cold or fear. The three of them seemed to run the gamut for excessive ebullience to almost neurotic repression, with Mrs. Bartley stuck squarely in the middle. At least she seemed to be enjoying the rather loud banter of her chubby companion more than her skinny friend was.

“Too bad, David. All three of them seem to be paying unseemly attention to the bartender, who, by the way, is not bad-looking at all.”

“Oops.” David joked. “I can’t compete with a hunk like that.” He laughed, but inside he was far from amused. He really couldn’t compete with those Derek types. He suddenly felt quite ugly and gnome-like sitting at the same table with Anna Braddon. Since Anna seemed off somewhere by herself now, a grim expression on her face suggesting that she was pondering the horrors of the past, the both of them sat in quiet, morbid contemplation for a while. Anna broke out of it first.

“Say, why are we so solemn all of a sudden?”

“Hmmm? Oh, I don’t know.”

“Silly. I’m not interested in the bartender.”

“I’m not interested in Mrs. Bartley.” They both burst out laughing at themselves. “Shall we have our next drink here or at home?” David asked.

“I have this urge to be in that lovely bedroom of yours,” Anna purred, “with one hand on a cool, icy drink, and the other hand on your big, thick—”

The waitress was hovering over them, a smile on her lips that she tried to subdue but found hard to fight. “Will you have anything else?” she asked.