The Dark Farewell (7 page)
Their paper fans fluttered like the wings of dying moths, languidly waving back and forth. Dr. Pearson sat smoking at the edge of the brick walk, the red tip of his cigar glowing in the darkness.
Amy instructed them to bring chairs outside and pour themselves a glass of lemonade. Casey and
Flynn obeyed. They sat a few feet away from each other on the breezeway, sipping their cold drinks. Casey sniffed discreetly a couple of times, and Flynn was tempted to elbow him in the ribs.
Mrs. Hoyt made a disapproving noise and said, “I don’t need to ask where you gentlemen have been
this evening.”
For a paralyzed second Flynn thought she meant…but then he realized she was talking about the
alcohol they had consumed earlier.
“Are the Devereuxs back yet?” he asked, ignoring her.
“No,” Amy replied. “Any minute now, I expect. We heard the show ended early.”
“Did it?”
“They’re saying it was true about the man whose death he predicted, that his wife came home and
found him dead.”
Joan’s shadow shivered in delighted horror. Mrs. Hoyt exclaimed, “Table tilting and spirit writing.
Bell ringing and levitation and invisible hands playing musical instruments. At worst it’s blasphemy and at best it’s nonsense!”
“It’s harmless nonsense, I guess. And it’s fun,” Casey put in, and Flynn saw the white flash of Joan’s grateful smile turned his way.
Mrs. Hoyt said, “From what we’ve heard from the neighbors, I don’t think people found it much fun
tonight.”
“How can that be Julian’s fault?” protested Joan. “Anyway, he doesn’t deal in spiritualistic
phenomena.”
“How would you know, missy?”
“I asked him. He said that’s for people in traveling shows and carnivals.”
Josh Lanyon
“And what is he? The child of a fortuneteller and a vaudevillian.”
“Now, Mrs. Hoyt,” Amy remonstrated amiably, “the Devereuxs are my guests. I don’t want you
speaking ill of them. I don’t have any complaints about either of them. Julian’s a sweet enough boy.”
Casey gave a derisive laugh as he lit his pipe.
Flynn stared at him, at the handsome features looking mask-like and foreign in the brief illumination of the pipe bowl. He asked, “Is it true he prophesied another murder?”
“He didn’t prophecy,” growled Dr. Pearson from the gloomy corner of the breezeway. “He announced
she was dead. According to Mrs. Muenster next door.”
“He must have heard it on the radio,” Mrs. Hoyt said. “Or he simply made it up to frighten people. To get more people to come to his show.”
“The radio wasn’t on when he came back,” Amy said.
“When he came back from where?” Flynn asked.
“I don’t know where. He was gone most of the day. He goes out every day. Of course they only
arrived on Monday. He said he went to the dime museum today.”
“Where were he and the old man before they came here?”
“Cairo.”
Joan said, “Cairo, Illinois that is.”
“Where else would it be?” Mrs. Hoyt retorted. “Those two are homegrown hucksters.”
Amy said, “According to Mr. Devereux they traveled the Continent before the war.”
“There is only one continent worth traveling and that is the United States of America,” Mrs. Hoyt
pronounced.
Flynn asked, “How long were they in Cairo?”
Mrs. Hoyt laughed jarringly. “It’s easy to see you’re a reporter, Mr. Flynn. You ask so many
questions.”
“A reporter,” Casey repeated in a funny voice.
“Well, well.” Dr. Pearson sounded amused.
David flicked his cigarette butt in the damp grass and slapped at a mosquito. “Reporters take
vacations too.”
“But you’re not on vacation,” Dr. Pearson said shrewdly.
“No,” Flynn admitted. “I’m writing a story on Herrin one year later.”
“Not much of a story there.” Pearson didn’t sound troubled about it, but then who in this godforsaken town did?
“Most people I’ve talked to seem to see it your way. The rest of the country still wonders whether
what happened here could happen someplace else.”
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The Dark Farewell
“Of course it could. People forget about Ludlow now because that was before the war mostly. But
women and children died in that one. And that time it was the mining companies doing the shooting.”
“Gus covered the Ludlow story,” Amy said quietly.
“I remember.” Flynn looked her way although he couldn’t read her face in the dim light. Gus had
helped dig out the dead women and children killed in the fire set by the Colorado National Guard.
“These are evil, godless times,” Mrs. Hoyt pronounced.
“It’s not the gods who’ve forgotten—” Dr. Pearson broke off at the sound of voices inside the house.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Julian’s irritated voice carried clearly through the open
windows. Through the lace curtains they could see his silhouette and the silhouette of the old man as though they were watching a Punch and Judy show. Devereux senior had a fierce, unforgiving profile.
Julian had taken off his turban and his longish hair and ruffled collar gave him the aspect of a prince in a fairytale.
“You’re going to ruin us with that kind of prophesying,” the old man snapped.
“It wasn’t a prophecy.”
“Whatever it was, it has to stop. You’re frightening people. You’re frightening
me
. Prophesying is for…for lowlifes and scallywags.”
“It wasn’t a prophecy.”
“People walked out. People left the theater tonight.”
“I know.
I
left the goddamned theater.”
“Cursing and blaspheming. What devil possesses you?”
Julian said with sudden anguish, “Leave me alone, can’t you?”
Their voices faded as they went up the stairs.
“Well!” Mrs. Hoyt said at last.
“That guy’s nuttier than a fruitcake,” Casey observed.
“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Joan said defiantly. “Did you ever think of that?”
Silence followed her words, so perhaps no one had.
Casey went upstairs when Flynn did.
“You didn’t say you were a reporter,” he said softly, as they reached the top of the stairs at the second level.
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” But Casey was giving him a funny look.
“What?”
“I don’t know.” Casey shrugged his wide shoulders.
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Josh Lanyon
Abruptly, Flynn was fed up with Casey, fed up with the evening, fed up with himself for ever
traveling to this hick town. “Good night,” he said curtly, and went down the hall to his room.
He opened the door, stepped inside, closed the door. It was difficult to see in the silver-edged
darkness. Was he alone? He stood still, waiting, but no one spoke. No one moved. He turned on the lamp, and the room was empty, the bed neatly made, the window open to the hot, still night.
He was conscious of disappointment.
What had he expected?
Perhaps it was better not to examine that.
He went next door, splashed his face, brushed his teeth. Casey was waiting in the hall when he
stepped out again. Flynn nodded curtly. Casey nodded curtly back.
Flynn went back to his room, turned on the fan, turned out the lamp, lay down on the bed. He stared
up at the shadowy recesses of the ceiling.
He remembered Julian’s face when he’d told him, “I’m not interested in
you.
I don’t even like you.”
Flynn closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about that. When had he grown so cruel? After Paul
had died, he supposed. But a lot of people had lost someone they loved during the war.
Most
people had lost someone they loved. What gave him the right to…to close off the way he had? Yes, that was the truth of it. After Paul’s death he’d turned off something inside himself.
Anyway, what was so different between Julian and him? Or Julian and Casey? Julian might be a nut
but he was honest about what he wanted. And, face it, his instincts were pretty sharp.
Flynn listened to the muted voices down below on the breezeway. Mrs. Hoyt had gone up before
Casey and him. It wasn’t long before the rest of them went inside. He listened to the rattle and gulps of the old plumbing, and then the sounds of the house settling down for the night. The squeak of floorboards, pops and cracks of timber and rafters.
And then a complete silence.
And yet…there was something alert in the silence. He could feel it. Feel an…intelligence awake and
listening. Flynn listened too.
He waited.
And waited.
The ripe lemon moon shone brightly through the window, making it difficult to sleep. He sat up,
considered pulling down the window shade, but that was liable to cut off what breeze there was. Even with the fan circulating, the room felt stifling.
Flynn swung his legs over the side of the bed. Maybe he should get dressed and go for a walk. Lying
here staring at the ceiling was accomplishing nothing.
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The Dark Farewell
The door swung open soundlessly; Flynn felt the disturbance in the air. He stared at the doorway and the tall, pale form standing motionless. Flynn straightened. The hair rose on the back of his neck, and for one hazy moment he wondered if he was staring at a ghost.
“David?” The whisper was so soft it could have belonged to anyone, but Flynn knew.
He whispered back, “It’s all right. Come in and shut the door.”
The white shadow slipped inside the room and closed the door. Julian came over to the bed and sat
next to Flynn. The mattress springs squeaked. “I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly. “I know what you told me, but I can’t be alone tonight. Do you…” He swallowed the rest of his sentence. He sounded unsure,
frightened to death, in fact, and Flynn reached to cover his hand. He found it ice cold.
“What’s the matter?” Instinctively he took the chill hand—both hands—in his, chafing them.
“I can’t.” Julian stopped and tried again. “Do you ever—?”
“Sure. Everyone does,” Flynn said easily. He had the strangest sense that he understood everything
Julian was not saying. Julian’s trembling fingers clutched his as though Flynn were leading him back through the Underworld.
“What happened tonight?”
“Did you hear about that?”
Flynn nodded, realized Julian might not be able to see him, and said, “Yes. They’re saying you
predicted another murder.”
“I didn’t predict it. She’s already…” He stopped and then gulped out, “And then this house tonight.”
“What’s wrong with the house?”
He saw the glimmering outline of Julian’s face turning to him, but he didn’t say anything. Flynn’s
scalp prickled. “What’s wrong with the house tonight?”
Julian’s whisper was so faint he had to bend closer to make out the words. “Can I stay with you till morning? I won’t be a nuisance. I want to sleep here, that’s all. I’ll sleep in the window seat if you like.”
Flynn absorbed this quietly. “Sure,” he said. “But the bed’s big enough for both of us if you don’t
kick too much.”
There was a pause. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Flynn stood. “Go on. Lie down.”
Julian slipped out of his dressing gown. It pooled to the floorboards in a silken sigh, and he crawled onto the bed. Back to Flynn, he lay on his side in a neat, self-contained line, illuminated by the moonlight.
Flynn stretched out beside him. There was only about a hands-length between them. Julian’s scent was light and clean, like summer wind and spiced oranges. Fine tremors ran through his body. Flynn touched his arm.
“How can you be cold on a hot night like this?”
Julian moved his head in denial. “I’m all right.”
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Josh Lanyon
Flynn reached for him, and Julian turned, biddable as a babe, wrapping his arms tightly around Flynn.
Flynn was thinking…but no. Julian was completely unaroused. He was seeking comfort, that was all, and Flynn responded instinctively, wondering at himself. When was the last time he had lain with another man for any purpose but sex?
Paul.
Paul was the last time. Strangely, tonight the thought of Paul brought no pain.
Flynn stroked Julian’s back. His skin was smooth and unblemished as a child’s. His hair was fine as
silk. As he grew warm, his body relaxed, went boneless, and soon he was breathing in the soft, deep pattern of sleep. Flynn’s arms grew tired, but he continued to cradle the other man until he too dropped into sleep.
A mouth brushed his own, light as a spring breeze, the kiss working itself into his dreams.
Flynn smiled and woke. The room was growing light. He had the impression that the bedroom door
had just closed. He was alone, but the pillow next to his was indented with the shape of a head, the sheets still warm.
Not a dream. At least, not entirely a dream. His lips still tingled with that kiss, real or imagined.
He was surprised at how well he had slept, how relaxed he felt. He rolled onto his side, stretching comfortably, closed his eyes and fell back asleep.
The next time he woke it was to the muffled sounds of disturbance. The sound of crying filtered
through the floorboards. Footsteps were moving rapidly up and down the stairs. He could hear voices; muted, but the tone was clear enough: trouble. Serious trouble.
He rolled out of bed and dressed hastily, hurrying downstairs.
Amy met him in the main hall. Her plain face was worried and weary. “I’m sorry. There’s no
breakfast ready. The house is in a bit of a commotion. Mrs. Hoyt passed during the night.”
“She’s
dead
?”
Amy nodded.
“How?”
“Doc Pearson says stroke. He thinks it must have happened soon after she left us last evening. Joan’s mighty upset.”
“I bet.”
