The Haunter of the Threshold (32 page)

Hazel looked at her, hoping the moment would turn serious, but then Sonia’s expression turned to one of concern. Her finger daintily touched Hazel’s left nipple.

“Your nipples look swollen...”

They ought to,
Hazel thought. “They get that way sometimes, that’s all. Period’s coming,” and then she strode naked for the shower.

In the cubby, she brushed her teeth, brushed her tongue, gargled with vehemence, then let the cool water blank her mind. But there was still the Shining Trapezohedron to clean, and she did want to take another stab at uncrashing Henry’s computer.
Frank might know what
to do,
she considered. She sudsed her pubis thoroughly, then blushed in the spray when she recalled dreaming of performing cunnilingus on herself.
I didn’t really do that in my sleep, did I?
She couldn’t imagine. What bothered her most, however, was the prospect she’d only now let come to the surface of her consciousness. Sonia seemed confident that Frank would indeed return this afternoon, but...

What if he doesn’t?

Hazel knew that she would have to find the Gray Cottage herself.

Today she dressed in fluorescent-green flipflops, a shortish stone-washed jean skirt, and a sleeveless tee that read: APRIL IS

THE CRUELLEST MONTH, BREEDING LILACS OUT OF THE DEAD LAND – T.S. ELIOT. She rolled her eyes when she saw her reflection in the little mirror: both nipples stuck out like pegs between the lines.

Hazel couldn’t identify what brought the idea to mind when she came back out. “Didn’t you say that Frank’s father lived in Concord?”

Sonia sat at her laptop in the den. She never looked up from her typing as she answered, “Yeah. I went up there with him once—pretty depressing place. It’s practically a nursing home.”

“So Frank’s father is an invalid?”

“He walks fine, the problem is he’s totally blind. Frank always felt bad about not having enough money to get him in a nicer facility. At least now, with Henry’s inheritance, he’ll be able to.” Sonia looked up. “Why do you ask?”

Hazel fiddled with the metal-version of the crystal box. “You’re busy for a while and I’m bored. Can I borrow your car and drive to Concord? I want to ask Frank’s father about the Shining Trapezohedron.”

“The wh—Oh, the crystal.”

“Yeah, and I want to ask him about this gemstone club Horace mentioned. That sounded pretty weird.”

“That along with an anonymous letter and five thousand in cash.”

“I mean, come on. A gem club? Did Frank ever mention anything about Henry Wilmarth being in a geology club of any kind?”

“Nope. But he obviously knew about this Shining Whatever, ‘cos Henry’s last instruction asked him not to bother looking for it,” Sonia reminded. “I’m kind of curious myself now. You really want to drive to Concord?”

“Why not? It can’t be that far.”

“From here, probably less than an hour.” Sonia checked her address book on the laptop, then quickly printed out the address of Thurnston P. Barlow. “Just use the map in the car, you shouldn’t have any trouble. It’s not far from the New Hampshire Technical Institute.”

“Cool. See ya later.”

“Oh, wait, and while you’re there, bring back some carry-out, okay, for the three of us. I’m dying for Chinese!”

“Sure.”

“Beef with chow fun noodles!”

“You got it,” Hazel smiled. “See you in a few hours.”

She skipped out of the house, into breezy heat. The car’s interior was scorching; she left the door open to air it out, then picked up the paper bag containing the Shining Trapezohedron. The tree patch had indeed softened in the heat but still left a tacky mess.
I’ll work on this
later,
she resolved, then was in the car and on her way.

Southward on Interstate 93 had in forty-minutes’ time brought her to Concord. Revolution-era architecture was seen in every direction; the town seemed neat as a pin yet too small for a state capital. A few minutes later she’d parked and was entering the The Ammi Pierce House - Assisted Living Apartments. Frank had referred to the place as a “shit-hole,” but Hazel found the exterior clean, stately, and impressive. The shit-hole came
after
she’d entered when at once she was accosted by nursing-home odors and distant babbling.
Jesus...
These weren’t really apartments but just single rooms, like a boarding house. Hazel signed in at the shabby front desk; then the clerk—a gaunt, balding man with a giant adam’s apple—came around the desk to take her to Mr. Barlow’s room. The clerk’s gaze seemed to brush over her nipples through the T-shirt. He took her up to the second floor. The tannish carpet smelled rotten; she forced herself not to look to closely at variously shaped stains. A man in white-garb pushed a cart at the end of the hall.
A male maid,
she guessed. The man looked at Hazel blank-faced, then pushed onward.

Creepy joint.

When she knocked on Mr. Barlow’s door, a hushed voice said, “Please, do come in.”

The room was dark—
Of course it is! The man’s blind.
“Hi, Professor Barlow. My name’s Hazel Greene. I’m a—”

The dark form in the corner’s voice possessed a surprising vitality. “Ah, yes. Frank’s mentioned you. You’re his fiance’s friend.”

“And her teaching assistant at Brown, yes, and I know Frank pretty well too.”

“Feel free to turn on a light and have a seat,” and when Hazel did so she was shocked to note the haggard state of Thurnston Barlow. He was a scarecrow in oversized clothes, but appeared clean, recently shaven, stark white hair neatly combed. Hazel knew the man to be in his sixties but the figure facing her from the armchair opposite looked in his eighties. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, face pallid like wax; overall he appeared
drained
of life. She could only see the very bottoms of his irises. The rest of the apartment looked as infirm as he did.
Poor bastard,
she thought.

Thin, bloodless lips barely moved when he continued, “And now you, Sonia, and Frank are taking a respite of sorts, at the late Henry Wilmarth’s cabin, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Henry was a brilliant man.” The voice was uncannily zealous to be spoken from someone so emaciated. “It’s quite a shame what happened. In hindsight, though, I wasn’t all that surprised.”

“Really?”

“He was quite a different person when he returned from St. Petersburg.”

The Mother’s Day Storm...
Hazel tried to focus on her task yet she kept feeling an annoying distraction. She felt antsy...

“I suspect Frank or Sonia apprized you of the fact that I am completely blind,” the old man went on, “and I’m sure you’ve heard from time to time that the blind are known to compensate for their visual detriment by developing an excess acuity in other senses.”

“Yes, I have heard that.”

“So I hope you’re not offended by my saying”—he paused and sighed—“that you smell intense and absolutely lovely...”

Hazel chuckled. “I’m not offended at all, Professor Barlow.”

“Around a place like this, a sharpened olfactory sense is more a curse than a blessing.” He smiled, dead-eyed. “You’ve livened up an old man’s day more than you can know.”

“Well, I’m glad of that,” and only then did Hazel realize that she’d unknowingly spread her legs in the jean skirt. Had the man been able to see, right now he’d have a bird’s-eye view of her pantiless crotch. The idea instantly moistened her. “I think what you’re smelling is my shampoo. It smells like blueberry muffins. The guy I’m dating likes it.”

“Blueberry muffins and, well...” A thought faded. “In that case I envy your beau,” he said and laughed.

Oh my God,
she thought. She noticed the old man’s baggy crotch: a lump was forming it.
He can SMELL my pussy...and it’s
making him hard...
The awareness fascinated her. “Anyway,” she tried to keep on track, “I guess I should’ve called first, so I hope this isn’t an inconvenience—”

“Not at all, Hazel. Any friend of my son’s is always welcome here, unconditionally.” Another laugh. “Not that
here
is any great prize.”

The distraction was cutting into her now. Her sex was seeping, from the simple knowledge that her scent and her presence was giving the infirm man an erection—that, and the knowledge that he couldn’t
see...

Very, very slowly, she hiked her skirt up to her pelvis, then rolled her top up, while saying, “I came here to ask you some questions.”

“The questions of the young bring only delight to retired academicians, believe me.”

Now Hazel sat spread-legged on the chair, her skirt peeled all the way back, her bare tits plump as peaches from arousal.
I’m exposing
myself to a blind man,
came the bald and thoroughly unfeeling thought, and with it her own nipples inflamed further and the groove of her sex began to flood. Meanwhile, the “lump” in Thurnston Barlow’s baggy convalescent slacks lengthened. Hazel’s vision grew hazy but she managed to ask, “I’d like to know about the Shining Trapezohedron.”

Barlow’s eyes, however dead, seemed to darken. The strangely energetic voice seemed to corrode when he replied, “How do you know about– Frank didn’t tell you, did he?”

“No, sir, but there were some references to it on some letters Henry left on the desk. Sonia and I weren’t exactly prying but we couldn’t help but see them. Henry referred to it as a ‘graven image,’ and a ‘golden calf.’ What on earth did he mean? It’s just a rock, right?”

The man seemed crestfallen now...and his erection was ebbing. “It would be pointless for me to explain, Hazel. You’d have to be a very deft mathematician with a sound knowledge of physics to even come close to understanding.” The old man seemed to falter through a thought. “You don’t have it, do you? The stone?”

“No, sir,” she lied. “Henry’s letter said he disposed of it.”

Barlow’s bony hands rubbed his face. He went silent.

“Professor Barlow? Are you all right?” Hazel gulped. “If I’ve upset you in some way, I apologize.”

“No, no, it’s just...My God. You wouldn’t believe what we almost got ourselves into.” He cleared his throat with difficulty; if anything, he looked even more skeletal now that Hazel had raised the topic. “What you have to understand is that Henry Wilmarth was a genius–a genius with the potential of an Edward Teller.”

“Edward
Who?
”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know that. He’s the man who invented the hydrogen bomb.”

Hazel struggled with her curiosity and her raging arousal. She couldn’t keep her thoughts straight.
What’s he talking about?

The old man leaned toward an augmented telephone sitting beside him. “Pardon me a moment, but I need to call Frank—”

Hazel draped her knees over the arms of the chair, baring her furred pubis even more extremely. “You probably won’t be able to get him. Right now, it’s just Hazel and me at Henry’s cabin.”

Barlow’s face webbed with concern. “So where’s Frank? He’s supposed to be there destroying...”

“Yes, sir, destroying Henry’s documents and files. He felt it would be deemed quackery and only bring ridicule to his name.”

“Quackery,” Barlow muttered.

“This theory the three of you were working on. Non-Euclideanism.”

Pale white brows popped up. “You’re very resourceful. But do you know what that
means?
”

“Haven’t a clue. Frank tried to explain but it went right over our heads.”

The old man’s voice sounded guttural. “I’m glad it did. There are some things people don’t need to know, Hazel. It’s better that they never even
consider
them in the most farfetched fancy. Fortunately Henry Wilmarth realized this before it was too late. I pray God Frank does the same. So...
where
is he? He’s
not
at the cabin now, you say?”

“No, sir, he left right after Henry’s funeral several days ago,” she said while at the same time running the pad of her middle finger up and down the slickened groove of her sex.
Pervert, pervert, pervert,
she condemned herself but kept doing it nonetheless. The sensation made her want to hiss through her teeth, but she knew she dare not. Not only were the blind known to develop an accelerated sense of smell but an accelerated sense of hearing, too.

Barlow was about to further his questions but Hazel interrupted. “Would you excuse me a minute, sir? I need to use your bathroom if you don’t mind.”