CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE TOWN WAS MORE THAN AWAKE. UNLIKE SATURDAY, THERE was a bustle of people everywhere. Ron hurried down the busy street, crossed the square and glanced swiftly at the Texaco sign ahead. He walked aways further, past small shops, decaying buildings and a single squat building topped with a large sign: HOMEMADE ICE CREAM.

Drained of energy, his stomach still a bit queasy, he stopped long enough to order a milk shake. It ran down to his stomach and dissolved as though it hadn’t been, leaving a milky paste coating his parched lips. He was just turning to go when Cynthia Harris appeared in his peripheral vision. For a while he could not look at her. He was afraid to look at her. Finally, trembling a little, he glanced up. She had come to the doorway in a blue skirt with bare midriff—tall, sleek headed, crowned in flaming red; hand on her hip.

He watched her tall, lithe form hover for a moment in indecision, then disappear down the street.

“Now that’s what I call tail!” shrilled the young boy from behind the counter.

In a thin, hesitant voice Ron said, “Yeah, she’s nice looking.” He paused, then added: “Do you have a pay phone around here?”

“In the back next to the restrooms.”

“Thanks.”

Ron dropped a dime into the slot, dialed 0, waited. A voice burst through for an instant, shrieked, then vanished. Turning slowly, peering, he saw Cynthia Harris approach the doorway again, her shoulder bones sharp, erect. After a few seconds she disappeared from view.

“Must be waiting for someone,” the boy said with a smile.

Ron did not reply. A voice broke on the line. “Yes, operator, long distance call. Credit card.” After accepting his card number, the operator rang him through to his office in Los Angeles. A distant rasp: a muted telephone. On the fourth ring, the answering service got it. Ron left Mrs. Taylor’s number and instructions for Mimi to call him later in the day.

“She’s back again!” the boy cried.

Ron turned and passed his hand across his brow, greased with sweat. Great and powerful, the earth moved beneath his feet.

The boy laughed, a low murmuring laugh, then asked: “She looking for you?”

“No,” Ron said and ducked into the men’s room. He paced the room for a moment, flushed the john to make it appear official, then slowly moved to the door. He closed his eyes for an instant and blew a loud sigh through his lips, as if to blow away the girl who now seemed to be stalking him.

When he emerged, Cynthia Harris was gone. He stepped cautiously out into the street. She was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, he moved on.

There were three cars parked in front of Matthew Todd’s gas station. Yet, there was nobody sitting in them; nor were they being serviced.

For a moment Ron thought the station was closed. A tattered shade had been drawn down over the office window and the work area seemed deserted.

Ron went in at the front door and ducked into the office. Todd was there, behind his desk. Ron had a very distinct feeling Todd had heard him come in, although he had not raised his head.

“Has your man returned from Salt Lake City yet?” Ron asked.

Todd looked at him with blank eyes. “Oh, hi, Mr. Talon. Warm enough for you?”

“I guess,” Ron said drily.

Todd slumped back in his chair and grinned up at him. “My man should be back any time now. He’s been gone since six this morning.”

“Oh.” Ron nodded and felt the strain of disappointment. “It’s after one now.”

“Is it?”

“What time are you planning on closing?”

He shrugged. “Somewhere around five.” He got up suddenly and stretched, rising stiffly on tiptoe. “How about a beer?”

“No, thanks. You are planning on getting those tires on my car before you close, aren’t you?”

“Well, sure, sure,” Todd said and snapped the shade up. Bemused, he looked toward the hills. “Look at it out there, Mr. Talon. Those mountains... It’s magic, that’s what it is. It’s everything right on the edge of something, all the time,” he murmured. “Always there, as if everything that’s ever happened in the world can be seen in them. It’s magic, that’s what,” he said.

Ron sensed that the man was stalling.

“How goes it at the Taylor place?” Todd asked suddenly.

“She’s a nice woman.”

“Hell, Erica’s all right. She’s invited me for dinner tonight. I kinda doubt if I’ll go though.” Raising his arms, he stretched once again, slowly, his neck cording against the light. He stopped, then, and glanced over Ron’s shoulder.

Ron turned and saw Frank Hadley and his brother slipping out of the back door from the work area. Todd pulled back and gave them a solid looking-over. Ron could tell he was seriously appraising the situation, deciding whether to ignore them, or call them forward.

“Frank, Tim—you finished back there?” he called out.

“Hell, Matt, that engine is shot,” Frank Hadley said and moved into the office. His brother Tim had taken but one hesitant step. “Well, Mr. Talon. I see you got to Brackston all right.”

Ron could feel his heart banging away. He glanced again at Tim Hadley. When their eyes met, he acknowledged Ron only by the slightest change in expression, the tiniest flicker of a smile and a sort of a nod, but nothing more. Yet he kept his gaze fixed on Ron.

“Tim, come in here, for Chrissakes. Say hello to Mr. Talon. Tell him how sorry you are for scaring his little girl like you did.”

Tim merely shrugged, rebuked himself in silence.

“We were out hunting,” Frank said. “The boy had too much to drink, didn’t you, Tim? The beast and the spirits, that’s all it was. Just drunken foolishness. Damn it all, Tim—apologize!”

“I didn’t mean it,” Tim said quietly. “I don’t know why I did it. But I’m sorry. Real sorry for it.”

He had walked the length of the work area slowly and now stood in the open doorway, his gray eyes fixed on Ron’s face. He had a half-annoyed, half-hurt look on his face as he held out his hand.

Something, Ron found himself musing, was different about the man... then in a rush it came to him. He had considered Tim Hadley a simpleton. He wasn’t, not in the typical sense. His eyes were too knowing, his expression too complex for your run-of-the-mill bumpkin.

Tim Hadley extended his hand further and said, “Friends?”

Ron hesitated. The other two men were silent, their eyes turned intently on his face. He felt like a museum specimen. Reluctantly, he accepted the handshake. Almost before their hands unlocked, he wished he hadn’t.

“Well, now, what do you say? Let’s all have a cold beer!” Todd flipped the lid on the cooler and ran his arm to the elbow in crushed ice. “Nothing better than a cold beer on a day like this.”

Out of the graveled drive, leather heels crushed pebbles in a heavy rhythm; paused. Beyond the screen door a narrow figure stood, muted by the mesh.

“So this is where all the cocksuckers hang out! Oh, sorry, Matt; I didn’t know you—”

“That’s all right,” Todd said. “Come on in, Lou. Like you to meet a friend.”

The figure stepped into the office; the face sullen, stretched taut as parchment, sharp featured. The man’s hair was a wild shock of gray, his skin a faded tan, yellowish.

“Ron Talon, this is Lou Harris,” Todd said, gesturing. “Lou’s a schoolteacher. The whole damn school actually.” He handed Ron a beer. “Mr. Talon’s in show business.”

Lou Harris nodded, moved about the room, his eyes darting. “Nice to have variety in the town for a change. Hi, Tim, Frank.”

They nodded.

“My God, I’m tired.” Harris dropped clumsily into the chair closest to the desk. “You get that engine repaired yet?”

“Frank said it’s shot.”

“That’s right, Lou, the Elders are just going to have to replace it.”

“The bus is brand new.”

“But the engine isn’t.”

“Fucking kids!”

“Looks to me like they poured sugar or honey into the gas tank.”

“Fucking kids,” he repeated.

Todd sat down on the edge of the desk. “Does the sheriff know who they were?”

“No, but we’ll find out. Only a matter of time.” He ran his hand over his face. “Carnival is going well,” he said. “Thanks to the women. They’ve done a good job this year.”

“Who do you think will be picked queen this year?” Frank Hadley asked.

“What?” He glanced away sharply, shifting his feet. “I don’t know. Who can tell. It sure as hell won’t be Cindy.” He snorted, made a sudden gesture of irritation. “She’s getting impossible to handle, damn her. Just impossible.”

“Don’t be too hard on her, Lou,” Todd said. He sipped his beer carefully, gracefully, withdrawing his lips from the can with the utmost care.

“She’s like all the young ones today. You have any children, Mr. Talon?”

Ron looked up startled. “What? Oh, yes. A daughter.”

“God help you.” He drew a cigarette from its pack and lighted it slowly. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “Those damn kids who fucked up the school bus. They’ve got me talking to myself.” He turned away from Ron, his face tight. “I don’t like children. I suppose that’s one terrible thing for a teacher to say, but there’s nothing in the book that says I have to love them to do my job well. When I get done with them, they know what they should know. If I use odd methods, that’s my business.”

“Maybe that’s why they screwed up the bus,” Tim said dully. “Don’t like your methods.”

Harris nodded, then said: “Fuck off, Timmy.”

Ron said: “Saturday, when we came into town, I saw a group of kids running in the hills above the town. Maybe it was them.”

All the men laughed and started talking at once. Tim’s voice boomed the loudest when he said: “Hell, they were probably getting ready for the Chase tomorrow, I reckon.”

Frank and Matthew looked at him sternly.

“Chase?” asked Ron.

“Yes,” Todd interjected. “Tomorrow there’s a footrace near sundown. Just before Mardi Gras night.”

“Are you staying for Mardi Gras, Mr. Talon?” asked Frank.

“I’m afraid not,” Ron said flatly.

“Well, Lord, it’s a shame. It’s something to see all right. Fat Tuesday shouldn’t be missed. Not for any reason.”

Harris said: “Any carnival starts like ours did should be quite a carnival before it’s all over.”

Ron stood there speechless, feeling the hot wetness penetrating his shirt. Despite the closeness of the room, he had a hard time seeing the expression on Lou Harris’s face. Cynthia Harris’s father, for Chrissakes, seated not ten feet away from him. He wiped sweat from his neck; listened as the three men chatted. They talked about certain females, the bridge across the creek, the drought, the “Little Red House” at the edge of town, the North Fork, the auction, the upcoming election, taxes, crops and how Ned Peterson dug potatoes.

Suddenly Ron had the feeling that he was caught in a fraternity club. That hour after hour, day after day, men came to this grease-covered sanctuary to be buddies. To hang out, to talk talk that amounted to nothing, and yet talk that was vital to the kind of men who needed to gather together. The price of membership to the club: a man’s face, nothing more or less. No women or children allowed. Just “The Boys.” Ron almost laughed aloud. Chandal had always contended: Men are the gossipers of the world. Not you, Ron. But then you don’t have a bunch of old maid men to hang out with.

Ron glanced nervously at his watch. It was nearly two o’clock.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Talon. He’ll be back soon.” Todd flipped his beer can into the trash barrel. “You want me to drive you home?”

Ron shook his head. “No, I can walk. Thanks.”

Lou Harris laughed. “Safe enough to go back now,” he said. “I just saw Erica’s tea gathering breaking up. Looked like a flock of geese caught in a spray of buckshot!”

Howls of laughter followed Ron out the screen door.

A few minutes later he crossed the square on his way home. From the bottom of his mind floated the image of himself clawing at a mask, swinging his fists in the air, trying to batter the horrid face...

But then came the opposite image of Chandal smiling, Chandal telling him not to worry about anything, that he had been brooding too much and causing problems when all he needed was a good night’s sleep.

He had just stepped onto the sidewalk when Cynthia Harris stepped from an adjacent doorway. They came face to face and stopped. The sudden impact of seeing her again drove the breath from him. Her eyes clung to his and he could not turn away even as he cautioned himself: Here it is—trouble. You’re looking at it. He managed to lower his eyes, but his other senses continued to send messages. A stir of air told him she had moved closer. A slight aroma of mint lingered in the heavy air.

“You’ve been sleepwalking for the last five minutes,” she said. “I’ve been watching you.”

“Have I?”

“It’s not safe to wander about in the wilderness.”

Ron chuckled.

“Mark my words,” she said a little too seriously. “None of us are safe up against the wilderness, and this town comes pretty close to being that.” She regarded him with meditative eyes.

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then I’d advise you to look out for consequences.” Abruptly she turned and started off alone down a narrow street that ran south from the square.

He took several steps backwards, watched as she disappeared around the corner. It was maddening: Cynthia’s concerned face had made it quite clear that he had better watch his ass. Yet, it had all been double-talk. The whole goddamn town seemed to talk in mumbo jumbo.

Suddenly from the distance he heard Cynthia Harris scream. The sound rose from the dusty earth, starting as an agitated whimper than rising slowly and steadily into a crescendo of terror.

His legs unlocked, and he ran down the street, following the screams that continued to fill the air. He turned the corner and stopped. The screams were coming from a small courtyard to the right. The sound was a horrible mess of contradictions: human and beastlike, high pitched and gutteral.

Inside the courtyard, he paused. With a frantic fluttering of wings, a cock streaked for the fence. A dog grabbed it between its teeth and tore its throat away. The cock died instantly. Its wings slashed the air violently at the moment of death. Then dropped limp on either side of the dog’s mouth.

Almost before Ron could move, the dog dropped its prey and bared its teeth, prepared to defend or attack. Foaming at the mouth, the dog’s yellow eyes moved wildly in its head.

“Cindy, don’t move!” Cautiously, he reached down for a board. In his face rage was replacing confusion, as if he had just awakened to his surroundings. Body crouched, he glanced at Cindy, then back at the dog. He stepped forward; the dog growled warningly. He stamped his foot. For an instant, he thought the dog would leap at his throat. Instead the dog accepted a standoff, plainly indicating that he owned the territory between Cynthia and the only exit from the courtyard. Ron edged forward, found the razor-thin perimeter of that territory, the dog’s growls guiding him. He inched toward Cynthia, extending his hand. “Come on,” he breathed and she moved.

“No! Slower, slower,” he coaxed.

She had begun to slide along the wall toward him. Ron positioned himself solidly, prepared to kill the dog if he had to. At the sight of the bloody cock lying on the ground Cynthia stopped; she burst into tears and fell limp against the wall.

Watching the dog’s eyes, the saliva dripping from its teeth, the horrid shaking, Ron was startled by so much madness, and his fingers tightened around the board.

“Cynthia, please. Take my hand,” he said.

Cynthia seemed to have given up, as if all was lost; that, being trapped, she was trapped forever. That there was no hope.

“Listen,” Ron called to her; he had begun to shake violently himself. “Listen to me! Just move past me and run. Only a few steps.”

Cynthia did not move. At least, not immediately. When she did, it was a sudden quick jerk.

And then, it happened.

Cynthia had almost reached Ron when a terrible snarl rent the day apart. The sound was so fierce, it could have been the sound of hell itself. Then the snarl was a sound no longer. It had lunged full blown, black and ravenous, with grinding teeth that gnashed at Cynthia’s leg.

From that instant, each of Ron’s movements were violent and quick. He smashed the board down hard. Again and again, beating wildly. He could hear the brittle cracking of bones. Screams mixed with howls. In sheer reflex action, Ron aimed the board for the dog’s head and brought it down as hard as he could. The dog had begun to drag Cynthia across the ground, her leg in his mouth, his head shaking violently from side to side. Again and again, Ron smashed the dog, until every ounce of his strength was spent. But still the jaws wouldn’t let go.

Now the horror struck Ron full force, stunning, leaving a black void, a smell, the sight of blood. Only the most rudimentary awareness managed to trickle through to his brain. The trickle became a rush. He reached out and picked up a large rock. Lifting it high over his head, he screamed:

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

With all the strength left in him, he brought the rock down. The rock crushed the dog’s back, then fell to the ground.

Then something else fell, much heavier.

He stared down at the animal.

Cynthia lay a few feet away, paralyzed and stricken with fear. Exhausted, he knelt beside her body. For an endless time, it seemed to him, he could not bring himself to extend his hand. She was sweating and feverish, and when he lifted her in his arms, seeking to help her, he found himself caught up in a death struggle. She writhed in his arms, soaking wet.

“Oh, Jesus,” he moaned.

Now he felt hands on his shoulder, heard voices and turned to see Matthew Todd drop to his knees beside him. The Hadley brothers peered over his shoulder.

“Get a doctor,” Ron screamed. “Get a doctor!”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Matthew Todd said calmly. “We’ll take her to Beatrice Wheatley’s house.”

He lifted her clumsily into his arms. With a matter-of-factness that said he had performed such an act before, Tim Hadley stuck a stick in the girl’s mouth. She bit it hard. Ron could see within her startled eyes that she was still screaming.

Todd pushed the others aside, and staggered forward with the girl limp in his arms. In the distance, from the far side of the ridges, there came a sound; slowly and steadily, a dog howled.