CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, WHEN RON ARRIVED AT THE LIBRARY, the tiny, red-bricked building looked gloomy and vacant, almost as though it hadn’t been used in years. Upon trying the doorknob, he found it locked. The hot sun seemed to draw a strange heat from the building, casting off a foreboding light.

Pressing his face to the window pane, he knocked. There was no reply. Once again he pressed his face to the glass and let his eyes scan the room. It was a strange arrangement, to be sure. No tables or chairs, only a long wooden bench that ran the entire length of the room. On either wall, bookshelves—most empty. Only the two middle rows of each shelf contained books, and most of them seemed in terrible disarray. One section of books, the one closest to the door, seemed horribly dog eared, as if nervous fingers had turned their pages a million times.

A small desk was tucked into the far corner next to a pot-bellied stove. The surface of the desk was bare. There wasn’t even a blotter. As far as Ron could tell, there was only one small overhead light, not sufficient to read by.

So this was the library Isabelle Carroll was so proud to work in.

He was just about to turn away when he noticed a small red flower lying on the floor beneath the bench. Its bright color loomed out, then receded into the rough flooring below. Now the library dropped into a pale gray, the color of dust.

Backing away slowly, then hurriedly, he walked with quick strides away from the building.

His route lay along Main Street, and in spite of his preoccupation he forced himself to observe various activities, tune his ear to snatches of conversation. All around him the town was fully alive. Women stood gossiping in doorways, two old men, leaning on sticks, chattered and gesticulated in a lively way. More people, men; four of them ambled slowly past, leaving the aromatic scents of farm life in their wake. As they passed, Ron imagined they had made a small gesture of respect. A slight nod of their heads. A lifting briefly of a hat.

Ron glanced after them, then stepped quickly into the ice cream parlor.

“The phone is to the rear next to the restrooms,” the boy said smiling.

At first Ron didn’t get it, and he guessed it showed. The boy answered his unspoken question: “You were in here the other day. Made a phone call, right?”

Ron hesitated. It was odd. For one split second, he had the strange feeling that all the people of Brackston knew exactly what his next move was to be.

The boy stood gazing from the window, looking thin, askew, frail, as if a great weight rested on his shoulders. Ron noticed age lines and a gauntness that had escaped him earlier. His face was immobile. So young, Ron thought, yet already so old.

He stepped slowly to the glass partition, dropped a dime into the slot. He dialed 0, waited. Heard an operator’s voice. Then a click. He reinserted the dime. Different operator this time, a young feminine voice. Credit card number given, the operator rang him through. Mimi picked up on the second ring.

“Talon Agency. Hello.”

Ron froze for a second; then, “Mimi?”

She knew the voice. “God!” she cried out. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

“I know,” he said weakly.

“Where are you?”

“Brackston. A little town south of Salt Lake City.”

“Brackston. Never heard of it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling—” He broke off and stared from the window. In a narrow alleyway beside the general store, he saw Tyler Adam rooting through a garbage can. Ron watched as the man worked his way along the side of the wall, picking and choosing with a sniff of his nose what his lunch was to be. Every third sniff he stuffed something into his mouth.

“Ron?” Mimi hissed.

“Mimi, hold on!” He dropped the receiver and moved. “That man?” he asked the boy. “Do you know him?”

“Everyone knows Tyler Adam.”

Ron started for the door as Tyler ducked away behind the building.

“She sounds pissed.”

“What?” Ron spun around. The receiver swung back and forth in the air, emanating Mimi’s shrill voice.

“Yes, Mimi. I’m here.”

“Jesus, what’s going on?”

Ron turned his back on the boy, away from his curious gaze, and began speaking in a low whisper. “Mimi, I need information in a hurry. Brackston. Write it down.”

“But—”

“Goddamn it, Mimi. Please, please write it down. B-R-A-C-K-S-T-O-N. Brackston.”

“Got it.”

“About two hundred miles south of Salt Lake City. There’s a famous stone here.”

“A what?”

“A stone monument. It’s famous. Look up the town. It’s not on the maps, but it should be listed somewhere.”

“Ron, are you all right?”

Tyler Adam appeared again, but only for a moment. He held a shopping bag in his hand and was now dumping items into it which he had taken from the garbage can.

Ron glanced at his watch. “Mimi, I have to go. It’s twelve o’clock now. I should be back at the other number around two. As soon as you have something, call me. If you don’t get me at first, keep trying. Call every hour until you reach me. Call me!”

“Ron...?”

“Brackston, Mimi. Look it up!” He smashed the receiver into the cradle and turned; Tyler Adam was gone. Ron stood there for a long moment. What was it—this deadly quiet that seemed to suddenly grip the town?

The sun had shifted to the west, creating a different mood, giving a new shape to the mountains. Earlier they had appeared bright and distant. Now, as the day progressed, shadows shifted and the reddish rock became the features of angry gods frowning down upon their intruders.

“Tyler Adam,” Ron muttered. “You say you know him.”

“Whole town does. He’s lived here his whole life. Must be past sixty now, close to seventy. He’s never been away from these parts, far as I know.” The boy paused. “Want something?”

“What? Oh, milkshake.”

“Vanilla?”

“Yes.”

The boy seemed delighted with the order. “Hell, they say Tyler Adam knows these parts better than anyone. That there’s nothing about these mountains he can’t tell you. Animals, rocks, vegetation—he knows them upside down.”

He looked at Ron, and his mouth made a wry grin. “Here you go. Hope you enjoy it.”

“Thanks.”

“Tyler used to be deputy sheriff. Still is, I guess. They say if anyone runs away into the mountains, the sheriff wouldn’t think of going to look for them without Tyler. Not even a bird could get away from him, I reckon. That’s just how well he knows the mountains. Guess he can see things in his mind nobody else can see.”

Ron nodded and gazed fixedly at a large map framed in heavy oak above the cash register. The caption read: An Historical Map of Brackston. It looked as though it had been drawn by Whistler’s Mother. Buildings appeared small in comparison to the overblown animals that grazed or stood in their vicinity. At the bottom left-hand corner of the map was a scroll. Etched in crude lettering: Brackston. The Gateway to the Mountains. A brief statement followed. “Between these ridges there is an independent challenging spirit characteristic of the first settlers.” And who might they have been? Ron wondered.

He turned to look the boy straight in the eye and asked him directly: “The last few nights I’ve seen lights in the hills. Like candles. Do you know what they are?”

“Could be a lot of things. Last night was Mardi gras.”

“But Monday wasn’t. I saw them then too.”

The boy thought over the matter. “Hard to say.” He shrugged. “Could have been Corpse Candles.”

Ron chuckled. “What?”

“Don’t laugh,” the boy said. “Folks around here take them seriously. They believe that when a candle is seen burning bright like that in the hills, it’s a sign an adult will die. When the candle glows pale, it means a child will die. When more than one light is seen, different sizes, it means more than one person will die. It was the Widow Wheatley who first spotted the candles around these parts. Next morning she found her two sons lying dead in their beds.”

“Widow? I thought she was married?”

“Oh, well—” The boy broke off. “Maybe she is.”

“Cynthia Harris, do you know her?”

“Nope.” The boy turned away.

“The girl who was outside the door here the other day. Remember? She was waiting for someone.”

“No—no, I don’t remember,” he said and began rubbing down the counter.

“How about last year’s queen. You must know her.”

“Can’t say as I do.”

“Nancy. The young girl who works for Mrs. Taylor. She was last year’s queen, wasn’t she?”

“Shit—you sure ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m curious.”

“Why?” The boy’s mouth had set in an unrelenting hard line.

“Aren’t you curious?” Ron asked swiftly, hardly understanding the rush of anxiety that gripped him suddenly like a sense of self-preservation. “Surely you must be. Curious.”

The boy looked up. “About what?”

“About—life beyond the ridges.” Something in the boy’s eyes leaped out. Intense aching curiosity, yes, then just as suddenly it was blotted out. By fear, Ron thought. He was sure the boy was afraid.

Very cold and steadily, the boy now answered: “Nope, I’m not curious. You—you remember that.”

Ron felt the perspiration build around his collar. “I’m just a tourist,” he said, managing a smile. “Just taking in local color.”

“Ah-ha,” he said without humor. “Look, I’m busy. If you don’t mind...” Ron lifted his arms to allow the wet cloth to pass under his elbows. Relative silence, now.

Outside the ornate panes of glass and beyond the ridges, Ron could see the sun over the tops of mountains. His eyes followed intently the light of the sun down across the town, then across the rooftops where the street suddenly dropped away into deep shadows. High up in a tree, balancing gracefully, a bird. All at once its song broke the silence. Then another sound.

At first Ron hadn’t noticed it. Then it thrust itself on his consciousness. The boy had his head pressed to an old box-type radio behind the counter and was mouthing words and phrases of a song—or so it seemed to Ron—in the air. The boy grew more intense, flicked the radio louder, developed a chant that grated terribly on Ron, a sort of “bump and grunt.” He repeated words over and over with a little thrust of his crotch after it each time. “Teach me to cheat,” he began. Then over and over and over: “Teach-uh! Me-uh! To cheat-uh! Teach-uh! Me-uh!...”

Soon Ron began to hear a new sound. He listened intently. He could hear the boy’s voice clearly, but the other voices were garbled with laughter, as if the radio was picking up the voices of truckers talking over their CB radios.

As Ron strained to hear, the voices faded, replaced by a little girl’s laughter. At least it sounded like a little girl. Finally, Ron screamed, “Shut up!”

“What?” The boy turned in confusion.

“Can’t you hear that?”

“What?”

“On the radio. Other voices.”

“That’s singing.”

Ron listened. Shadows fell across the boy’s face. At that instant, looking up, Ron saw a group of children staring at him from outside the window. It was only a glimpse, and then they vanished, as though unwilling to let him know that they had been watching.

Everything seemed like that now. To move forward, then recede. Beneath him he felt an earth tremor. A gentle shaking, as though the town was in the throws of a mild earthquake hardly registering on the Richter scale. A tremor nonetheless. Then everything seemed to lessen, settle into a stillness.

For the first time he had the feeling of being beaten. He dropped a five dollar bill on the counter and made his way to the door. He did not know where to turn, what to do. Monday night—candles. Tuesday Cynthia Harris had died. Was it possible? But there had been two lights, not one. Of different sizes.

All at once he had the urge to get smashed. Cockeyed drunk. He needed something to relieve the anger and the budding hatred in his gut. Hatred? Hatred aimed at whom? Where was it coming from?

“Hey, you forgot your change,” the boy yelled after him.

“Keep it,” he muttered. When he glanced back over his shoulder, the boy was still looking at him, half smiling.

“But—”

“KEEP IT!” Ron shrilled. He waited around outside for a few minutes, not knowing exactly why he waited, and then he turned and walked slowly toward Matthew Todd’s gas station.