Night Songs Page 20

  And from the woods across the way, she heard Lilla singing.

  THREE

  The wind had already routed the beachside vanguard of fog by the time Colin reached the top of the last dune. The light here was brighter than under the trees, clinging to a muted glow as the overcast broke apart to gather again in dizzying swirls and sweeps of high roiling black; the beach was gray, desolate, and covered with remnants of settling, quivering foam as the tide raced in thunder for the woods, retreated, held its breath, and charged again; what warmth remained had turned to a damp chill that penetrated his jacket as if it were gauze.

  He squinted against the wind, entranced for a moment by the dark of the ocean, a black-ice depth that resembled the face and fury of a season not yet arrived. Deep winter storms were his favorite, when there were no bathers around to tempt the undertow and give the impression that the Atlantic was friendly-a nice place to cool off, a great place to frolic, a fine place to cultivate a smooth-sheened tan. In the cold, however, when the tourists were gone, the ocean gave up the sunlight masquerade and turned its true color-metallic and harshly beautiful, slashed through with white, rising in great swells not meant for surfing or diving-exposing the power that stalked behind the facade of a tranquil summer.

  But it wasn't yet Thanksgiving, and the sea he watched was already December's.

  He turned away quickly and headed across the flat toward the shack. There was no sense calling out; the wind would carry his voice clear to New York before Lilla would hear it. He grunted when he tripped over an exposed rock and nearly lost his balance, remembering the slow-motion fall of Tess Mayfair off the ledge.

  She had tried to kill him.

  He knew it, even though he'd denied it to Peg.

  She had tried to kill him.

  And worse Peg had not seen her as closely as he had, She had not seen the white edges of Tess' ragged wounds, the bleached look of her ribs smashed and stabbing through all that flesh, the complete lack of blood anywhere on her. And she had not seen the fact that Tess' eyes were pure white.

  If Tess had been lying on the road in that condition, he would not have hesitated in pronouncing her dead.

  Though he had said that Tess was probably attacked by the same person who had murdered Warren Harcourt, once away from the others he couldn't quite believe it. It had to have been an accident. A car accident, or something like that, something at the boarding house that maybe brought a portion of it down on her. Not a fire; they'd neither seen nor smelled smoke and there was no… he swallowed… there was no charring on Tess that he'd been able to see.

  No; not assault this time, though that did not make his intention to get Lilla any less urgent. The wind out there was bringing the sea too damned close.

  His hands hid in his pockets as he approached the shack, his mind forceably shifting away from the cliffs to the present. Garve, he thought, would take care of Tess' puzzle. Right now, he reminded himself again, he had his own task to do, and as he rounded the shack's corner he wondered if this was such a good idea after all.

  But he chided himself half humorously when he reached the building and hesitated. Then, with a mental kick to his backside for giving in to the day and to Peg's case of nerves, he knocked, the door swung open slowly, and he reeled around and stumbled a dozen paces away, one shoulder up, an arm flung across his face. Gagging, retching, flailing with his free hand at the stench that enveloped him and burned through his nostrils.

  "Jesus… Christ!"

  He fumbled in his hip pocket for a handkerchief, found none, covered his nose and mouth with a palm, and, breathing through his mouth, stared incredulously at the shack. There was no light inside, and the light where he stood wasn't strong enough to penetrate. He glanced around the room as if he expected to find Lilla, and stepped forward slowly, almost sideways, watching the weathered building as though it were an old and angry lion waiting to spring.

  The stench increased.

  He gasped, rubbing at the tears that rose and swept to his cheeks. Hoarsely: "Lilla!"

  He was half bent over by the time he reached the door again. "Lilla!"

  She couldn't be in there, not with that smell. "Lilla!"

  It was so strong he was afraid that if he lit a match the entire island would explode. "Lilla, it's me!"

  He staggered over the threshold, leaning heavily against the jamb as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. In a far corner he saw a bundle, gray and water-stained. The shroud, he thought, and told himself he was wrong. The shroud held Gran, and that was under the ocean surface.

  The flesh across his cheeks felt tight, close to shredding.

  The door to the rear room was ajar, and he could see shadows in there, shadows but nothing more. Maybe a bed, something else, something scattered over the floor. He tried to move forward, push himself away from the rough-plank wall, but his legs refused. The stench was a bludgeon now, a slow swinging club of rotting fruit and rotted meat and the carnage of a battlefield hours later in the sun. He couldn't do it.

  He threw himself out the door and fell, rolled, didn't stop rolling until he came up against the pines that separated the flat from the beach. A hand to the coarse bark, he pulled himself to his feet, and stood with head lowered while tears streamed and his throat burned. He gulped for air, blinked rapidly and brushed a forearm across his face. When he was ready he staggered toward the dunes, looking back only once and wondering what in hell the old man had had in there that could die so foully.

  At the end of the first climb his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, arms limp at his sides, the wind cold at his back. The ocean rose; he glanced over his shoulder and saw the nearest jetty already half covered, the waves breaking at the end of the beach now, and flattening the slatted dividing fence. Farther up, the waves had already begun to tease the grass at the forest's base.

  He couldn't understand why the fog wasn't gone.

  It was there, ahead of him, settling in low patches between the dunes, hovering about the peaks of the Estates' houses, in a thick unmoving wall at the end of the street. It wasn't possible, yet it stayed-gray, and shifting lazily, and totally oblivious to the wind.

  His eyes squeezed shut and he rubbed them with his knuckles, took another long breath and pushed himself to his feet. This, he decided, was yet another island phenomenon Garve or Hugh would have to explain the next time he saw them. Curious, unsettling, but beside the point at the moment because he still had to find Lilla to warn her about the killer, and now about the storm.

  He slid, and climbed, and found himself on Surf Court, hands on his hips while he shook off the dread and the memory of the stench. Most likely, he thought, Gran had had a pet, a stray dog or something, that had died and had not been buried. Or maybe it was food gone bad, or some of the old man's horrid incense he was forever burning while he worked. Whatever it was, it had finally driven Lilla away, and for that small favor he was grateful. What he had to do now was get to a phone and call Peg, as he'd promised, tell her what he found, then find a ride into town.

  The wind clawed his hair down over his eyes, and the fog didn't move.

  As his legs regained their strength, he walked more quickly, collar up, arms swinging, around the road's slight curve and into the Estates. He didn't bother to use the sidewalk; by the time he reached the first house he realized hardly anyone was there.

  ***

  The yards were wide, the trees full and not quite as tall as a roof, the houses mostly cedar shake or fronted with false stone. On the left, most were surrounded by hedges fighting the salt air, and their windows were large and framed by tall shrubs. On the right, the windows were adequate, nothing more-these houses faced the sea and saved the views for the horizon. There were no streetlights, but more than half the drives were marked by tall gaslights that trembled in the wind. It was too soon for illumination, but it was apparent that most of the places were empty. They had the bleak air of desertion-no cars in the drive, no toys on the stoops, the panes refl
ecting nothing but the drapes closed behind. No sound. No movement. No evidence of pets.

  As he walked, Colin suddenly imagined himself stalking Dodge City as the church bells tolled twelve. He could feel his arms tensing, could feel his legs going slightly stiff, could feel his heels hitting the tarmac deliberately hard. It was silly, and he gave into the fantasy for just a moment more, until he remembered Tess Mayfair's passion for westerns and heroes and remembered the last time he had seen her alive.

  And she was alive, he told himself sternly.

  There could be no questions about it-she was alive.

  He veered abruptly to his right and walked up the drive of an over-sized, two-story Dutch colonial, with brown shakes, and white trim, and a large gold station wagon parked in front of the closed garage door. The vast lawn was immaculate, expensively lush, and centered by a circular rose garden whose plants were protected by low white-wire fencing. There was burlap tied over the bushes now and wood chips piled on the earth around them. Evergreen shrubs masked the high foundation, the ground here sloping down and away from the house to keep water from collecting.

  The stoop was bordered with a black wrought-iron railing, and he used it to pull himself up to the door. The draperies were drawn, the shades pulled down, and he looked again at the wagon before he rang the bell. The wind prevented him from hearing anything, and he pushed the lighted button again, just in case. Then he rechecked the neighborhood, whistling soundlessly, jerking his head now and then to shove the hair from his eyes. He rang the bell a third time. He looked to his right, down to the far end of the street and the woodland abutting, saw the fog crawling first from the trees and onto the tarmac, then boiling out and over the houses as if a fan had been turned on. He rang the bell a fourth time and looked away from the fog.

  The shrubs scratched at the house. A torn page of newsprint scuttled around the corner of the house and caught against the wagon's front tire, fluttering, fighting, until it broke free and pinwheeled toward the gutter.

  He knocked, loudly, insistently.

  The fog settled and thinned, and touched the backs of his hands like the brush of a damp fern.

  "Damn it, Bob, c'mon," he muttered. He stood back and looked up at all the windows he could seeshades down, panes blank, not a sign of life or anything else.

  He took one step down, changed his mind and returned to the door. His hand folded around the knob, and the door opened before he could turn it. He snatched the hand back and rubbed it against his jeans, his head forward to look into the carpeted foyer.

  "Hey, Bob?"

  No answer.

  He stepped up, and in.

  "Hey, Bob, it's Colin!"

  After only a slight hesitation he closed the door behind him and unzipped his jacket. The house was warm, and close, as if it had been closed for a year. He cocked his head and listened, looked to the dining room on the right, the living room on the left, at the flight of stairs directly ahead. He'd been here several times before, knew the floorplan well, but something about the silence made him feel like a stranger.

  "Silly; you're acting silly," he said as loudly as he dared, and hurried into the living room-dark Spanish oak, dark thick carpet, dark prints of game birds in dark frames on the white walls. A stack of newspapers in an armchair, a console television under the front window, bookshelves mostly empty. He headed for the telephone on the end table by the couch, snorting when he realized he was walking on tiptoe.

  "The thief in the afternoon," he intoned dryly as he picked up the receiver, turning as he did to scan the room he was in again.

  The dial tone was unnervingly loud, and he winced as he leaned over to punch Garve's number. He had three done when he saw the movement at the window.

  "Bob?"

  Stupid, he can't hear you.

  He put the receiver back and walked to the television, put his hands on the polished top and leaned close to the pane. The fog had thickened in several patches on the street, hiding the house directly across the way. Through it he could see someone moving up the street as he had. He stared for a moment, then hurried to the door and flung it open.

  The wind had died.

  "Bob! Hey, Bob!"

  He moved to the top step and took hold of the railing, one hand pushing his jacket back as it hooked into his hip pocket. A spiderweb of mist tangled over his face and he brushed at it impatiently, wishing Cameron would get a move on so he could make the call and get back to town.

  "Bob, come-"

  The fog puffed like woodsmoke and peeled away, and his hand suddenly tried to pull the railing from its mooring.

  Theo Vincent staggered to a halt in the middle of the road, pivoting slowly until he saw Colin at the house. His suit jacket was missing, his white silk shirt shredded to the waist, and the legs of his pegged trousers were ragged and torn and stained with wet grass. Colin saw the pink-rimmed bone that used to be the man's left knee, saw the way the man's shoes were dark and gleaming.

  "Vincent? My God," he said, thinking suddenly of Tess, "what the hell happened to you?"

  Vincent only shuddered, his bald scalp glittering as the fog settled over him, curled up and settled again. A piece of his shirttail beckoned in the wind.

  It had to have been a car accident, he thought as he started down the steps; Vincent driving, maybe, and veering off the road and somehow hitting Tess. It was a reasonable answer, one that provided solutions to even more questions. It was trauma, fear; something had sent her away from the scene, into the woods, to the cliffs where she had tried to get help and had only succeeded in dying. Vincent seemed less badly injured, though it had to be the anesthesia of shock that kept him walking on that leg.

  Just as Colin reached the last step, the injured man moved to the lip of the drive and shuddered again, the tattered flaps of his shirt pulling away from his chest at the insistence of the wind. Then he looked up and blinked slowly, wiped a hand wearily over his eyes and down to touch gingerly at the wounds on his breast.

  "Bastard," he said.

  Colin stopped in mid-stride.

  A groan rose curiously high-pitched, and Vincent glared at Colin. "You goddamned bastard."

  "Now wait a minute," Colin said, his temper ready to flare before he reminded himself sternly that the man was seriously hurt and needed a doctor.

  "Bastard," Vincent said a third time, his voice cracking to a sigh. "Couldn't fight like a man, huh?"

  He frowned his confusion and started forward again. "Look, Vincent, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Now let me help you inside, and we'll call-"

  The man's hands came up and doubled into fists. He swayed, shifted his weight, and a run of fresh blood began pooling at his foot. "Couldn't fight on your own, could you, bastard? Sent your little army out, right? Couldn't do it on your own." He raised his head, aimed his chin at Colin's chest. "Whose idea was it to get me, huh? Yours? Cameron's?"

  "Get you?" he asked stupidly. "Get you? Are you saying you think… my God, you can't mean that." He vacillated between concern and righteous anger, wanting to strike him, wanting to hold him until the blood stopped flowing.

  "I'll kill you," Vincent said, spitting blood at the grass.

  "Somebody's already had a pretty good start on you," he said coldly. "Why don't you do us both a favor and let me get you inside so I can call the doctor."

  Another groan, and one arm lowered slowly. "Jesus, Ross, it hurts."

  And before Colin could reach him, he toppled. His knees remained locked, his hands stayed at his side, and his forehead struck the sidewalk with a soft, watery thud. Colin was at his side in a half dozen long strides, kneeling, rolling the man over while whispering his name. Vincent's eyes were open, his face laced with blades of grass. Blood stained his teeth, and a bubble of red shimmered in one nostril. "Vincent?"

  The man blinked, snorted the blood from his nose, and took a long minute focusing.

  "Vincent, where was the accident? Was Lombard with you? Is he hurt?"

>   "No accident, bastard," and he tried to lift a hand to grab for Colin's throat.

  It was unpleasantly easy to brush the arm aside, and worse when a tear slid from the corner of the man's eye.

  "I didn't send anyone after you," Colin said gently. "Now you have to tell me if your buddy was with you."

  "Kid," Vincent said, the deep voice so soft Colin had to lean close to understand, and could smell the bittersweet phlegm that stained the man's breath. He tried to sit up; Colin easily forced him down. "Kid."

  "A kid was with you? What kid?"

  "You know."

  His own hand fisted, and he took a deep breath. "Vincent, this is bullshit. I didn't send anyone after you, okay? You're only making it worse for yourself. You've got to lie still or something else will go wrong. And, Jesus, will you please tell me if Lombard was in the car too?"

  "Kid."

  Colin lost his patience. "Goddamn it, what kid are you talking about?"

  Vincent sighed through a drooling of pink saliva. "You know him, bastard. The kid with the freckles."

  His eyes widened. "What? Frankie Adams?"

  "The kid, you bastard. Oh, Jesus, it hurts."

  Colin stripped off his jacket, and bunched it into a pillow he eased under the man's head. He leaned back and was about to ask him what he meant by accusing

  Frankie Adams, when he realized that Vincent's open eyes weren't seeing a thing. "Oh… hell."

  The ocean raised a cannonade high above the jetties.

  He touched two fingers to the side of the man's neck, rocked back on his heels and looked over his shoulder. He knew he should have been shocked, or at least moved to some sort of decisive action, but he could only crouch there and watch the fog, half-expecting Lombard to come stumbling up the street after his friend. Then he realized that if Tess Mayfair and Vincent had survived the accident this long, Lombard might have too. He launched himself out of the crouch then and raced for the steps, banged through the door and grabbed the receiver.