The Hour of the Oxrun Dead (Necon Classic Horror) Read online

  His voice was quiet, lulling in the green glow of the dashboard. She shifted closer to escape the chill that crept in through her window, stopping only when her leg touched his. She hated October. Its brilliant foliage was only a cover for the dirges of December, and the sharp advent of frost in the morning only reminded her of January days when getting warm had lost the gamelike quality of earlier years.

  “Nothing,” she said when he repeated the offer for her thoughts. “What is this celebration you’re dragging me to?”

  “Some celebration,” he said. “Mr. Ambrose Toal has decided to erect a new statue in the park. At the instigation, it is said, of his dear wife, Christine. It is to be a memorial, mind you, to those in Oxrun Station who gave up their lives in the service of their country. It is also, and not so cleverly so, a husband-hunting expedition for his equally dear daughter and woman of the world, Cynthia. Better known to those who can pick out her window as Cynthia the —”

  “Hold it!” she said. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “What are you, jealous? Or just a prude?”

  Her laugh was more like a bark. “I take it you’re supposed to write up this affair as the highlight of the season, with ample descriptions of m’ladies gowns, etcetera.”

  “Every disgusting pink cleavage.”

  Again they fell silent, and Natalie watched the headlights tracing swaths of misted grey along the tarmac. The park and clusters of regular homes were gone, and in their place the minor estates of the minor rich, feeble and sometimes grotesque attempts at baronial splendor complete with high walls, electrified gates and aging uniformed guards. Many of the homes had vanished over the past decade, Marc commented without apparent sympathy, victims not only of rising taxes and inflation, but also of Toal’s insatiable greed for space between himself and his neighbors. Natalie said the area seemed as much a graveyard as the one she could see from her house.

  “So, now we must needs wax philosophical?” Marc said as he turned off the Pike onto a winding private road.

  “Why not? Is there something better to talk about?”

  And she clamped down on her tongue when she saw a frown crease his forehead and the hands stiffen on the steering wheel. Open mouth, insert foot, she thought as he parked the Olds behind a glittering line of foreign chrome. One of these days he’s going to give you up as hopeless, woman, and then you bloody well won’t have anything to worry about.

  Toal’s mansion was a bastardization of simple Georgian elegance and antebellum baroque. As they walked to the broad front steps, she winced at the immense veranda that apparently circumscribed the house and reduced to comic inanity the brick and stone stories that rose above it. It was as if Toal had seen one too many plantations on a flying tour of the Deep South and had decided his place could stand a little mint julep class.

  A liveried Pakistani stood immediately inside the open front door, took their coats and directed them to a room on the left.

  “Too much,” Marc said as he fussed with his jacket.

  Natalie said nothing.

  The entrance hall was ballroom wide, floored in green marble and paneled in mahogany. A single constellation chandelier cast multiple shadows and directed the eye down to a staircase carpeted with intricate Persian weave. Gilded Grecian benches were scattered along the walls, and the spaces between were occupied by the most dreadful plaster copies of the French kings Natalie had ever seen.

  The front room was already crowded, doubled in size by mirrored walls, the ceiling lowered by a drifting canopy of stale smoke. Marc took her hand possessively and, after a brief unconscious struggle, she submitted long enough to be guided through the constantly shifting islands of lace and emeralds and high-pitched conversation to a buffet where bored-looking maids ladled a strong tangy punch into deep crystal cups.

  Natalie emptied hers at a gulp, held out her hand unflinchingly for a refill. Marc stared, grinned, and did the same.

  “Now what?” she asked, unafraid of being overheard. No one had paid them the slightest attention, and from an adjoining room a band heavy on drums and bass guitar stifled whatever impulses to eavesdropping there might have been.

  “Now we observe and learn, and wait for Toal to make his appearance. He’ll probably give a little speech, show us a copy of the statue; make another little speech and introduce his family. Then we’ll all go home drunk in the knowledge that we have basked in the unrelenting sun of the powerful arm of capitalism.”

  “Hey,” she said, “don’t you think that’s laying it on a little thick, even for you?”

  He grinned an immediate apology and bowed at the waist. “Your point, lady. I’m sorry. It’s just that I had other plans for this evening, and this definitely was not among them.”

  What questions she might have had, however, were forestalled by a hand that grabbed her shoulder and turned her around.

  “Oh, Wayne,” she said behind a forced smile. “I didn’t think you went in for these things.”

  Professor Wayne Gernard preened his thick black moustache, reached out a thrice-ringed hand to take hers, lift it to his lips and kiss the air wetly above it. “Natalie, how wonderful. And I’m as surprised to see you as you are to see me. What brings you here?”

  “Me,” Marc said, leaning over her shoulder. “How are you, Wayne?”

  “All things considered, not bad actually. My dear dean insists I attend Toal’s foul wakes so he won’t forget some century-old promise about a library for the new law school. I could have gone to a show in New Haven, you know.”

  “Sorry about that,” Marc said unconvincingly. “We all have our crosses, don’t we?”

  It took a moment before Natalie was able to free her hand from Gernard’s perspiring grip, and she stepped immediately back to allow the two men plenty of sparring room. Her back bumped against the buffet and she turned, nodded to a maid and accepted another cup.

  This, she thought, is unreal. I’m not really here, you know. It’s a television show about the four hundred, and I’m sitting on the living room floor in my flannel pajamas drinking diet soda and making rude comments. She sipped at the punch, then put a hand to her temple to still a quick wave of dizziness.

  Marc, she saw, was grinning open-mouthed though the noise level had risen and prevented her from hearing what he was saying. Wayne was obviously uncomfortable, unaccountably nervous as he continually wiped a forefinger over his moustache, then tugged at the ill-fitting vest that kept bunching up toward his neck. She knew he was trying to carve Marc’s profession with witticisms and barbs, but Marc was enjoying the bout; he had taken off his glasses and the resulting squint gave him an unsettling Fu Manchu remoteness. For me, she wondered, and was slightly incomprehensibly resentful. But it must be the drinks, she thought, because it wasn’t often that she was able to play M’Lady to a joust.

  There was a barking laugh from Marc, and the professor tried silencing him with an academic sneer. The guests beyond them had begun to shift as others arrived, however, and Natalie’s attention was directed through an opening across the room to the front by the windows. Miriam was there, laughing and lifting a sparkling cup to the lips of a man a full head taller than she; he was, Natalie noted sardonically, apparently less interested in the refreshment than the buxom plunge of the diaphanous cocktail gown floating redly in front of him. A maximum of temptation, a minimum of cover — Adriana would have a fit if she could see that, she thought with a grin and suddenly hoped Miriam wouldn’t try a little deep, heavy breathing. She stared pointedly for several minutes, hoping the young girl’s eye would stray her way so she would have an opportunity to compare notes, and stand a little in the shadow of sanity.

  But the opening closed before contact could be made, and before she could redirect Marc’s attention away from Gernard, there was a flurry of motion at the far end of the room. The lights in their sconces dimmed and, as Marc had predicted, Ambrose Toal climbed to a makeshift stage, made a short inaudible speech, and pulled a cord which released
a velvet curtain closed behind him. There, under a single lavender spotlight, was a four-by-five photograph of a statue: a nurse standing valiantly over the huddled and agonized bodies of wounded men in indeterminate uniform. Her hands were clasped to her pointed bosom, her blind eyes lifted piously toward an invisible sun. The face was undoubtedly Christine’s — aquiline, soft, a careful aging around the mouth and eyes. Handsome was the word Natalie thought of at once, and it squared with the few glimpses she had had of the millionaire’s wife-handsome and arctic cold.

  A clumsy fanfare from the band and an enthusiastic explosion of applause and comment greeted the unveiling. Marc looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes heavenward. Gernard stood at attention. There was a glare of flashbulbs, and Marc yanked a pad from his jacket pocket. To work, he mouthed with an exaggerated sigh. Hurry back, she whispered silently, shaking her head when his expression launched an invitation to go with him. He nodded, ignored Gernard and pushed his way up through the crowd. Natalie, too, decided to leave, not wanting to be alone with the professor, seeing already the words forming in his throat, questions about Vorhees and the connections with Ben. With a meaningless murmur she knew was falsely coy, she excused herself hurriedly and made her way back to the hall where the Pakistani coldly directed her to the powder room on the second floor. Thanking him, she set her empty cup on a chair more openwork than substance and took the stairs as fast as she could. There was a turmoil in her stomach that reminded her uncomfortably that she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch; and the potent liquid from the punch bowl was not doing much to steady her equilibrium.

  The anteroom was easily large enough, she decided, to contain both bedrooms in her own home. A maid dressed in starched white waited primly in a stiff-backed chair by the entrance and handed her a small towel, a mint scented bar of soap, and a small packet of flowered tissues. Natalie accepted the handouts gracelessly and sat on an upholstered bench on the far side of the room, her hands folded in her lap. Despite the bright lights reflected in the half-dozen woman-tall mirrors along the walls, she felt instantly cooler, and was startled then to feel perspiration gathering on her forehead. Carefully, she extracted a single tissue-smiling apologetically at the maid for the noise-and dabbed at her face. Then she rolled the moist tissue into a ball and, failing to locate a wastebasket, stuffed it into her full sleeve.

  And now what? It was fine for Marc to be at the party; at least he had something to do to stave off boredom. But she knew few of the guests well enough to talk with, and those she had recognized she found herself avoiding because of the killing. There might be a chance to talk with Miriam later, but somehow she felt an intrusion would be definitely unwelcome at this stage of the young girl’s not-so-subtle campaign.

  So, then. She could mentally run through her list of books to find the pattern she was groping for; but when the first title grew hazy under the influence of the punch, she abandoned the idea and began to whistle silently. A minute later she looked up and saw the maid staring at her, not unfriendly but curious, and she rose at once and hurried into one of the several private cubicles set along the near wall in the adjoining, smaller room. Each held a petite vanity, oval mirror edged in silver, and settings containing make-up, combs, brushes and other bits of repair paraphernalia. Placing her purse on the ruffle-edged table, Natalie stared at her reflection and considered spending the next hour or two making faces at herself.

  Then she made a perfunctory swipe at her hair, touched her little finger to the corners of her mouth, and pushed against the table in order to rise from the thick-cushioned stool when she heard two women move into the cubicle next to hers. They were arguing, and she decided this would be far better than being cornered by Gernard again. Who knows, she thought, maybe the gossip will be something Marc can use.

  “A nightgown,” one woman said, her voice trembling with indignation. “She was wearing a nightgown. I swear it!”

  “Calm down, will you?” The second one was markedly younger, and more harsh. The words were slightly slurred. “I hardly think it will cause a scandal, you know. You’re being ridiculous.”

  ‘‘I’m always ridiculous as far as you’re concerned.”

  The sound of glass slapped onto the vanity, a stool shifted abruptly and slamming against the partition.

  “Well, now you’ve torn it. Are we going to spend the rest of the night sniping at each other, or are we going to get on with it?”

  “Well, we can’t very well do anything with her in the house, can we?”

  “Mother, you’re being simple again. What does she have to do with anything at this point? You’re certainly not going to send her an invitation, are you?”

  Natalie rubbed the side of her face slowly, turning around as cautiously as she could. If the so-called nightgown they had mentioned was, in fact, her own caftan, then it was she they were arguing over. A sudden wash of guilt made her decide to look for a way out without being discovered.

  “I’m not sure I like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it. Just do it, or he’ll get mad.”

  “Well ... “

  “It’s almost over, Mother.”

  “I suppose so. But what about her?”

  Natalie tried angling a look at the mirror opposite the cubicle, but she knew she was eavesdropping on Christine and Cynthia Toal. But what was it they didn’t like? And why couldn’t she be around when whatever was going to happen happened? A piercing stab of ice along her spine made her stand, sway, reach out to brace herself against the partition. That it might entail some manner of crime momentarily frightened her, but a quick and vicious pinch at her hip caught the soaring panic, calmed it and forced her to think more sensibly.

  “This is all very awkward, you know, my dear. I’m not sure Ambrose will like it one bit.”

  “For God’s sake, will you stop worrying? As soon as he’s finished with that shrimp, they’ll be on their way. God Almighty, you’d think we were planning to rob a bank.”

  “Well, in a way we are, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, Mother, shut up!”

  Natalie decided a swift retreat was the best defense against entrapment. She waited until the voices faded into whispers, then darted out of the cubicle, through the connecting door and into the corridor. She hoped their concentration on the mirror prevented them from catching a glimpse of her as she’d hurried by, a rush that was now a slow trot as she approached the head of the stairs. Suddenly, she stopped, one hand pressed tightly against her stomach. Standing at the foot of the staircase was Ambrose Toal, speaking softly to a shorter, stouter man whose last vestige of hair was confined to puffed fringes above his ears. It was Simon Bains, and Natalie knew instinctively that this would be the wrong moment to be seen by either of them. She made a quick about-face and strode along the thick carpet, the purse a dead weight in her hand, her neck protesting as she jerked hurried looks at each passing doorway. At corridor’s end she paused, looked back over her shoulder and saw the two men just coming to the landing. At the same time, the door to the powder room opened and Christine and Cynthia stepped out, arm in arm. And smiling.

  Without thinking, Natalie ducked into the rear hallway and pressed herself against the wall. The only light was a dimly yellow glow from the center hall. You should have tried a bluff, she scolded herself, and prayed for a warning of the quartet’s approach. She was rewarded a moment later by Cynthia’s low, manlike laughter. They were headed in her direction.

  Nearly stumbling in her haste, Natalie felt her way along the wall, trying each door in passing, more frantically as the voices grew louder. Suddenly one gave way and she darted inside, pushing it silently closed behind her. Here there were no windows, nor switches close at hand, and she was forced to press an ear against the thick wood, listening, hearing Christine snap something and a man respond angrily.

  Talk about insane, she thought as she waited until she could be positive they had left her alone. I don’t believe this is happening to me. I really don’t believe i
t.

  The room’s darkness was complete. With her back pressed against the door, she tried to create images of the furniture she sensed was in her way. Her legs began to weaken, betraying the relief she felt, and her breasts rubbed roughly against the caftan as she swallowed the stifling, musty air. The hair at the back of her neck tingled, and her skin tightened. Electricity, she thought, but couldn’t fathom the source. A thought, and she bent to peer through the keyhole, but it was blocked, and she straightened, one hand rubbing her cheek.

  All right, then, do I wait or plunge back out?

  Discretion, she decided a moment later, but she was determined not to spend the time blind. Damning herself for quitting smoking and not having matches, she inched sideways past the door. Her hand darted over the wall-paneling by the feel of it-and she was about to despair when her thumb triggered a switch and she was sighted again.

  The room was larger than she’d imagined, and nothing she’d seen downstairs prepared her for its starkness. Except for a pale blue runner along the baseboard, the floor was bare and painted a glossy black. The single light came from a bulb placed in a topless brass censor that had been lowered from the ceiling on a braided black chain. Three walls were covered by midnight-green velvet, her wall by a walnut veneer polished to near mirror perfection. There were no chairs or tables; nothing at all but the light, the snakelike shadow of the chain, and the floor that reminded her of deep winter ice on a mountain lake.

  Her immediate impressions centered on a chamber of the occult. The popularity of Satanism and its attendant offspring had given her ample opportunity to browse through the library’s growing collection on the subject, and here there was nothing vaguely similar to anything she had come across. Then, for no clear reason, she thought: meditation! The bare flooring for discomfort, the velvet to swallow sound. She raised her eyebrows in grudging acceptance — Mr. Toal, she decided, was a man of several interests.