[Oxrun Station] The Orchard Page 9

  "Denise."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "Denise, look, everything you've said to me now, you told Amy, remember? The knights and the movie stars. But god, there aren't any knights left, and there are no movie stars here, and, Jesus, didn't you tell her to be careful what she dreamed?"

  The shadowed head nodded, and the shadowvoice said, "I know, and I meant it" And the shadow-voice hardened. "You were so damned worried about yourself, afraid that you'd be alone, that you scared yourself out of living, Brett. You scared yourself to death."

  "Denise-"

  A hand lifted, a finger pointed, and Brett felt the cold, and the fog, and night.

  "Dreams," she said, "can be very real, you know. They can be as real as you want them, when you want them, when you want someone to love."

  Then Victoria screamed and fired twice, He spun around to yell, and dropped to his knees when Denise didn't fall and Vicky fired twice again and he saw the night shimmer at the top of the hill.

  Rising like a nightflower against the full of the moon, lifting slowly to a grey silhouette that raised its head high, that held its forelegs still, that turned one red eye to the park spread below it and listened for the sound that would signal its charge.

  Listened, and waited, and as the moon rose higher above the knoll where it stood, it just as slowly lowered itself back to the ground. Its mane was dark and curling in the wind, its tail the same and bannered behind it, though the wind that moved them never touched the grass, never stirred the trees, never whispered to the creatures that burrowed deeper underground.

  A leg lifted and struck the earth softly, and there was a cascade of sparks, a crimson plume of fire, and it backed away quickly and struck fire again.

  Waiting. Always patient.

  Against the dark-crater moon like a daemon in white amber.

  "I did it," she whispered as Brett crawled toward Vicky, his eye on the creature that watched him, and waited.

  It was a trick, but it cast a shadow, and the grass still smoldered where it had raised crimson fire.

  "I dreamed," she said with a laugh as she came around behind him, neither stopping nor helping, only following in his wake.

  Then it lifted its head again, and he saw the spiraled horn.

  "I dreamed and dreamed so goddamned hard," was the whisper out of the dark, out of the fog, "that it came just like it should have, and it put its head in my lap."

  He reached Victoria and lay a hand on her chest, felt the struggling heartbeat and took the gun, then saw the blood matting her hair, heard the creature stirring, saw its shadow move toward him.

  "Didn't you ever wonder," Denise said, kneeling just out of reach, "why all the pictures, all those tapestries, show men hunting them with weapons, why dogs had to be used if they were so gentle? Didn't you ever wonder what the horn was for?"

  A trick, he thought; a trick, it's a trick.

  "They're not, you know. They're not gentle at all."

  She hit his shoulder with a heavy stone, and he whirled, the gun up and aimed shaking at her breast.

  She smiled in the moonlight and glanced up the hill.

  Victoria groaned and stirred.

  "You'll have to choose, Brett."

  Victoria sat up, touched her head gingerly, and gasped when her hand came away running with blood.

  "Denise, this is-"

  "Choose now, Brett," she said calmly. "But think before you do. If you shoot me, that woman will leave you. Sooner or later, she'll leave because you'll remind her of what happened tonight, and she's not strong enough to live with it. She's not strong at all." The smile softened, and filled with love. "You'll be alone, Brett, all alone. No matter what happens, Les will be gone."

  He couldn't move, he couldn't think; he heard Victoria whimpering and the creature pawing the ground, heard Denise still whispering and the blood roaring in his ears, heard Les damning him for loving too well.

  "I can make you forget," was the promise he heard. "And I can make it go away."

  He shook his head.

  Victoria cried.

  "And if you don't choose me-"

  Her scream, then, was the last thing he heard before he squeezed the trigger and watched her flail to the ground; the last thing he saw before he spun on his knees and knew she was wrong.

  Victoria was standing by the creature's lowered head, stroking its mane, whispering fondly in its ear. Then she looked down at him and smiled, and stroked the length of its horn.

  "I have dreams, too," she said. "I have dreams, too."

  And he saw her in the moonlight, tall and sweet and fair, waiting for his answer on a bed of crimson fire.

  Part Three: The Last and Dreadful Hour

  Summer, in Oxrun, died in a storm.

  The afternoon had been warm for the last day of September, but the leaves had already started to turn, the ducks on the pond already gone in a twilight flight that called out to the village and brought on the dark. No one wore a coat, but sweaters were taken out to be aired in the yard, gloves were found in drawers and closets, and windows were checked for betrayals of draughts. Fur thickened, pavement hardened, boilers and furnaces practiced their steam.

  It was warm for the last day of September, but those leaving work just after five saw the clouds on the horizon, moving toward the valley east of the tracks: white, and puffed, and sharp-edged against the blue. And the same drifting over the hills south and north, like desert clouds building their frozen billowing smoke: white, and puffed, and sharp-edged against the blue. And a single massive cloud that crawled out of the west, its shadow creeping across the fields like a shade drawn against the sun: grey, and boiling, and smothering the blue.

  The wind began to blow just after six, in no particular direction as the clouds merged at their rims, forming a funnel above the village that looked up to the blue shrinking to the size of a platter, a coin, an eye that closed tightly when all the clouds turned to black.

  Leaves ran in gutters, paper slapped against doors, dust in dark tornadoes bounced across the grass to explode against walls; hats were blown off, faces turned away, and on Fox Road near the cemetery a loose, flapping shutter chipped its paint against clapboard until a hinge snapped, a nail loosened, and it spun to the ground. The flag over the high school entrance began to shred. A line of wash on Barlow Street tore loose and was snagged on the branches of a dying pine. The sidewalk displays in front of Buller's Market were carted inside by clerks, who swore angrily when their aprons whipped their legs and their hair whipped their eyes. Neon flickered on, street lamps cast shadows, the amber light at Mainland Road and the Pike jerked and swayed, danced and spun, until it sputtered, brightened, and winked out without a sound.

  The rain began just after seven.

  The film in the Regency started just at seven-thirty.

  The lights dimmed once, just after eight.

  And summer, in Oxrun Station, died in a storm.

  The Regency Theater was less than two years new, and had been constructed old-fashioned because the owner was tired of tiny figures on tiny screens pretending to be much larger than they were.

  The exterior was deliberately houselike, red brick and white trim, no marquee and no posters, and the ticket booth was flush with the glass doors that flanked it. There were windows as well, white-curtained, with white tasseled shades pulled midway down the sash, and more than one visitor looked in to see what the living room was like.

  What they saw was darkly polished black oak wainscoting topped with pearl-and-silver flocked paper, ivy and leaves and just a suggestion of trees; the thick wall-to-wall carpet was Oriental, floral, its background a royal blue and vacuumed three times a night; and along the back wall, between the entrances to the auditorium, were thickly upholstered high-backed couches, Queen Anne chairs, and silver ashtray stands. To the left and right in the corners were red-carpeted staircases leading to the balcony, and in shallow alcoves beside each a small concession stand.

  But the Regency's p
ride was the theater itself.

  The screen was a monster that tipped your head back when you sat in the front row, the ceiling slightly domed and painted in constellations that glowed for a moment when the houselights went down; the walls on the sides were draped in dark red velvet, the seats upholstered and wide; and there was a steep-angled balcony that extended ten rows over the main floor. A uniformed usher with a hooded flashlight guided the way to patrons' places; there were Saturday matinees that showed nothing but old horror films, five cartoons, and a trailer, and the manager could usually be found standing stiffly at the back, unafraid to eject the rowdy and keep the popcorn in its boxes.

  And as the last show ended, the credits still running and the lights slowly brightening in their bronze brackets on the walls, the electricity failed and the building went dark.

  "Oh, wonderful," Ellery muttered and slumped back in his seat, glaring at the dark as if he could bring the lights back simply by threatening them with damnation. It was, without question, the only possible end to an already miserable day, and he wasn't surprised when the manager's voice soon came over the sound system and apologized for the inconvenience, asking the customers still remaining to please stay where they were until the staff came around with lights to guide them out.

  Why the hell not, he thought; if I go home, the place will have probably been struck by lightning.

  He heard without listening to the voices drifting around him-only a few, if he was right, and someone laughing giddily in the balcony.

  A minute passed, too long for his comfort, and a man to his far left began a strident complaint, arguing with someone, evidently his wife. He couldn't see who it was, couldn't see anyone at all, and the more he strained, the closer he came to giving himself a headache. The people in the balcony-there couldn't have been more than two- laughed even louder, and the noise echoed in the huge auditorium, merging, distorting, and soon after, he felt the first tear of perspiration grow cold on his brow.

  "Easy, El," he whispered, and pulled his raincoat close to his chest. "Take it easy. It won't last."

  But the perspiration was there, and the muffled thunder above, the sounds of things-people! -moving without waiting for someone to help them.

  "Easy," he said, but he couldn't help the acid that started to build in his stomach.

  He didn't like the dark.

  It was stupid, and it was silly, and most certainly childish. But no matter how often he told himself at home that he could easily close the bedroom drapes and keep out the streetlight and moonlight without any problem, he didn't. The shadows were better than no shadows at all, and a lamp burned in the living room until he came down for breakfast.

  Another minute, and he shook out his raincoat, touched his throat, and stood, grabbing for the seat in front and sidling to his left until he reached the aisle, proud he hadn't sliced open his shin on the chairs' curved metal legs. The manager once again assured them they would soon be able to see, but he couldn't wait. He wanted to get out. He wanted to see something, even if it were only shadows against a lighter dark.

  Then the lobby doors swung open and shimmering white swept down the aisle. There was good-humored applause, suddenly excited chatter, and soon he was able to distinguish black figures easing out of the rows, the complaining man now laughing along with those still upstairs.

  He paused for a moment, struggling into his raincoat and scolding himself for almost losing control. But it was, he thought, symptomatic of the way things had been going these past few days-as if he had been latched onto by a gremlin determined to make him look like a fool.

  Nice, he thought then; good sane thinking, El. Keep it up, they'll have you safely locked away before you can sneeze.

  His arm caught in a sleeve where the lining was frayed. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and rammed it through, smiling when he felt the worn threads tear at the wrist.

  And as he watched the others file toward the lobby, he frowned in the realization he had been practically alone for the entire show. Not that it was surprising. The storm had renewed itself vigorously just after he'd decided that sitting home alone wasn't going to do his depression any good. The bars were out because he wasn't much of a drinker, there was no one he could call for a shoulder to use, and going back to the botch he had made of his day's work would only depress him further. So he came to a movie. And even now he'd be hard-pressed to explain what it had been about.

  A figure partially blocked the glow at the head of his aisle, large and formless, hands on its wide hips as it kicked doorstops into place. Callum Davidson, the manager, shepherding his people out of the abyss. Ellery sighed and started up, the dim light slowing him so he wouldn't trip on a chair leg or stumble over his own feet. Davidson turned and left; another figure took his place, one with a flashlight that aimed straight into his eyes. He turned his head, raised a hand, and the usher apologized, lowered the beam to the floor, and waited.

  At the back row, Ellery smoothed his coat's lapels and turned around, to see the screen framed in black; it looked as if it were glowing.

  "Weird, huh?" the usher said, stabbing his flashlight at the stage. "Happens all the time. Absorbs the light or something, Mr. Davidson says, and makes it look like some kind of monster TV screen."

  "Seth," Ellery said to the young man sourly, "Mr. Davidson has a lousy imagination."

  The usher shrugged.

  Easy, Ellery told himself; it isn't the kid's fault.

  He turned to apologize, and lifted his head when he heard what he thought was someone falling, and falling hard. Seth heard it, too, and after exchanging alarmed glances, they stepped back down the aisle, trying to see past the flashlight's reach, listening for a moan or a crying or someone swearing as he got back to his feet. But the only sounds were the distant rumble of thunder and the muffled chatter of the people in the lobby.

  "I heard it," he said when they reached the first row, the screen looming behind him. "I know I did."

  Seth shifted the light from one hand to the other and rubbed his chest nervously. "I know. Me, too. Here," and they moved to the other aisle and started back up, slowly, then more rapidly as they approached the last seats and Ellery had about decided they had made a mistake.

  They found him in the corner, slumped on the floor.

  "Oh, Jesus," the usher said as Ellery squeezed into the row, his shadow blotting out the fallen man until Seth ran around the back wall and poked the light through the short drapes that blocked the lobby's glow from the theater. The brass rings that held the velvet on its rod rattled too much like bones, and Ellery knelt quickly, reached out a hand and pulled it back.

  "You'd better get Callum," he said, and was handed the long silver cylinder.

  The man was old without an age, his hair sparse and white, his face lightly tinged as if he had jaundice. His coat was worn, and when Ellery pulled back a lapel, he saw a suit underneath, a white shirt, a black knitted tie pulled away from the collar. The eyes were closed, but a touch of his hand to the man's boney chest and the side of his scrawny neck proved a heartbeat, which made him sigh and lean back, wipe a hand over his forehead and dry it on his thigh.

  Davidson arrived in a hurry and leaned over the wall, staring as Ellery played the flashlight along the old man's body.

  "Is he dead?"

  "No."

  "What the hell happened?"

  "I guess he tripped."

  "Wonderful."

  "God, you think maybe he had a heart attack or something?" Seth whispered, a suggestion Ellery didn't want to hear and the manager snorted at.

  "You know who he is, El?"

  He shook his head. "Never saw him before."

  "Is there something wrong?" a voice asked, and he looked to the end of the row, at a young woman peering anxiously through the gloom.

  "Toni?" he said.

  She took a step in. "Mr. Phillips? Mr. Phillips, are you okay?"

  "It's not me, thank god," he answered, stood, and pointed at the old man.
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  "Let me take a look."

  He looked to Davidson and shrugged why not?, pressing as best he could against the seatback behind him while she squeezed past. She was wearing a white T-shirt and washed-out jeans, and it was all he could do to resist patting her rump as she passed. When she knelt down, he explained softly to Callum that she was a student at Hawksted College, her father a doctor and she studying to be the same. She used to come often to the bookshop, and there were times, more than several, when he wished he were ten years younger.

  "He's knocked his head pretty good," she said without looking up. "There's a nasty bruise here."

  "Heart attack?" Callum asked.

  "No, I doubt it. But I think you'd better get a doctor here just in case."

  "Toni," Ellery said softly, "we can't leave him there on the floor."

  "It's okay to move him, if that's what you're worried about," she answered. "Just be careful of his head, okay?" Then she straightened, rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, and waved him out to the aisle. He grinned and did as he was told, thanked her when she joined him, took her arm and pulled her down a pace while Davidson and Seth moved to carry the old man to the manager's office.

  "I haven't seen you for a while," he said quietly, feeling the dark on his back, watching the two men swaying away with their burden.

  She looked up at him and, after a long moment's study, smiled sadly. His hand was taken in hers, and he felt the cold there in her long, soft fingers, as he felt a cold he hadn't noticed before filling the auditorium, seeping through the walls from the storm outside. It made him shiver and hunch his shoulders, and she tightened her grip briefly before letting him go.

  "I've been around," she whispered.

  "Busy with the new semester?" and let her pull him slowly up the aisle toward the light.

  She shook her head. "I didn't go back."

  "What? No kidding. Well, why not, Toni? I thought you were doing so well."

  She stopped and faced him, eyes hidden in shadow, features blurred. "Things are different, Mr. Phillips," she said, in a quiet voice, a low voice.