Charles Grant - Night Songs

"— didn't have his innards exposed." He frowned then and rose, walked to the window and looked out at the street. "Y'know, I only came out here because Bill Efron was all hot about his wife coming down with the plague or something. The man's an old woman, you know that, don't you? The poor girl can't sneeze without him screaming for the experts to fly up from Atlanta. Soon as Lee got hold of me I drove out. She's all right, so I thought I'd drop in on Bob. Funny. I didn't see any signs of an accident."

"I told you what Vincent said," he muttered heatedly.

Montgomery turned and leaned back against the console. "Yes, and I told you it was bullshit. Little Frankie Adams against that monster? Even if there were more, I'd be inclined to doubt it very seriously."

"Maybe Cart was there, too."

Montgomery considered, and finally nodded once, a partial shrug. "Now Cart I could see, with a little help from his toadies. But there's no reason, Col. Why should they pick on this guy?" Then he peered at him closely. "Who was this man anyway? You knew him, I take it."

Again Colin found himself in the middle of an explanation, this one tinged by his distaste for the subject. The doctor didn't move from the window, sipping occasionally, grunting when Colin told him about the scene in the restaurant.

"Bob," he said finally, "hasn't the faintest idea where the high water mark is, you know. He could be in over his head and think he was still breathing. The jackass."

"You're sorry for him."

"I am. Believe it or not, I really am." He laughed silently. "I know what I sound like-he's a good boy, deep down, a good boy. But it's true, Col. He just forgets that Haven's End isn't the most important spot on earth. Big fish here would get lost in an aquarium anywhere else. From what you say, he's found that out, only too damned late."

"That doesn't change anything," Colin said coldly, looking to the telephone and hoping it would ring. Maybe, he thought, he ought to call Peg and reassure her. Maybe he ought to borrow someone's car and leave Hugh to wait for Garve. Efron; he was around and would probably lend him a car.

A look at his watch. It was just past three.

Montgomery saw the move. "Garve should have checked in by now."

"Maybe he went out to the cliffs when he couldn't get you."

"Yeah."

The room darkened slowly, as if a cloud had stalled over the roof. The shadows grew cold, and Montgomery wasted no time switching on a lamp. Then the cloud passed, but the gray light remained.

Montgomery began pacing.

Colin thought about Lilla and wondered where she was.

"Frankie Adams, huh?" Colin nodded.

Montgomery snorted and returned to the window. "Jesus," he whispered. The glass came down hard on the top of the console. "Colin."

He rose carefully. "What?"

Montgomery lifted his chin.

Colin looked outside, at the trees bending, hissing away from the wind, at a flurry of leaves tumbling down the street, at the flapping sheet on the driveway where Vincent's body used to be.

The tiny lamp was covered with a dusty yellow plastic shade; the single chair was yellow plastic, the bedspread thrown to the floor a crinkling, floral yellow and red. There was the damp scent of sand and salt rising from the sheets. The television was on-a western with the sound turned off, the picture flickering blue and rolling as the wind hummed through the antenna. The sliding glass door was opened just enough to let in the air, the yellow-and-red striped drapes pulled back halfway to frame the forest behind the motel.

A seashell ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, and a bottle of Wild Turkey lay empty on the thin green carpet.

Denise Adams was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back against the paneled headboard. Her hair was wet and tangled, her cheeks flushed, and hr plaid shirt was unbuttoned and pulled out of her jeans. She was grinning at Cart Naughton, who was standing naked by the dresser, his back to the mirror. He was glaring at her, hands on his hips.

"You see somethin' funny?" he demanded, knowing full well what it was she found laughable.

She giggled. Her left hand rubbed lightly along the side of her neck, lowered until it was lying against the flat of her chest. She shrugged.

"It ain't funny, Denise."

The hand slipped lower until it covered her nipple. Then her fingers parted, and her tongue moistened her lips.

"Damn it, Denise!"

She rolled her shoulders until her shirt slipped to the mattress, then her right hand unsnapped the top of her jeans.

"Listen," he said, shaking his head in sudden confusion, "I don't know," and he kicked angrily at the liquor bottle, spinning it against the glass door. It turned crazily and slipped out onto the second story's building-long balcony. "I must be tired." He attempted a sly wink. "Last night, y'know?"

"Oh, sure," she said. "Last night. Yeah."

"I mean, Jesus, I ain't Superman, y'know." He was almost whining.

"Yup, I know that."

"Aw shit, Denise, gimme a break, will ya? Christ," and he grabbed a length of his hair and yanked, hard.

A thin coil of perspiration trickled out of her hair and down along her cheek. She shivered, but made no move to stop it, to wipe it away. It felt cool in the stifling room, felt tickling as it dropped from her chin onto her breasts. She looked down, smiled absently, and rubbed the salty moisture into her skin with her palm. Slowly. Half closing her eyes.

"Now that's sick, Denise!" Naughton exploded, but he didn't move to stop her, didn't look away. He was furious-at her for being such a bitch, and at himself for not being able to show her what he could do. The* goddamned liquor; he shouldn't have tried to drink the whole bottle at once.

A bubble of nausea rose in his stomach and he swayed, turned and grabbed for the edge of the dresser, looked into the mirror and saw her sitting there, that dumb ass look on her face, touching herself like some kind of whore, staring at him from under those lashes. Teasing him. Mocking him.

"Denise," he said, dangerously calm.

The wind changed direction and something thumped on the balcony.

"Friggin' place is fallin' apart," he grumbled.

She ignored him. She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, one hand holding the top of the headboard, and pulled her jeans down over her hips. A slow fall onto the pillows, and she rolled onto her back, kicking her legs until the jeans flew at Cart's chest. He snared them and flung them aside.

She rose to her knees and one by one fanned her fingers over her abdomen, pulling in her chin and pushing out her chest.

"Denise…" But hoarsely.

She began a slow bump and grind.

"I'll knuckle those damned eyes," he warned, silently cursing the dryness of his throat that made his voice crack.

She cupped her breasts and stuck out her tongue.

A shadow passed across the drapes.

Cart saw it just before it disappeared, and swore.

"What?"

"Someone's out there," he said, unconcerned for his nakedness as he strode to the sliding glass door, pushed it open and looked out, slapping at the drapes swirling around him. "Probably your goddamned brother trying to get his rocks ofiF, the son of a bitch. Jesus, I hate him."

"He ain't that bad." She caressed her stomach, and wished Cart would stop playing games. He got her all hot and bothered and ready and slick and then… nothing. Nothing. Just like always, half the time, nothing.

Cart grunted.

"Well, who the hell is it?"

"No one," he said, and turned around to face her. "Could've been your old man, too. I wouldn't put it past him. I bet he watches when you take a shower, right?"

She thrust out her hips and flicked a thumb at a dark nipple, stared pointedly at his groin and pouted. "Ah, poor Cartie," she whispered. "Poor, poor Cartie." She crooked a finger and beckoned. "C'mere, Cartie. Maybe we oughta play."

"I don't like that stuff," he said, though not as strongly as he wanted.

She dropped to her hands and looked down at her hanging breasts. "Cartie?"

He took a step toward her, and she lifted her head, lowered herself slightly and raised her buttocks high. The dim yellow light glowed along the length of her back, and her breasts vanished in shadow. He took a deep breath and ordered himself forward. This was no time to fail; there was a repuation at stake if he wanted to keep walking.

Her mouth opened slightly. "Cartie, I'm hungry."

He felt a tingling in his groin. "I don't like that shit, Denise, you know that."

Her mouth opened wider. "Lollypop time, Cartie."

The tingling grew stronger. "Jesus, Denise."

And the glass door shattered inward.

Denise screamed and scrambled frantically back across the bed, grabbing up the sheet to cover herself, unable to turn away as something flailing in the drapes finally shredded them over Cart and dumped him to the floor. He shouted angrily, and thrashed, finally pulled the material aside and pushed himself back against the bed. He was ready to kill whoever was fucking him around, but there was nothing he could do except gape when Frankie reached silently for his throat.

Denise stared in disbelief and shrieked her brother's name. He paused and looked up at her over the edge of the mattress, smiling through the dried blood that coated his pale face.

She gasped, froze, couldn't will herself to move until the thing that had been her brother reached for Carter once again. Then she flung the sheet aside, leapt from the bed and raced for the door, her hand too slick to hold the knob and turn it. She heard Cart begging, gagging, heard nothing else but the wind that tore into the room, scattering papers and sheets and rippling the bedspread as if a serpent were trapped beneath it. She prayed and grabbed the knob with both hands, finally got it to turn, and yanked the door open.

Again she cried Frankie's name, but she didn't turn around. Instead she sprinted down the hall toward the staircase, passed the fire station and skidded to a halt, her shoulder slamming into the wall as she spun around suddenly. There was a hose behind the glass, and a red-handled ax. She hesitated, then pulled the door open, grabbed the ax from its rack and started back to the room.

Cart wasn't screaming.

The wind pushed a sheet of motel notepaper into the hall.

She moved slowly, pushing her bare feet along the carpet until she reached the door.

Then a hand touched her shoulder and she whirled, holding the ax high and ready. Her eyes opened, and a tear welled in one. "Daddy?" she whimpered. "Daddy?" Just before she screamed.

The wind died. Nothing moved.

The only sound was the surf's roar as it slammed into the woods, the tide so high now the beach remained flooded.

A single gull drifted over the tops of the trees.

The patrol car was parked at the curb in front of Cameron's house, engine still running, its lights flaring. Montgomery and Tabor were standing near the hood, arguing heatedly though their voices were low. Colin couldn't hear a word they were saying, but he could guess. From the moment Garve had arrived and seen the liquor glasses, smelled their breath, he hadn't believed two words either had told him, especially when they searched the immediate area and found no trace of Vincent's body. The only thing that saved them was the blood on the grass and the blacktop; the only thing that kept the chief from driving off was Peg's and Matt's corroboration of Tess' condition.

As Montgomery had feared, Tabor had driven straight to the cliffs when he couldn't get hold of the doctor. He had found the picnic site, and had fought his way through the wind down to the first ledge along the path. There was no blood, no shards of bone, no strips of cloth. There was nothing to prove Tess May-fair had landed there; she was gone.