Bloodstone (10 page)

“Of course. Forgive me. It’s so awfully quiet in here on weekdays.”

Smith allowed himself to be led to a shelf of books
near the front door (he thought of the librarian tugging him along with his pant leg in his teeth, and grinned again), and waited as the man pulled several books down from the racks. Among them, in fact, was the book on Southern Maine architecture, and the book on Maine history as well; that one was a grossly overwritten monster, written back to the sixties, complete with coffee-stained pages and a binding that was going to pieces.

“I would suggest,” the librarian said, “that you talk to the historical society in town if you need more information. I believe Ms. Hall is running it now. A lovely woman, such a shame about her brother. I assume you’ve heard about her loss. I attended the service. Such a
shame
. Reverend Hall was an absolute saint.”

“You knew him well?”

“I went to church regularly. He was quite a draw, such a friendly man, and so enthusiastic. Church membership doubled under his leadership, I believe. It will be impossible to replace him.” The librarian was suddenly peering at him, concern in his eyes. “Are you feeling okay?”

One of his hot, slick hands had planted itself at Billy’s elbow, and the feel of it more than anything else brought him back to earth with a jerk. He had just slipped away there for a moment, back to that shack in the woods, back in the dark with the stink of it filling him, the branches moving in the dark. And that voice, the voice had said—

Killed the reverend tonight. Who’s next?

“I’m fine,” Smith said. “Just felt a little lightheaded.”

“Must be the weather,” the librarian said, nodding. “I get that sometimes when it’s humid. Maybe you should sit down a minute…”

Smith assured him he would sit down until he felt better, and took the books into the reading room, needing to get away from the man and collect his thoughts. As he entered, the girl with the freckled face looked up and stared at him. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he said.

“Uh-uh.” The barest shake of her head, and blank, bored eyes. “Doing a report.” She nodded in the direction of the books sitting on the table. “Say, you look sick, man. You look like death warmed over.”

He managed a smile, and sat down on the couch with the books. Still, he felt her eyes on him as if he were an interesting new species of insect. Opening the big, stained history book, he tried to concentrate but the words kept swimming before his eyes, the ink running together to form new words, new shapes. He blinked; a coffee stain twisted itself around a line of text and became the dead face at the shack window, leering up at him from the empty page.

Just words, man
. Just words
. The voice was so much like the girl’s, he glanced up at her, startled, before he realized she hadn’t spoken.

He closed the book with a snap and stood up, ignoring the girl’s stare. He could hear Angel talking with the librarian somewhere in the rear of the hall, and he wandered across to the opposite room. Here the walls were covered with paintings, most of them done by local artists; bad landscapes and white frothy river scenes, the falls in the background. He noticed a few others stacked up against the wall in the corner, and flipped through them. Most were identical to those on the walls, but a few of them were quite a bit older. One near the back of the pile showed the town square in the fall or early winter, the leafless trees painted in thin spidery strokes. This was the square during its early years—the storefronts had not yet been built, and the gazebo was missing. There were great stretches of grass on either side, and a deeper patch of woods at the upper end. The roads were dirt paths, the houses small square blocks.

Except for the Thomas mansion. It was still there, looking much the same as it did today, as far as he could tell. The artist had accentuated the lunatic spread of its wings, the twists of its castle-like turrets, the strange add-on rooms like warts sprouting from its back. A hunchback peering out
from behind his own spread fingers, the branches of the leafless trees reaching out toward its walls but never quite touching. A house like a troll, he thought, fascinated and yet repulsed. It drew him in a way he did not quite understand. The ground before it was empty and brown and dead. October, he thought, or early November, just before the first snowfall.

His hands were two painful cramps. Looking down, he saw he still held the book of Maine history, and had gripped it so hard his knuckles had turned white.

Later that evening, with Angel still looking over the library books in her room, Smith set out for the local bar down the road. The rain had stopped and the air had cooled enough for him to wear one of the sweatshirts they had bought a few days before. He walked with his hands thrust deep in the front pocket of the sweatshirt and let his thoughts run around in circles. Nothing came to him. There was more space out here in the open air, but not enough noise; he needed the bar. After the library, he needed to get out and find a place where there were people, lots of them, and just try and let it all go for a while. The sense of urgency that had held him earlier in the day had disappeared, replaced by a dull copper taste in his mouth, the taste of frustration, and of blood.

But a bar? Do you think that’s such a good idea? You and
bars don’t mix, remember?

True; alcohol, and bars in general, with their smoky interiors and dim lights and muffled voices were seductive. Hypnotic. It had always been that way for him. But his thoughts kept returning to Angel, and that scared him more than anything else. He could not seem to keep from his mind the delicate line of her jaw, the deep, open blue of her eyes. The way she smiled at him. That was something he did not want to happen, could not afford to let happen.

Why not? She was attractive, single, friendly; he hadn’t
been with a woman in…well, a long time. And lately she seemed like she just might be interested.

He shook his head. He’d kidnapped her, for God’s sake, dragged her out to this town on the edge of nowhere. It was all a psychological trap. He couldn’t take advantage of her that way. He owed her that much.

The bar’s parking lot was about half full, and he could hear the jukebox playing country and western music as he approached. The smell of beer and whisky hit him at the door, and his stomach did a long, lazy flip that seemed to contain equal parts nausea and aching thirst. He had forgotten how strong the pull was, and realized that he had been at least as addicted to the atmosphere as he had been to the drink, maybe more so; being able to lose yourself into another world, one where nobody knew each other, and nobody cared who your parents were, or where you came from.

So what is this, some kind of test? See if the old drunk can
resist temptation and keep the demons at bay?

Yeah, maybe that was exactly it.

Johnny’s was smoky and dim, the stools at the bar full of big heavy men and a few heavily made-up women past the age of forty. The booths were occupied mostly by couples or groups of three, and everywhere there were empty plastic cups and pitchers and spilled beer. Behind the bar a man filled mugs from the tap and slid them down the wood surface with a flick of the wrist, a towel slung over one shoulder. His arms were heavily muscled, his hair a deep shining black. One of the women kept bending her head toward him and laughing out loud at everything he said, as if he were the funniest man with whom she had ever had the privilege to hold a conversation. Her makeup looked to be an inch thick and cracking in places around her mouth and eyes, and she held the stub of a cigarette between her fingers.

Smith was weaving his way through the crowd when he spotted Harry Stowe sitting with a woman in one of the
booths against the opposite wall. He raised a hand in greeting and Stowe waved him over. “Welcome, have a seat,” Stowe said. “We were just talking about you. Myrtle Howard, meet Mr. Smith, the newcomer in town. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your first name.”

“Billy.” Smith extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” The woman looked up at him with big cow eyes for a moment, before taking his hand limply with her own and holding it for only a fraction of a second.

“I—I gotta go,” she stammered, and he barely managed to avoid being bowled over as she stumbled past him, into the crowd. He caught a single glimpse of her as she vanished through the front door, still moving fast.

He sat down in the vacant seat. “I know I look a little under the weather, but that was ridiculous.”

Stowe laughed. “Don’t mind Myrtle. She’s probably just nervous about meeting somebody new. Frankly, I’m glad you showed up when you did. She was beginning to drive me crazy. Can I buy you a beer?”

“A Coke, if that’s okay. I don’t drink the hard stuff anymore.”

“Good for you,” Stowe said. “A Coke sounds just right. I think I’ll join you.”

“You sure I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“Not at all. Myrtle latched onto me the moment I came in, and I’ve been thinking of a nice way to get rid of her for half an hour now.”

The waitress came over, a tall blonde woman with a pinched face, stuffed into a tight black halter-top. Stowe ordered two Cokes. When she had left, he said, “So what brings you out on a night like this?”

“The same thing as everybody else, I guess.”

“Looking for something to fill up the dull hours?”

“That’s about right.”

“Well,” Stowe said, “it’s the only place around that’s open after ten. The regulars come here religiously every night. It’s
no New York nightclub, but the jukebox is only a year old and the people are friendly enough.”

“You’ve lived in New York?”

“I’ve been to the big cities. L.A., New York. Went to Harvard for my medical degree, and stayed in Boston for my internship and residency. But I came back here to settle down. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You like it here, then.”

“It’s more like an obsession. I guess it’s the cold air and the big dark stretches of woods. It does something to you if you live here long enough. Some kind of curse—you can’t ever get quite used to it, but if you’re away for more than a few days you miss it so much it hurts. It’s like fighting with a beautiful woman. Eventually you want to make up again, no matter how bad it was. Something always brings you back.”

The Cokes arrived on a tray covered with moist, crumpled bills. Smith sipped at his, trying to get the faint taste of whiskey out of the back of his throat. “My wife and I have been doing a little research on the town today, actually,” he said. “About its history. We went to the library, but there wasn’t much.”

“No, there wouldn’t be.” Stowe shook his head. “Our library tries very hard, but it just doesn’t have the resources. You could try the historical society.”

“Yes, the librarian said something about that. I thought I’d go there tomorrow.” Suddenly, he remembered. “You were the one who mentioned Sue Hall to me, weren’t you? She takes care of that woman we met on the square.”

“Annie. Yes, that’s right. Sue runs the historical society, among other things. She might be able to help you. Other than that, there are a few old ladies who could tell you some interesting stories about this town. And me, of course. Is that why you’ve come here, to do research?”

“I thought I told you. We’re just passing through.”

Stowe hesitated. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped my
bounds. I don’t mean to pry, and your business is your business. But people just don’t pass through here this time of year. And you two aren’t really married, are you?”

Smith looked at him. He remembered something else he had thought the first time he met Harry Stowe; a bright man. Perceptive, certainly. And a longtime local. This was his chance to learn more about the town than he could ever learn from a book. But what did he really know about Stowe? A doctor who had studied at one of the best schools in the country. A man who seemed to pride himself on his mind and the logical solution to problems. How much of their crazy story would Harry Stowe believe?

“Is it that obvious?” he said finally.

“Not really.” Stowe shrugged. “But you seem like a man who could use some help. I’d like to offer you mine, if you want it.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Agreed. But you seem like a nice enough guy. I can usually tell about people.” Stowe took a long drink of his Coke, put it down, and sighed. “Ah, caffeine. A doctor’s best friend.” He focused those bright, serious eyes on Smith again. “Do you want to talk about it, whatever it is?”

“Let’s just say we’re looking for something in town.”

“Hmm.” Stowe regarded him now with mixed amusement and interest. “A mystery, is it? Let’s see. You’re a private investigator searching for somebody’s lost relative. You’re a journalist on the track of a hot story. Or a jewel thief on the run from the FBI, and you want to find a good hiding place.”

“None of the above.”

“I give up. But until you find whatever it is you’re looking for, what are you doing for money? Unless you are a jewel thief, and just lying to me?”

Now it was Smith’s turn to look amused. “Good question. I brought some cash with me, but I’m going to run short soon. Frankly, I haven’t given it much thought yet.”

“How about coming to work for me at the clinic? I can’t pay you much, and the job would be nothing fancy— helping with patients, cleaning up, answering the phone. I usually have one of the school kids in the summers to help out, but the last one I had is in college down in New York now, and nobody else has come around yet asking for the job.”

“I don’t know how long we’re going to stay. I can’t commit to much.”

“You work when you can, and we’ll take it a day at a time. Does that sound okay to you?”

Smith grinned. “Sounds great. I appreciate it, I really do.”

“You sure you don’t mind working for a few measly bucks an hour?”

“I’ll take what you can give me for pay.”

“My kind of employee. Maybe I can tell you some of what you want to know, too.”

“There is one thing I’m curious about,” Smith said carefully. “Angel and I were out driving the other day and found a place not too far from here, a dirt road that led out to a pond and a little house lot. It looked abandoned.”