Home Improvement: Undead Edition (17 page)

Austin’s blood ran cold throughout his veins. He wanted to jump up and run, run as far as he could possibly run. Staying still was almost impossible.

His heart!

His heart was thumping so loudly that it seemed like a marching band was playing in his chest! Surely, the sound would be heard. And his breathing . . . oh, Lord! Every inhalation and exhalation seemed like the winds of the worst hurricane on record.

“Come out, come out, I know you want to play. . . .”

He didn’t want to play. He wanted to be Austin Cramer, computer geek, commanding animated figures on the screen.

“Austin!” The voice whispered his name.

She knew him. And, oh, God—he knew her. He knew the voice. It was Adriana Morgan who was out there, and it was as if she were sniffing him out, as if she had . . . radar! She knew where he was.

Crunch, crunch, crunch . . .

And then nothing.

But he could feel her. She was right outside the iron gate.

He rolled, as silently as he could. He had to get away. Where? He was in a tomb. He began flailing in the shadows, mindless; not even knowing what he was looking for. And then, as he kept inching back, he leaned a hand against the marble near the floor....

And it gave.

He pushed it, and rolled.

He came to rest on a patch of dirt. Good old dirt. There was no coffin in the tomb. If someone had been laid to rest where he lay, their remains had long since given way to the furnace-heat of summer, and they had been swept back to the holding area. No, where he lay, it was completely clear and clean, a bed of fresh, natural-smelling
earth
.

“Austin, come on, come out!”

He heard the rusty gates swing open. She was coming for him.

“Austin, come on baby, I know what you said about a night of abstinence, but I’m ready. I’m ready to do what I want to do in all the carnal ways! Carnal. Well, carnivorous, maybe, too. Come on, Austin, I’m ready to show you the time of your life!”

He lay still, stunned and in shock.

Adriana?

No! It was impossible. Impossible. Impossible . . .

Adriana killing people . . . killing people like Brian! A big old strong football-hero guy. How could little Adriana have gotten to a guy like Brian?

Couldn’t be, couldn’t be, couldn’t be . . .

“Austin, don’t make me angry! All right, I do like to play with my food, but . . . hmm. I’d thought about leaving you for another night, but the full moon doesn’t come around that often. I mean, really, it’s great with the police thinking that it has to be you! Oh, they would string you up faster than a man can swat a fly!” She laughed, the sound of her voice still so teasing and petulant—and sensual. “Wait! They don’t string men up anymore, do they? Well, they’ll give you the needle. Actually, hmm, think of all the fear while you wait for them to make all the fussy arrangements, strapping you in and all that. I really would love to wait around and see, but . . . I’m still hungry, Austin. I had a few snacks tonight, but I had to be careful—had to make it look like you. But that doesn’t matter anymore,’cause the playing just didn’t do it for me. I’m so, so hungry! So hungry for you!”

He didn’t even dare breathe. He lay there, frozen.

“Austin! Silly boy—I will find you. I can smell you, you know that. I’ll hear your little rabbit heart pretty soon . . . come on out. I can make it fun, and then . . . I can even make it easy. Catch that carotid while you’re still shaking with bliss. Don’t make me angry, Austin! I’m not fun when I’m angry. And I’m the most erotic thing you’ve ever experienced when I’m not.”

Fear streaked through him with an icy vengeance. He could hear her sniffing—just as if she were a dog. Sniffing and sniffing the air. He heard her move, and he could almost see her, imagine her bending down, and figuring out that the marble slab that covered the bottom tomb wasn’t really a marble slab at all; it was a swinging door....

It opened. The moonlight in the main tomb seemed brilliant after he had lain in the slab-covered dirt area for many minutes. He saw her. Saw her perfect face, saw her smile. Saw the blond hair, sweeping down around her shoulders.

“There you are, Austin!” she said.

Then she cast her head back, and she let out an ungodly sound. It was a howl, it was worse than a howl; it was like a dozen wolves crying out beneath the moonlight in pure victory....

Wolves!

She contorted. Her head snapped back; her arms bent forward at a bizarre angle. Hair—luscious golden hair—suddenly seemed to burst out all over her body, and she fell down to all fours. Her eyes narrowed and her nose grew, and she opened her mouth and it was filled with sharp white teeth that seemed to glitter and gleam in the moonlight.

She growled and lunged.

He felt her breath, hot and fetid, and he felt the dripping of saliva and he closed his eyes, screaming as he nearly felt the reach of those teeth, snapping for him with fanged vengeance....

“Get the hell off him!” he heard.

And, miraculously, she was wrenched away from the tomb. The marble slab waved wildly, and Austin rolled out and as far across the tomb as he could, ready to lunge to his feet at any opportunity.

DeFeo Montville was there; he was back. And he had wrenched the Adriana-thing away from him just a split second before she could sink her fangs into his flesh.

She was massive; a massive golden wolf. But DeFeo had her by the scruff of the neck, shaking her. She yelped and growled, desperately trying to wrangle free and sink her teeth into him. But his grip was incredible. So strong.

Then DeFeo cast his head back and opened his mouth.

Austin let off a silent gasp of astonishment as huge fangs sprouted in DeFeo’s mouth. He sank them into Adriana’s neck.

She wriggled; she let out one last weak growl....

And she went silent, wolf’s head cast to the side.

He dropped her, shaking his head.

Then he stared at Austin. “Look, you’ve already got your occasional stray werewolf wandering into the city, the kooks who think they’re aliens . . . don’t ever,
ever
get involved in any ridiculous demonology business again, and I don’t give a damn if you ever get laid again in your life!”

AUSTIN STOOD BACK.

The beautiful temple-style tomb with its pillars and portico and weeping angel looked magnificent, if he did say so himself. A little fresh plaster, and a nice new paint job, and flowers surrounding the gate. He had done a great job—really!

It had taken all day, and now dusk was falling, but he was done. He whistled while he finished his work, picking up the paint cans and the brushes from the last of his ministrations to the tomb. He crawled out of his work overalls, set them with his supplies in his wheelbarrow, and then hurried out. The gate would lock soon and he no longer kept a key.

He deposited the wheelbarrow and its contents in the back of his ordinary white van.

Letters advertised his new life’s plan on the van. CRAMER HOME REPAIR.

He drove on to his new favorite hangout on Frenchmen Street. Walking in, he took a seat at the bar. Joe looked up at him, nodded, and poured him a beer.

“Is he on his way?” Joe asked.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” Austin said. “I imagine he’ll be here soon.”

“I’ll get his special drink ready,” Joe said. Joe kept DeFeo’s “special” drinks in a refrigerator in the back. His daughter really was a nurse at the hospital, and she managed to keep him supplied with just what he needed.

“Anyone singing tonight, Joe?” Austin asked.

“A great girl. She can really sing the blues. And you’ll love the guys playing with her. A jazz trio. It should be a fine night, filled with real local talent.”

As he finished speaking, DeFeo walked in. “Hey, Joe!” he called, taking a seat. Then he turned to Austin. His eyes were sparkling. “You need a reference for that new business of yours, I’m your man. My home has never looked better!” he said. He lifted his glass and clinked it to Austin’s.

“And there’s great music tonight,” Austin said, grinning. “Local talent.”

In a few minutes, the music started up. DeFeo stood to watch. Joe stood by the bar near Austin. “Yeah, a great night! I love New Orleans! What a great place to call home. Especially when the damned werewolf population has been taken care of again. The vampires, they’re just fine, once they settle in. But you just never know when a wolf will turn on you, huh, son?”

Austin nodded.

“Hey, I may need some home repair next week, got a leak in the old roof,” Joe said.

“I’m your man—unless, of course, DeFeo needs me for something at his place.”

They both looked at DeFeo, but he was just swaying with the music.

He loved jazz and the blues, and he loved New Orleans.

And he sure loved his home. And from now on out, Austin would take the best damned care he could of that home.

The Mansion of Imperatives

JAMES GRADY

That three-story Gothic mansion rose like a hulking mirage from the desolate snowy prairie east of Montana’s blue misted Rocky Mountains.

Five people came there that winter Friday.

Louise
hoped rehabbing the old house with their friends Bob and Ali would spark a paternal instinct in her husband, Steve.

Steve
hoped fixing up the deserted relic would get his wife off his case and let him hang out,
that’s all
, just hang out with Ali, Bob’s willowy wife.

Ali
was there because doing what Bob wanted kept her comfortable.

Bob
told himself that it was okay to keep secret how he was going to work their group investment because he was the guy who always turned a profit—and had the bankroll, the blond wife, and the do-gooder plaques to prove it.

Parker
stood in the front yard outside the mansion that cold gray morning as Bob said, “What do you mean you’ve never set foot in here?”

“Wouldn’t go in fifty years ago,” said Parker. “Won’t go in now. Stood here then watching Mom yell at my old man ’bout how he come to architect for Mister Rich—who had some heart attack, left this hulk and his fortune to my old man. Dad wouldn’t quit here for us. Saw him push Mom off that front porch. Watched her disappear day by day, die waiting for him to come to his senses. After the UPS guy found him froze like a statue here last month, if I didn’t need your money, I’d let this damn place rot to dust.”

“We won’t work in your pickup or our rental car,” said Bob. “If a storm is coming down from Canada, the longer you argue about that, the harder it will be for you to drive the thirty-seven miles back to town.”

“You folks really plan on staying here all night?”

“For four nights,” said Bob. “Power’s on—drafty, but the furnace works. Got a portable heater, fuel. Sleeping bags, food. Four nights now in December gives us ten percent of our ownership as occupants during our first calendar year—the minimum requirement for the homesteading tax credit.”

Bob didn’t say,
And with the hardware store receipts plus date-stamped pictures of us working, we prove renovation, increasing our equity.

He told Parker, “Either you come in or we’re all out.”

Parker clumped up the porch steps as if he were climbing a gallows. Louise handed him coffee from a thermos they’d filled at a Starbucks 110 miles away in Great Falls. The four friends had flown into Great Falls the day before, from Denver. She followed Parker and Bob into the dining room with its legacy of scarred furniture that included a document-covered table.

Steve laughed while Ali strapped a tool belt around his waist.

Louise caught the glow in her husband’s eyes.

Bob gets off on seeing that fire in other men.

Louise shook her head:
Why did I just think that?

Montana recognizes legal verification other than notarization. A digital movie camera recorded the four friends processing sales documents with the mansion’s heir. Parker wanted to
sign, sign, sign
and skedaddle, but Bob insisted on explaining each document to forestall future lawyers.

Fifty-four minutes later, Parker yelled, “Done!”

The front door swung open. They all hurried to its gaping view.

Outside snowflakes parachuted down like an invading army.

“But there’s no wind yet,” said Steve. “What opened the door?”

“Old houses,” said Bob. “They’re always settling.”

Parker said, “I’m so outta here!”

Louise grabbed his arm. “You can’t drive in a whiteout!”

Her husband, Steve, pushed the door closed.

Damn my logic,
thought Louise. She didn’t know why.

And again the door swung open.

“Whoa,” said Ali. “That’s weird.”

As with a great
whoosh
, wind rose in the storm.

Bob closed the door. “Parker, if you die out there, the sale gets stalled in your probate. That blizzard will swallow you. What could be worse?”

“I don’t wanna know.” From his shirt pocket Parker fetched a steel lighter and a hand-rolled cigarette. The herbal smoke he exhaled revealed marijuana.

Bob said, “You’re getting stoned? Now? Celebrate at home!”

“Ain’t celebration.” Parker took another hit. “Medication.”

The door rattled.

“Didn’t think the wind was blowing that hard,” said Steve.

“
Not thinking
’s the way to be here,” said Parker. “My old man didn’t hole up here because he was a drunk. He drank because he holed up here. Staying outside or being stoned makes it harder for the thinking to get you.”

“Look,” said Bob. “
Thoughts
,
voices
, whatever you hear—”

Ali asked, “Why did you say that?”

“—doesn’t matter,” continued Bob. “We gotta fix this place up fast. Seal ourselves in or this storm will turn us into icicles. The leaky windows in the upstairs bedrooms: no time to replace them, but we can cover them up.”

Louise heard her husband, Steve, say, “Ali and I’ll do it!”

“Good,” said Bob. “Louise, help me Sheetrock that basement insulating wall Parker’s dad didn’t finish.”

Breaking glass!

They ran into the dining room and found the popped-off-the-wall shelf that Ali and Steve had laughingly named “Look-out Ledge” when they stacked it with bottles of red wine, the smoky Scotch Lauren ached to give up for motherhood, and the vodka Bob favored because it never breathed the secret of its sip. Plus Diet Coke and tonic water and two six-packs of beer.

The plastic bottles of Diet Coke and tonic water had survived—one Diet Coke bottle rolled across the floor to greet the five of them running in.

The liquor bottles were a jumble of broken glass cupping tiny pools of red wine.

Parker said, “Looks like you guys just lost your medical protection.”

He stubbed out the joint on the lighter and put them in his shirt pocket.

“Leave this mess,” said Bob. “We gotta work. It’s getting colder.”

Bob led them to the living room and their stack of delivered hardware supplies, their luggage and sack lunches and read-on-the-plane newspapers.

He handed Parker a hammer. “We’re all trapped in a house that needs fixing. Rip out the molding, reframe that window to keep out the cold.”

Parker shrugged: “If you gotta, you gotta.”

Steve grabbed a roll of plastic weathersheeting, duct tape. He would have dashed up the two flights of stairs to the bedroom level except Ali floated up the steps with that long-legged languor Steve didn’t want to miss.

Louise blinked:
No, that wall didn’t just pulse.

Bob led her to the basement while their spouses climbed to the third floor with its wide-open stairwell bordered by a railing-protected corridor. Steve looked down the huge open shaft. Felt the vertigo of its inviting depth.

He and Ali worked on the smallest bedroom first.

“Like a cage in here,” said Ali.

Steve spun the rolled weathersheeting so an end flopped down.

Ali lifted a utility knife from the tool belt she’d strapped onto this muscled man who seemed less boring than her husband. She cut a translucent sheet, held it over the only window. Cold air blowing in from outside flapped the plastic and goose-bumped her flesh. She heard Steve ripping free strips of duct tape from where he loomed behind her hips.

Why did I think of it like that?
she wondered.

Felt him brush against her as he bent to tape and seal all the edges.

“We’re done here.” Steve stared at her. “This is a kid’s room.”

She felt her goose bumps receding as the now-sealed room warmed, wondered if he noticed her nipples had yet to go down under her sweatshirt. Then she heard herself share a secret out loud: “Kids cut into your chances.”

“And all you can do is screw them up.”
Never even told Louise that,
thought her husband, Steve, as he led Ali to the second bedroom.

Where, in the dust and cobwebs stirring with the drafts from two windows, the bed was big enough for a surging teenage boy.

Ali said, “Feel the furnace? Like it started blasting more heat.”

Steve swallowed as she slid the zipper on her hooded sweatshirt down, down, spread her arms wide as she took it off.

For no reason she knew, Ali shook her blond hair free from a ponytail so it fell across her blue denim shirt with its pearl-white cowboy snaps.

Steve shook his head.
I want “driving down the highway, white hash lines coming at the windshield,” and it’s the going, not the getting anywhere.

White pearl snaps.

They plastic-sealed the two windows against the howling wind.

Work together,
Ali thought.
It’s harder for the world to win if it’s more than just you.
She felt like she was back in the trailer park, a girl hearing Gramma turn up the radio for some “Sealed with a Kiss” song. Ali knew how to do that, had done it and it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t
that
kiss.

Ali said, “We should . . . keep going.”

“Yes,” answered Steve.
Yes. White hash lines. White pearl snaps.

They walked the corridor along the third-floor railing. Rising from the living room came the
whump-ruh
sounds of Parker ripping out molding.

As Ali led Steve into the third, the last, the master bedroom.

Whump-ruh. Whump-ruh.

That bedroom door slammed. Closed. With them inside.

“Old houses—always settling,” repeated Steve.

“Sure,” said Ali. “Sure.”

Covering the first window, Steve held the plastic in place while Ali taped it to the wall.

The heat swelled in that closed room. Steve shed his outer shirt. Its flannel smell sweetened the air for Ali as Steve savored the whiff of coconut shampoo from that morning at the motel when she’d showered naked.

Ali went between Steve and smudged glass to seal the last window.

Feels like I’m stoned,
she thought as she finished. Her hips brushed Steve’s loins. She turned. Her breasts brushed his arm.
Don’t think
yes
.

Like a tear, a bead of sweat trickled down from her temple.

Steve saw his fingertips catch that drop on her cheek.

She sucked in his finger.

Then he was kissing her, she was kissing him. White pearl snaps popped like machine-gun fire as he ripped open her shirt
No!
she said pressed his hands to her swollen breasts.
Oh
she pulled open his jeans
Don’t want
he whispered as she leaped onto his neck like a vampire while he pulled off her jeans and panties, her legs thrashing them down to her still-on boots. They crashed onto the bed. Dust billowed. His mouth devoured her she knew she’d never come like this over and over again
Stop
she pulled him deep into her and it was like he’d never been this good, had this so good
Want Highways
and
Not Him
and they cried out came collapsed on the bed.

Knew that in this house, they’d do that again and again and again, like running their hands along the bars of a cage until their fingers bled.

Whump-ruh. Whump-ruh.

“Listen,” Bob in the basement told Louise. “Guess Parker can work.”

“He’ll do what it takes to get out of here.” She positioned a sheet of drywall against the wooden studs of an insulating wall.

“Yeah.” Bob reached for a hammer. “Took fifty years, but his dad ran out of the money he inherited with this place a few weeks before he died.”

“We could fix the house up to live here,” came out of her mouth.

“Who?” Bob drove a nail through the drywall to the stud. “
All of us?
Forget that. Me and Ali? Sticking us in Nowhereland isn’t our deal. You and Steve? The only thing he’d want about this place is the hundred miles of highway between here and any job he could get, and one day driving that much road, he’d just keep on keeping on.”

“Somebody’s gotta live here!”

“Damn, Louise, what’s your problem?” Bob hammered in a nail.

“I . . . don’t know. I felt like . . . Somebody’s gotta keep this place going.”

“That’s not our flip.” Bob hammered in counterbeat to the noise upstairs in the dining room, the only noise that was close enough to hear.

Louise knew that look on Bob’s face as they positioned new drywall. That was his ain’t-I-cool look that paid off only if he confessed.

“What’s going on, Bob?”

Whump-ruh. Whump-ruh.

Bob worked his hammer, too. “I was going to tell you guys when we got back to Denver. If I’d told you before, you might’ve settled for less than the big payoff.

“Didn’t you wonder,” he said, “who’d want to buy this nowhere place from us for enough cash to make us fixing it up worth our while?”

He hammered Sheetrock into place.

Said, “You know the Nature Preservation League?”

“You’re on its national board of directors.”

“If the economy’s going green, green is how you gotta go.”

“What did you do?”

“Our names aren’t on the deed, just the limited partnership for a place that’s being rehabbed as a ‘luxury getaway home.’ Figure the stats of a mansion, pictures of rehab happening, and the ‘paper worth’ becomes
what it could be
if this was
what it’ll never be
, which is paradise.

“In five weeks, NPL will announce they’ve bought the land all around here for a new edge-of-the-mountains preserve. Of course, a house smack in the middle of that fucks up the NPL plan, so the board—”

“Which you’re on.”

“—so the board will offer the owners of this being-fixed-up mansion a buyout of what the place would be worth—”

“If this place were that paradise,” said Louise. “Board member
you
will make sure it happens. And the rest of them will never know.”