October (23 page)

"Hello."

Three white panels—no. Someone was there in the doorway. Not the Halloween nurse. She was on the plateau. Stay. Tall, nearly up to the doorframe, pale as the white walls.
Dirty color.
Thin, suspenders, white shirt covered in bleached red.

The face . . .

"Hello, Mother."

"My God. Bobby."

She said it, knew it. It was him. Danny's height, taller, her slimness. Lydia, in the face. So pale . . .

"Where . . ." she said.

"In California, Mother. An actor. I changed my name, just like you. James Weston. Maybe you've seen me." He smiled, a slight, straight thing.

Why did it look false?

"I didn't know . . ."

"Did you miss me?"

"Oh, Bobby." She held her hands out, fingers splayed. She wanted, very much, for him to come to her.

He walked to the foot of the bed, stopped. The odd smile.

"You don't recognize me? An actor, not a writer. But I use words."

"Of course, Bobby." The fingers reached, wanting his touch.

He edged around the bed, held his hand out.

Her fingers strained, met his. She took his hand and he gripped her wrist, a vise hold.

Numbness.

Ice cold, up her arm.

"Oh . . ."

"It's me." He smiled at her, Bobby's face

She remembered the rest.

—and into her mouth. She feels it scrabbling up into the back of her throat. A burst of images, the burning of a huge bonfire, oaks—

"No!" she screams, turns her head aside, gagging. The thing falls. She feels it strike her teeth and she opens her mouth wide, gagging, pushing with her tongue, and the thing drops free.

As it falls, scrabbling at the ground, churning its tiny legs down away from her, she feels, like a rifle shot of truth, an overwhelming—

"I remember!" She looked up at the face of her son. "I remember!"

"Yes," he said.

"I'm not afraid," she said. Her face was radiant. "You can't hurt me."

"You're alive. I already have." He loomed over her, his mouth opening. "You wrote about me."

"Yes."

"I want to hurt you, but I want you to live to die the way you were supposed to." His hands, her son's hands, descended upon her. "Let me tell you what I've done, and what I'm going to do. . . ."

When a sharp, loud, impatient knock came on Kevin's office door, he knew immediately who it was.

"Come in."

The door opened. Raymond Fillet turned to speak to someone out in the hallway, then entered alone.

Fillet strutted to Kevin's desk, stopped abruptly. He looked at the ceiling. Kevin had never seen him so ill at ease.

"It's been a rough month, Michaels," he said, letting his ferret eyes meet Kevin's briefly, before breaking contact.

"Yes," Kevin answered. He pointed to the padded armchair inches from where Fillet stood. "Would you like to sit down?"

"No," Fillet said. "As I said, a very difficult month. We've lost Sidney Weiss to Northwestern, which was a blow, of course; and then there was the unpleasantness with your brief resignation . . ."

Kevin sensed a slight lifting of Fillet's spirits.

"And then, of course," Fillet went on, "we lost dear Henry
Beardman
to that madness last week. As well as yesterday, that student from your class . . ."

"Nicholas
Backman
."

"Yes, young
Backman
. Horrible."

Horrible,
Kevin thought,
because
Backman's
father, who had bought his son's admission, will no longer be providing money to the university.

Kevin waited patiently as Fillet's uneasiness returned.

"It's . . . not that I want to do this," Fillet said finally. His eyes returned from their wandering, zeroed in on Kevin's. "But it seems that John
Groteman's
decision on your reinstatement was premature. There was an inquiry . . ." Fillet could not keep the smirk off his face. "It seems there was a prior case that takes precedence, something in the Economics Department in 1957. I'm afraid your resignation will have to stand."

"Raymond—" Kevin began.

Fillet's hand went up. "This time it's irreversible, Michaels. Things must end somewhere. President
Groteman
has ruled."

Fillet waved Charles Steadman into the room from the hallway. Steadman wore a superior grin along with his tailored clothes and T. S. Eliot affectations. "Young Steadman here was, I thought, very unjustly treated to begin with. He will, as of this afternoon, take your place permanently on the faculty. It's only right, Michaels; and, I believe . . ."

Again Fillet's uneasiness returned, intensifying as Kevin rose and walked around his desk to face him.

"I . . . think you will agree," Fillet blustered, "that the only way to handle these things is through proper channels. The department head should have his say, and well, that's what I've had in this matter—"

Kevin raised his hand as if to strike him. Fillet flinched, and, Kevin was pleased to note, Steadman stepped back, eyes wide, his own hands mute at his side.

Kevin turned, began to gather the papers on his desk. "I'll be out in an hour," he said.

"Fine," Fillet said quickly. "You're a fair man, Michaels. I expect no trouble. If, in the near future, an opening should occur—in fact, if, perhaps, the man I have in mind to fill Henry
Beardman's
spot is unavailable, we would of course be happy to have you back here, at least on a temporary basis, while we looked—"

"Please leave," Kevin said.

"Surely," Fillet stammered. "You have things to do. It's been a pleasure . . ."

Kevin listened to no more. Fillet's words faded until the door had been closed.

Twenty minutes later, Kevin was packing when the phone rang.

"Yes?"

"Kevin Michaels?"

"Yes." He noticed the agitation in the female voice.

"Mr. Michaels, this is New Polk County Hospital. Eileen
Connel
is a patient here. Someone . . . assaulted Ms.
Connel
in her room. It's horrible, but apparently her daughter has been murdered. Ms.
Connel
is insisting on seeing you, Mr. Michaels, and, well . . ."

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Kevin said.

"Thank you, Mr. Michaels. I'm afraid . . ." The voice paused. "I'm afraid Ms.
Connel
is dying."

She was surrounded, by tubes and machines. At first, he didn't see her; the bed looked freshly made, flat, unoccupied. But she was in it, covers tucked at her chin, her thin face swollen with bruises, her thin white hair pushed carelessly back from her forehead.

"Eileen," he said.

He thought she was dead. A machine registered her heartbeat, but her skin was gray, lifeless.

She opened her eyes.

"Eileen," he said again.

She whispered something. As he bent closer, he realized that it was his name.

"Yes," he said.

She held up her hand, paper thin. There were bruises, bandages, up and down her arm.

She took his hand, tried to squeeze. Weakly, she pulled him down toward her.

"Listen," she whispered faintly.

She paused, closed her eyes, breathed deeply. She appeared to be battling herself.

"Eileen—" Kevin began.

Her eyes opened, focused on him. "I . . . It's going to be very difficult for me to keep my mind clear."

She drew in a long breath, closed her eyes. Her mouth twitched. She spoke something that sounded like a command to herself, "Stay here." Kevin moved closer, standing over her chair.

She opened her startling gray eyes. "I remember, Kevin."

He watched her eyes drift. She held his hand tighter, tried to rise. "No . . . Don't you dare raise your hand to me, Danny Sullivan! Go live in New York City! Get out!"

A tremor ran through her. She settled back, clenching her teeth. She hissed, said, "Stay . . ."

When she opened her eyes again, they were clear. "That boy in jail," she whispered, "he didn't kill those people. James Weston killed them. Lydia, too. Ask the boy where to find James Weston."

"Eileen," Kevin said. "You—"

"Listen to me!" Again she closed her eyes, clenched her teeth in effort.

She opened her eyes, reached her hand up to claw at Kevin's shoulder. "I told you, I remember! The thing in James Weston is the same thing that was in Jerry Martin. It was in me! That was how I learned."

"Eileen, I can't—"

Her grip tightened. "Listen to me! That was
Season of Witches
. That was where it came from. A thief . . ." Her eyes were hard and clear. "That was how I learned, Kevin."

"What did you learn?" he said quietly.

"Find James Weston. You have to destroy the thing inside him. It's . . ." She stiffened, fought to control herself.

Kevin gripped Eileen
Connel
by the shoulder, held her. "Tell me what you learned, Eileen."

Her eyes were hard as ice. "Promise me you'll find James Weston."

Kevin gripped her tight. "I will. Tell me."

Her gaze softened.

Kevin saw the erratic beat of her heart on the monitor. Ashamed, he bent his ear down to her, eagerly.

"You already have it;" she whispered. "Jerry Martin just . . . made me see it."

"Eileen, what—?"

She smiled up at him, closed her eyes. The monitor showed a straight line, began to sound its alarm that she was dead.

"I love you, Kevin. . . ."

"I hear they're moving you tomorrow."

From the bed at the back of his cell, knees pulled up, Davey Putnam regarded Kevin Michaels with a sullenness that closely resembled dulled fear. There were bruises on his face. His seeming uncaring attitude was undercut by a wariness detectable in his sharp eyes.

"I said, they're moving you tomorrow," Kevin repeated. The boy said nothing.

"Don't you care?"

"How did you get in here?" the boy asked.

"I told the cop out front I was from your attorney's office."

"You lied."

"Yes."

Kevin detected a heightening of the boy's interest. "Why?"

"Maybe you didn't do what they say you did.”

“Are you a reporter?"

"No. But will you be very frank with me?" Kevin asked.

"Maybe."

"Maybe isn't good enough."

Davey rose from the bed. Kevin saw that one eye was blackened, nearly closed. The boy came to the bars of the cell, gripped them hard, pressed his face between them. "James Weston is going to kill me."

"They say you killed him, and hid his body somewhere.”

“He killed them all!" The boy's fear was so palpable Kevin felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

The door at the far end of the long gray corridor opened. Officer Johnston put his head in, looked grimly at Kevin. "Everything all right?"

"Yes," Kevin said.

"Three more minutes and you're out."

"Fine."

Johnston glared at him, closed the door.

"Look," Kevin said to Davey. "They found your fingerprints all over Ben Meyer's house, on the shovel that buried the bodies, all over the
Backman
house, even on the knife in your friend's back and on the bag of cocaine in the cellar. That was all in the papers. The only way I could prove any of what you say is to find James Weston."

The boy looked at him steadily. "I don't know if I can trust you."

"Do you have a choice?"

The boy looked so suddenly young and helpless, so absent of bravado, that Kevin wanted to reach through the bars and hold him.

"The dog could find him," Davey said.

"What dog?"

"There was a dog with me. He knows James Weston.”

“What happened to him?"

"He ran away when the police got to Nick
Backman's
house."

"Where would he be now?"

The door at the end of the corridor opened again. "That's it," Johnston's hard voice said.

Kevin looked at Davey. "Tell me where to look for the dog."

Davey hesitated. "All right," he said.

Davey dreamed he heard, through the gray, flat walls, the howl of the dog running. He imagined the dog tearing through the fields, something cold at his heels. But the dog was uncatchable.

Suddenly, the dog turned in mid-run, twisted up into the air. His rusty-brown coat turned just behind his body, hair billowing. He caught the cold, stalking thing in his mouth, gripped its neck deep in his teeth, and closed. The stalking thing cried a hollow cry and fell back, throwing its deadened hands ineffectively to the sky—