[Oxrun Station] The Last Call of Mourning (14 page)

"But Miss Yarrow, this is only my first—"

"Please, Sandy, I haven't got time. Just be a good boy and do as you're told."

Sandy dropped hard on the stool as if he had been slapped, but Cyd was too suddenly caught up in an odd sense of urgency to stay and apologize and stroke the boy's ego. She stopped only once, the door opened and held by a cock of her hip. "Sandy, did your grandfather ever work for Dr. Kraylin, out on the Pike?"

"Who?"

"Never mind," she muttered, and raced for her car. Cut off a truck when the pulled away from the curb, cut off another when she turned a hard left onto High Street. A glance as she passed Ed's office told her it was closed. She frowned. Ten after four; unless he was still searching for the owner of that limo, he should have been there, or contacted her by now. A station wagon stalled at the next intersection made her want to lean on the horn, and her fingers drummed the steering wheel increasingly rapidly until at last the vehicle moved and she sped through the traffic.

The urgency grew, and she did not want to fight it.

It reminded her of a time when she had been nineteen and Rob had fallen from the wall behind their castle shack. She'd been at the high school that particular afternoon, talking with some of her old teachers about her first year at college. That same sense of
now!
had struck her almost physically, and she'd run several cars off the road in her haste to get home. And by the time she'd reached the lane, an ambulance was driving out—Rob had suffered a broken back and left leg, and only the intensity of care had put him on his feet again. Two years of struggling. Two years of therapy. A miracle, it had been said, that the spinal cord hadn't been severed.

For months she'd believed it had been a genuine, occult premonition, until it had been pointed out to her—by Angus, in fact, if she remembered things right—that she had known Rob would be fooling around in that area that day from something he had said to her only that morning; that she knew the condition of the wall, the weather, and the fact that he could never resist a tightrope act when he was back there. Three years older and still playing the kid.

"Just a matter of putting things together," the lawyer had said. "It's happened to me in court, too. You stand there in front of the judge and suddenly, like someone whispering in your ear, a few of those loose ends aren't loose anymore. Disconcerting, to say the least; especially when the loose ends have a tendency to hang your client."

This time, however, there was no premonition, no portents of disaster—only a definite strong feeling that if she moved fast enough, hard enough, it would all come together. Like reaching for the ring on a carousel; one quick lunge and you have it, and the free ride is yours.

Fast enough.

Hard enough.

And when she saw Ed's car she almost screamed.

The Oxrun hospital took up the entire block facing King Street, between Devon and Northland—brick and grey marble, tall tinted windows on each of its two stories, a small parking lot behind and on either side. Over the four revolving front doors was an aluminum canopy that reflected the harsh red of the setting sun, and at the curb was Ed's automobile, its front end smashed in as though he had hit a pole.

Cyd braked instantly, felt the car skew before she regained control, and parked across the street in a space by a hydrant. There were only a few people about in the green and soft lobby, and she was able to calm herself before she reached the receptionist, ask about Ed without a tremor in her voice. And as soon as she had, a hand touched at her shoulder. She started, turned, saw Ed sheepishly grinning. There was a bandage wrapped around his brow, several stained cuts on his jaw and his neck. Blood stains on his coat. A small bandage on his left hand.

Not daring to speak, she took his hand and led him to a small waiting area where couches and chairs were hidden behind a proliferation of carefully tended plants, and an aquarium or two. When he sat, she stood in front of him, not knowing whether to be angry because he hadn't called, or concerned though there didn't seem to be any pain in his eyes.

"Well?" was the best she could do.

He shrugged. "I thought I saw him out on Mainland."

She waited. You idiot, she thought; you're a little old to play cowboy.

He swallowed and tried to brush at his coat. "I thought I saw him—as it turned out it wasn't him—so I took off after him. Somebody took a straight-away and turned it into a bend. The old buggy doesn't have it much these days. I wasn't going too fast when he got me—the tree, that is, so I guess I was lucky."

"Lucky?" She turned away and stared out the front window. Turned back with most of her temper in hand. "Lucky? You are crazy. You're crazy, that's all there is to it. Damnit, Ed, you're not a cop anymore, you know that don't you? You could have been killed!" The trembling began in her arms, traveled to her legs and she sat quickly beside him, grabbing his good hand and squeezing it tightly. "You're crazy."

"Well, maybe, maybe not. Right now I just ache."

She pointed toward the street. "How'd . . . you didn't drive that mess back here alone, did you?"

He shook his head, slowly. "No, some guy was there when it happened." He put a finger to the bandage. "It's just a deep cut, that's all. More blood than I thought I had in me. He, this guy, he wrapped a handkerchief or something about it and drove me straight back here. He knew some guys on the staff and they took care of me right away." He smiled, then, and postured. "Ain't nobody going to keep this fool down."

She tried to laugh, but the sight of his courage overlaying his pale face was too much; she looked away and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. He was drugged, evidently, something mild to help the pain, and when she squeezed his hand again she was taken by the cold.

"Are you sure it wasn't him?" she said then.

"Pretty sure. Why?"

She took a deep breath and pulled all her thoughts together. "Never mind," she said. "I'm going to take you home and then I have to see Angus. There are a few things he told us last night that I want to clear up."

"Cyd, why don't you give it up?"

She looked at him harshly, her hand back to her lap.

"I'm worried about you," he said. "Why don't you just give your folks a chance—"

"How many times have I said you're crazy today? Well, here's another one—you're crazy, Ed. Everybody's talking to me and nobody's being straight with me. I can see a handful of generations of Yarrows slipping into the dust, and I'm not going to sit back and watch it happen without trying to contribute something."

"But you could get hurt." He jerked a thumb at his head, winced and dropped his arm.

"They didn't do that to you, Ed."

"Maybe not, but aren't you getting tired of all these coincidences? Cars chasing us to hell and gone through the valley, that . . . that thing at the house last night . . . why don't you just wait for your father to come clean, huh?"

She leaned back in the chair and stared at him, finding excuses for his behavior in the drugs he must have been given, the shock he must have had when he lost control of the car. But there was something more in the way he kept his eyes on her face, the way he sat so stiffly as if movement would make him scream. And when she knew what it was she almost could not face him—he was afraid, as much for himself as he was for her. Then, she thought, it had to have been the Greybeast he had been following, and it was the Greybeast, not his lack of skills or a sudden turn, that had driven him off the road. Ed Grange was afraid.

She had lost her rusty knight.

"I'll take you home," she said again. "Then I have to talk to Angus."

She rose, but he did not follow.

"If you don't mind, Cyd," he said after a long second, "I'm going to sit here for a bit." He smiled weakly. "I don't think I want to be too far from a doctor just now. They took the X rays and stuff, but ... I think I'd rather stay here. Just for a few minutes. Unless . . . unless you'll come in with me and sit for a while."

She could not understand what was happening to her, could not believe the words that she said, "I have to see Angus, Ed. I can't wait much longer."

"All right. That's all right. Come by later?"

His grin was infectious. She bent over and kissed his cheek gingerly, nearly flinched at the smell of blood and antiseptic, the cold she had noticed when she had held his hand. Then she walked back to the reception counter and waited for the nurse to finish on the phone.

"Miss," she said, with a nod of indication, "that man ... he wants to stay here for a while. He was in an accident, a minor one, but he doesn't feel up to going home right now. Would it be all right . . . ?"

"Of course," the nurse said. "If you'll just give me his name, I'll be sure to let the doctor who treated him know. Just in ease."

"Grange," Cyd said. "Edwin Grange. I don't know who brought him in, but I guess someone in Emergency will have all the details."

The nurse unclipped a pen from her breast pocket and noted the information on a pad by the phone, smiled and Cyd walked slowly to the door. Ed had not moved. He was staring out the window, watching the air darken, barely breathing, scarcely blinking. There was a moment, then, when she wanted to go to him, to hold him in her arms and rock him until he slept . . . but it was only a moment, and she did not much like herself when she stepped out the door. Decided that since she was so close to Angus already, she might as well walk, to fill her lungs with fresh air.

A tow truck was hitching a chain to Ed's car as she passed, but she paid it no mind as she crossed King and headed down Northland. She tried, instead, to drive his image from her mind by rehearsing what she would say to Angus when she saw him. Determined that nothing would make her leave that house until she was satisfied that that quarter at least had yielded  her all  the  information  it  had.  And once that was done she would check on Ed, hoping she could make him understand, if he didn't already, that she hadn't deserted him though it seemed she was needed.

A windgust dropped her hair into her eyes.

A look to the streetlamps, another and they were on.

Her stride narrowed, her pace slowed, and in less than five minutes she was standing in front of the house. One hand lay lightly at the top of the hedging, and she scanned for a moment the homes on either side, and the street behind her. There was no sign of movement, no sign of life, just some cars in the driveways and red wagons on the walks and in the gutter near the corner a large green-and-white ball pushed at by the wind, trembling but not moving.

There was nothing at all massive about the lawyer's small ranch home, nothing she could see that was intimidating or foreboding; but she had a sudden impulse that almost made her race back to the hospital and hold Ed's cold hand, to warm it, bring life to it, to make him smile without the fear. Ironic, she thought with a broad border of acid—the knight had been unhorsed and the lady was riding. When an ambulance wailed she glanced quickly to her right, back toward King Street and its obvious destination. The impulse to return grew stronger, and she shuddered with it, fighting the guilt that spread black around her. Her ears began to sting, and she knew it was the cold; when her eyes began to water she whispered
it has to be the wind.

It grew darker.

An old man in shirtsleeves came out onto the porch of the house next door, thumbs in suspenders as he watched her without malice. She brushed a finger beneath her eyes, looked once more back to King Street, then took a single step up the walk before she paused, and frowned.

The curtains in the front windows to the right of the stoop had fluttered, as though someone had parted them briefly and let go.

And she wondered how long Angus had been watching.

After several spurts of knocking, each increasingly heavy, there was no answer. The doorknob would not turn; the porch light stayed dark. Several cars sped past with headlights too bright for comfort in the darkhaze dusk, and Cyd flinched as though the beams were lashes across her shoulders. She knocked again, as loudly as she could, barely resisted the temptation to call Angus' name. A step back to stare angrily at the windows to either side, accusingly at the door that refused to yield to her. Fists jammed into her coat pockets. A second search of the windows for signs of betrayal, and she hurried down the steps and across the front lawn. Shrubs packed the grass from the house to the hedge, and she threaded her way awkwardly  through  them until she reached the back. Paused. Waited. Looked sharply to her left at the nearest window as if expecting a face to be following her progress.

She scowled at the blank panes, at the curtains and shades behind them.

In the back the lawn was as ill-kept as its mirror in front, and the several apple trees that twisted close together were unpruned, and untended, their fruit in small piles rotting untouched on the ground. There were three low steps that led to an aluminum storm door, and she took them in a single angry bound that made her thrust out a hand to keep from colliding with the glass. Again she knocked, half-heartedly this time because she knew there'd be no one who would willingly admit her. She searched the frame quickly and found no bell, pulled the storm door open and tried the inner knob.

It gave.

She hesitated, not caring if anyone in the neighborhood saw her, only wondering if perhaps she were more foolhardy than brave. Someone had been watching her as she'd stood on the sidewalk—she was sure of it, she was positive; and as she tried to tell herself it was not her imagination a dozen alternatives flooded her mind until she fought them all back, and stepped inside.

The kitchen was small, immaculate, giving off a curious air of being unused. Everything was in its place, and everything was polished, and she felt it as sterile as a hospital room. Most likely, she thought as she stood by the small table, he dined out most nights, and when he was home forgot to eat.

She passed into the dining room, which was little more than the broad part of a stunted L-shape, the rest of which stretched across the front of the house to the door. A short hallway gave access to the bathroom and three bedrooms, one of which she imagined would have been his study.

She called out and waited, understanding her trespass and knowing that Angus would not call her on it if he were home. She was only a friend come back for a question, and if he were reading too intently or taking a shower or a nap, it was only quite natural that she should let herself in. After all, she thought, the Yarrows practically subsidize him, so it wasn't as if she were merely a client. And as she stood in the frame between front room and back, she realized how tense she had allowed herself to become, how her shoulders were beginning to ache across her back, and her nails were starting to dig into her palms.

"Angus! Angus, it's me, Cynthia!"

The name sounded strange as it left her lips, and she coughed loudly before trying it again, "Angus, it's Cyd Yarrow. I need to talk to you."

Well? she questioned silently; how long are you going to wait for an answer? The place isn't that big, you know. You going to stand here all night?

Slowly she stepped among the piles of journals and briefs, at the last minute deciding to walk down the hall. At the bathroom, then, she stopped and flicked on the light—to see nothing but her image in the large mirror over the sink. It startled her, but the light was comforting and she left it on as she headed for the last room on the right, sure this was his bedroom, and if he were here he would be napping.

The door had been closed to a finger's width crack, and she lay a palm to it and pushed. It protested. She pushed harder, and waited.

"Angus?" Softly.

A single bed was set flush into the far corner; on the wall opposite, a chest of drawers; on the floor between, a small braided rug of indeterminate color. Nothing else was in the room but shades on the two windows. The light from the bath gave the furniture vague shape, and something else on the bedspread long and black.

"Angus?" Now fearfully.

She groped for a light switch and found none, and saw no table that would have held a lamp. She turned around, saw a white frosted dome on the hall ceiling and located the switch, flicked it up and looked back into the room.

Angus lay fully dressed as she had seen him the previous night. His shoes were on, and his tie carefully knotted; but there was a stillness in the air that disturbed her, and a dread lack of movement when she approached the bed and leaned one hand on the mattress.

"Angus," she whispered. "Angus, it's Cyd."

A passing truck flashed its lights through the window, illuminating the shade and added a soft white glow to the one from the hall. At that she stumbled backward, one hand out groping at the air to keep her balance. There was no sense calling him again; he was dead. The old man had, in the space of twenty-four hours, become ancient: his flesh sagged as if gravity had doubled, his eyes sunken into their sockets as though they had no support; his color was a pasty white just this side of grey, and his hair seemed perceptibly longer, and unimaginably brittle.

A second flash from a second vehicle, and she
could see Barton lying on his own bed beyond
the park.

There was very little difference .. . except, Angus was dead.

She lurched toward the door, into the hall, kept a hand on the wall as she made her way to the living room where she collapsed with an anguished sigh into the rocker. The movement, gentle and steady, served to calm her until she was able to fight through the grief she was feeling. Angus Stone. Alone, old, confused by those he had thought were his friends. Angus Stone . . . dead . . . and she had no idea how old he was.

She licked at her lips several times before realizing her mouth and tongue were dry; scrubbed her hands together until she felt the skin burning. She rocked faster, harder, the chair a steed that would carry her away, through the valley and over the hills into what some called civilization, where sanity reigned and the lies that people mouthed were expected, thus compensated. And the faster she rocked the more she felt the wind of her creation, pulling at her face, disfiguring it, distorting it; faster to flee the implications of her grief.

She began to perspire. She ignored it.

She nearly slipped off the thin cushion, and pushed herself back.

It was that movement which broke the self-woven spell. The damp wood of the arms under her palms, the press of the wood into her spine—she snapped back to the room in which she was sitting, to the dogs and the dolls and the pictures and the hearth. The air was close, all the windows had been closed, and she opened her mouth widely to find a proper breath. Deeply. Slowly. As the chair slowed beneath her. Deeply. Softly. As the runners on the carpet wore into their grooves. She dipped into her coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopped her brow and her chin, her neck. Then she rose and crossed to the telephone that squatted blackly on an end table nearest the fireplace.

She called the police, the handkerchief wrapped loosely around the receiver. She explained what they would find if they came to Northland now, but she did not give her name when the sergeant on duty started fumbling with his forms. She hung up. Wiped her face again and hurried out the back door, stuffed her hands back into her pockets and walked as unconcernedly as she could to the sidewalk and the street.

She winced when a door slammed just a few houses down, but she did not turn around. She kept herself facing King Street, staring at the lights that blurred without fog until she reached the corner and saw her car. It was alone at the curb, and the entrance to the hospital seemed empty, seemed deserted. No visitors now; those who were coming were already inside, in the lounge or in the rooms, preparing themselves for their duty.

A slow and deep breath that nearly caused a fainting, and she got into her car and drove off toward the park. The steering wheel was cold, the windshield lightly fogged until she snapped on the blower; she felt as if she were in an alien machine, not the familiar steel friend that had brought her so much joy, had driven her into so much trouble—the green glow of the dash outlined her knuckles, made luminescent her coat, and as she turned the corner slowly onto Park Street she half-expected the moon to drift by as she settled into orbit.

Why? she asked herself. She was sure there must be a law she had broken in reporting Angus' death and not staying until the police arrived; and she was just as sure that by staying she would have defeated whatever purpose had been growing in her mind. To stay in that house—to stand in the living room while Angus lay dead on his bed—an image of his crumbling face floated beyond the windshield and she swerved sharply, bounced off the curb and found herself crossing the Pike, still heading north with the woods on her right and the Oxrun Memorial Park sweeping off to the left.

Why hadn't she stayed?

She felt no sense of danger, nothing like that at all. Not even the thought that someone had been watching her from the house before she'd entered bothered her now. It was only one
more curiosity to add to the rest, and she had
so many of them now that one more made no difference. Another grain of sand thrown onto the beach, another drop in the ocean—what difference did it make when she could make little sense of those things she had?

She reached out and punched the car lighter into its recess, waited, and when it snapped out pulled it free before she realized with a grin that she hadn't had a cigarette for at least a month. The need was there, but other matters overrode it. The orange glare of the coils faded as she watched them from the corner of her eye—like an ember drifting away from a fire, she thought; like—

Fire.

And Miss Yarrow . . . next time please throw out all your trash right away, okay? Stick it outside in back, in one of those dumpsters or a metal container.

When she and Ed had left the store after the firemen had left, she locked the back door.

She shouldn't have had to; she had done it when she had left. And the lamp was almost brand new—she had bought it in Spain.

She pulled over to the side of the road, set the emergency brake without switching off the engine. Warm air billowed from the heater under the dashboard, but she rolled the window down to let in the cold.

I
knew
it, she thought.

Fire. And the Greybeast—why had it stopped chasing her when it had gotten so close?

Fire. And the Greybeast—if she were the target, then why had it chased Ed? Why had it forced him off the road?

Because whoever was after her had not wanted her dead—that much had been apparent since the very beginning. And whoever was after her wanted her alone. Alone. With Ed gone now, his spirit somehow broken by the stand-off with death, she had no one but herself to fight her battles for her.

And it wasn't the store. She had had several ideas that there were other merchants involved— jealousy, rivalry, some complicated insurance fraud, something, anything , to keep her from opening. But if that had been true, then the Lennons and Sandy would not have been spared. Their work for her was not a secret, they could have been reached at any time since that first day.

It wasn't the store.

It was her. Nothing more.

With a slap to the wheel she thought she'd found the purloined letter. Like the nose on her face it was right there in front of her, seen only at angles, never recognized except in mirrors as something that was whole.

She looked up and saw her face in the windshield: "You're a fool, Cyd Yarrow."

The reflection nodded.

Snapping off the brake, then, she made a sharp U-turn and returned to the Pike, headed east past her home until she reached the spot where she thought the Greybeast had been waiting.

Neither Iris nor Paul had ever heard of the Clinic.

Sandy, did your grandfather ever work for Dr. Kraylin, out on the Pike?

Who?

One in Hartford, New York, and Bridgton, Maine.

Her headlights were dim. She pulled off to the side and took the handkerchief from her pocket, climbed out and wiped the dirt from the thick glass. Back inside she waited until the night-cold had left her before easing out onto the road again, staring into the darkness on the left until she had reached the Pike's end.

There had been no sign, no paved drive, not one thing that she could see that proved the Clinic's existence.

She turned around and headed back, the car moving at just above a fast walk. With her left hand she held onto the wheel while her right supported her on the seat as she leaned close to the passenger door and stared out the window. Shaking her head slowly.

Lies built on lies.

She saw it.

Less than a hundred yards past where the fields ended and the hill-forest began there was a break in the tall brown weeds and thickets that served as a base for the wall of trees. The shoulder of the road was level here, without ditch or burrow to interrupt it, and it was graveled with small multi-colored stones to hide any tire tracks the Greybeast might have made. She pulled off to the side, as close to the shrubbery as she could, wincing as the winter-stripped branches scratched like iron against the paint. The headlights died. The green dashglow faded. And after the blower's whine had been cut off, the silence was too loud for her to take without shuddering.