Shivers (27 page)

But tonight, Steven Everson would come. He was sure of it. All he had to do was wait patiently until midnight. Nothing more. He would go out to the beach and wait there until he came. It was only a matter of time.

Time. How much was left? How much before they got to
him
too? How much before there was no turning back? When would he ever feel safe again? He went back to the easy chair and listened to the wind as it howled outside, sure that his every breath brought him closer to death.

Could it reach him, even out here?
That presence in his mind was less intense since he’d moved out of the city, but never entirely absent. Still, it had been quite preoccupied with other things these past few weeks. Little, if anything, escaped its notice—but perhaps Olsen, living way out here in Tanton, would manage it somehow. At least at midnight the creature would be at rest, if you could say it ever rested.

He shuddered. The clock’s noise seemed so loud, cutting through the musty air inside. The fire was dying out. He decided not to rekindle it. Time enough for that later. If there
was
a later.

He wondered if some of the master’s conscripts were watching him even now. Were they out there in the dark waiting like he was? No, he must not dwell on such things. He could not afford to stay shuttered inside tonight of all nights.

It was while he was watching the last sparks of the fire disappear that he first felt the sensation.

He felt queasy. Filled with alarm, he rose to his feet. Yes, this was it. He’d taken a chance in the crapshoot and lost. That pounding! The blood rushing through his circulatory system! Spots were forming before his eyes. He wondered for a moment if this was a natural seizure, a stroke, something normal and—
human
—but he knew with dread that that was simply not the case. Olsen tried to fight it off, but he only felt worse every second.

He must get away. Somehow.
He must reach Everson!
He looked at the clock but his vision was too hazy for him to make out the time. He knew there was no chance for him to get away from the sphere of influence—that much was being demonstrated—but if only he could reach the rendezvous point before he died. If only he could hold on until Everson arrived! If he collapsed, let it be where Everson would know where to find him! Yes.
Yes!
He must get out of the house now!

He was shivering so fearfully he couldn’t get his arms into his jacket. He threw it in disgust on the floor.

Still fighting off the queasy feeling, he threw open the front door, stumbled across the porch, and ran down the steps. He crossed the road, darting through the empty parking lot opposite his house until his feet hit the cool, hard sand of the beach. In the distance, the ocean stretched out before him, its waves and smell and sound suddenly so tempting, so inviting.,
To keep running, running. To let it finally
end.

He felt something on his arm as he ran, as if he had brushed against something. But there was nothing in his path that he could have hit. He stopped, pulled up sleeve, and saw a short, red scratch just below the elbow. Where had I hat come from? Still dizzy, he dropped the sleeve, and proceeded toward the lifeguard station, this time at a slower pace. He was already winded.

He felt another tickle on his other arm. This time there was a longer, deeper scratch, extending from his wrist to halfway up the arm. What the hell? He had no memory of injuring himself.

Then there was another sudden tingle along his belly. He tore open his shirt. The scratch was longer and redder than the others, extending from the ribs down toward the groin. And it was bleeding profusely.

“Oh my God!”

He ran even faster now, struggling to stay upright, crazed with fear. He must make it; he must not die before he spoke to Everson. He must not die!

The scratches came faster now, as if he was being clawed by an invisible creature which ran along beside him. On the neck. On the face. Along the sides of his body, his arms and legs. Some were short, some were long. They got progressively nastier. The cuts on his arms were also starting to bleed. God—when was it going to end?

He knew he was only hallucinating, but it didn’t help.

He put his hand to his face and realized that his cheeks were swelling. His very flesh was crumbling, cracking, coming off in his fingers! Blood poured from his eyes and nostrils, blood seeped from his every orifice.

Tiny pinpricks of blood were coming through his skin, the. pores of his flesh, as if by osmosis.

He finally reached the station. He grabbed onto the white wooden banister, and pulled himself up the incline toward the enclosed, raised room which housed the lifeguard’s first-aid supplies during the summer. It was empty now. And unlocked.

He dived into the little room, crouched on bended legs, and pulled the door shut tightly behind him. He sat there, gripping the door handle, shivering and praying.

An eye fell out of its socket and fell onto his cheek.

Just your imagination,
he told himself.

The bleeding continued. Blood was seeping through his clothes, dripping onto the floor and sinking through the slats. Olsen started to cry.

Sobbing, he put his face in his hands.

Something wrenched free of his shoulder. He felt a sudden weight on his fingers.

Olsen screamed.

He looked down and saw—impossibly—his own disembodied head staring up at him in horror.

TEN

O
DD THINGS WERE
happening in the city.

The weather was the first thing you noticed. It was never the way they said it would be. The freak heat spell that had been predicted was nowhere in evidence.

But there were other little things that nobody much talked about. How you could get electric shocks just by walking down the street at certain times of the day in certain neighborhoods. People blamed it on their shoes or on—of all things—the humidity!

Or that eerie haze that lit up the skyline very, very early in the morning, an aura or outline tracing the buildings. Only the drunks, the few who were left, ever noticed it, and they were way beyond caring.

In the past few weeks the city’s transient, homeless population had all but disappeared. The shelters were practically empty and fewer people were picking up their welfare checks. The Mayor said the poor had migrated to other cities and better conditions—though everyone knew New York city spent millions of dollars on aid to the poor.

And the number of missing persons cases was staggering. Now it was not just the so-called dregs of society, but “decent,” respectable, middle-class men and women who never came home from work, who never arrived at the office. Yet the papers made no connections, no observations even; they simply reported each case dispassionately, until there were so many they didn’t report them at all.

It was as if someone had told them not to.

Lina Hobler lay in her bed, half asleep, struggling to overcome the effects of the alcohol she’d consumed. The bruises and contusions she had sustained during her scrap in the bar earlier that day were starting to hurt; a sure sign of an encroaching hangover. She knew that the only sensible thing to do was to lie there, get lots of rest, and wake up in the morning for a fresh start, but she felt too uneasy to sleep. She kept seeing Brock in her mind, calling to her, calling for help.

He’s dead.

Suddenly, just like that, she accepted it.
Brock was dead.

Suddenly she felt foolish sleeping and drinking away her life over a man who would never come home. If he wasn’t dead, he had left her. For good this time. Forever. She could die, sure. She could kill herself over him. But she didn’t
want
to die. She wanted to live.

Funny, she had never realized that before.

She knew, of course, that the alcohol, having plunged her into a dismal depression, was now only snapping her back into a manic “feel-good.” She should have been suicidal at the thought of Brock’s passing; instead, her instinct for
survival
was welling up inside her.

Face it,
she told herself.
You’re old, ugly, running out of money. But you’re
alive! She would have to get herself together, find a way to make it through life without Brock to guide and support her. It was going to be tough. But other women did it. Why couldn’t she?

The good old days were gone forever.

She got up and wiped away the seeping discharge in the corners of her eyes.
Time to move on, Lina old girl.
She would just have to learn not to think about him so darn much. She had to. Not that she was giving up, no sir. She would stay in touch With that Steven Everson, just in case something turned up. Just in case Brock was alive and was in need of help. Just in case he’d been murdered. She’d want to help get the crumb that did him in. She’d want him to have a decent burial, not get dumped in a soggy plot of shit with no stone above to record his passing. Not her Brock.

She felt the tears coming on again. She held them back tightly.
Not now. Not when you’re just learning how to be strong. Not now, Lina.
Oh, it was tough, tough, tough. But she had to go on. There was no other course. If she couldn’t control her drinking she would join AA. She would get some kind of decent job. She would be proud that she was once
the
Lina Hobler. Her voice was gone, no use dreaming about that. But she could still do something, maybe find someone to share her life with. She didn’t want to be alone forever.

She felt a sore spot on her back. How it hurt! That’s what she got for starting fights. And for what? Because she couldn’t control her jealousy over some woman who’d done nothing to her but dare to be younger and prettier.
Poor idiot,
Lina thought with bitter satisfaction.
She’ll probably get herself knocked up, marry too early, spend her life washing diapers.
At least
she’d
been spared that. At least she’d been
somebody
for a while.

Lina sat down in the chair by the window. A nice, big overstuffed chair. Brock’s favorite.
No —mustn’t think about him. Not now.
She still loved him, would always love him, but she had to finally accept the obvious conclusion that he was never coming back. She would not even allow herself to think of his fate. He had not been reduced to some grotesque smear on the subway steps—no one would convince her of that. Not while she was sane, at least. But he
was
gone. Gone for good.

She wanted to run back to the bar for another drink, wanted to turn the place upside down looking for a bottle filled with any sort of booze, no matter how cheap or tasteless. For a second she almost did it, almost broke her silent promise to herself.

That’s not the way, Lina. That’s not the way.

She went to the sink and instead filled her mouth and stomach with water. It didn’t taste so good, but she pretended it was cold and wonderful. She let it wash over her face, watched the water mix with the remains of her makeup, watched the brownish liquid that resulted flow down the drain. She gulped down more water, came up for air.

She dug into her pocketbook and got out her wallet. She counted the money in there, and added it to the amount she knew was hidden in the apartment in various places. She checked just to make sure it was all there. Every penny was accounted for. Formerly it had been her drunk money, now it was for survival of a different sort. She had enough to last a couple of weeks if she was frugal and didn’t touch the hootch. She took out five dollars, and got her coat.

Tonight she would celebrate her independence by going out to a movie. Any movie. Where she could be with people while being alone. Then she’d come home, get a good rest, and look for a job in the morning.

Things were looking up for a change. Just as long as she didn’t think about Brock. She could not stand it if she did. Everything would just fall apart.

She turned out the light and left the apartment.
What a performance!
she thought, as she walked down the street toward the cinema.
You’re pretending that you’re a happy, well-adjusted woman with a perfect job and a wonderful love life. Just like the ladies in the TV commercials.

Damn it, she thought. Why not? She wasn’t that old. She could make a new start, find happiness somehow. She’d give it her best shot.

Please don’t let anything go wrong,
she told her conscience.

But she couldn’t shake her premonitions of doom.

She was scared she wouldn’t make it.

“There’s no answer.”

Valerie Horton put down the phone and swiveled in her chair to look at Ralph, standing in the doorway to her office. “I’ve tried Miss Hobler’s number a dozen times today, and there’s never any answer. Can I go home now?”

Ralph smiled. “What’s the matter, my soon-to-be-partner? Don’t like putting in overtime?”

“It
is
Saturday night, but you know I really don’t mind the work. I’m just worn out. Besides helping you with this Everson case, I had that Ferguson business—the missing jewelry—and the Paddington twin to take care of. I’m tempted to tell him if he hasn’t seen his brother for fifty-three years, why the hell does he want to track him down now.”

Ralph sat down on the edge of her desk. “Can I buy you some dinner?”

She reached for her purse and jacket. “You’re on. Buy me a steak and I promise I’ll be in bright and early tomorrow.”

“No painting the town red on Saturday night?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m so tired I couldn’t hold the brush.” She switched out the light. “Or anything else.”

“Well, that’s the private-eye business. Saturdays. Sundays. Late nights and early mornings. And paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.”

She pressed the down button on the elevator. “You’re telling me. Everyone thinks we’re so
glamorous.”