Spawn of Hell (11 page)

“Will you do some cartoons for me later?” she purred in a mock seductive tone, her lips clamping down on a forkful of spinach. David felt like a ten-year-old whose interests were being humored by a sexy older cousin.

“If you’d like,” he answered. He felt like adding that he’d do a caricature of her, but she was already making a caricature out of herself, wasn’t she? David wanted to talk about something more serious, perhaps, but her mood was not conducive to anything other than silly remarks and giggles and cutesy-wutesy expressions that he could do little but respond to as best as he was able.

Clara was about to serve dessert when the phone rang in the kitchen. She went to answer it, then came back and told Anna it was for her. Anna excused herself and stepped into the next room. Clara cut him a big slice of chocolate cream pie which he dug into with relish.

He could hear Anna’s voice turning more serious, starting to tremble, as she listened to the caller on the other end of the line. Had something happened to Derek?

A few minutes went by. “Thank you for calling,” she said. A few moments later she walked back into the dining room, pale and dissipated, as if someone or something had taken all the energy from her, had sucked away the vigor and vitality that she’d been running on all evening, leaving her hollow and drained, too tired to stand.

“Is something wrong?” David asked.

She didn’t answer at first, but sunk down into her chair and buried her face in her hands. He couldn’t tell at first if she were laughing or crying, until she looked up and he saw the tears running down from her eyes.

“It’s my brother,” she said. “Jeffrey. He’s dead.”

She got up at the same time he did, then he held her as she collapsed into his arms, sobbing and shaking all at once. He didn’t know what to say.

He wanted them to be closer. But not at such a price. She needed someone—needed
him
—now, and he was not going to leave her, would never leave her, if she didn’t want him to.

He took her into the living room, and they sat on the same couch as before, and she told him all she knew about her brother Jeffrey’s death.

Part Two

Containment

Chapter Five

Milbourne, Connecticut—Spring, 1983

Milbourne, Connecticut is a quiet farm community, population: 4,500. Harry London had lived there for the past twenty years, working diligently in the large sporting goods store he owned in the center of town. The shop was surrounded by a block or two of other stores, a bar and theater, which together made up the entire Milbourne commercial district; a quite respectable one for such a small town. At age forty-eight, London was looking forward to an early retirement—his store was doing marvellously, and had become
the
place to go to for sports and outdoor equipment, not only in his section of the state, but in nearby New York and Massachusetts communities, as well.

It was a Monday afternoon in the spring—too early in season to be really hot, too late to bother with jackets— that his world began to slowly crumble; to evolve, to
mutate,
into something vast and unusual, something unknown and frightening. London had always lived an extremely calm and conventional life, and had thought he was satisfied with that, but he was to discover that he secretly longed for something different and more exciting. At that time, however, he had not been aware of the price he would have to pay for misadventure.

His store had two floors, not including the basement area, which was stocked with camping equipment and open tent displays. It was a handsome place, full of colorful arrangements of the items for sale, with light blue walls that were painted fresh every two years. The flows were washed and polished nightly. London was very proud of his “little” emporium.

He had moved to the town not long after his marriage, hoping that he could sustain a business successfully while raising children in fresh air and sunshine. His wife had been a lovely but frail little woman, and she had died before three years were up, and they had never had children. Harry threw himself into his business, hoping it would replace the loss of wife and family, knowing it never could. He’d still been a young man then, still was, depending on how you looked at it. He’d met and dated several women, but nothing had ever clicked. Perhaps he was too afraid to start a relationship again, to risk the pain of losing a loved one for a second time.

His two closest friendships were with the current assistant manager of the store, Jeffrey Braddon, and his head clerk, Paula Widdoes. They spent a great deal of time together, the three of them, and some suspected that London was “carrying on” with Paula. Actually, Paula was carrying on with Jeffrey, although it had never become serious in a romantic sense. They were both about the same age, mid-thirties, both attractive. Harry was a plain older man with a bald pate and graying sideburns. He kept himself in nice physical shape, but half the time felt like a protective father worrying over his two younger associates.

He was sitting in his office, eating a lunch of yogurt and half a swiss cheese sandwich, when Paula came in, a tense expression on her face. “I’ve been calling and calling his house,” she said, “and there’s no answer.”

“Now don’t worry,” Harry said as soothingly as possible. “Are you sure he was due back
today?”
He dipped a plastic spoon into the yogurt, came up with a creamy dab of pink goo.

“Of course, I’m sure. You remember. He was going to spend a week in New York, and be back at work on the 12th.” She tapped the calendar on the wall with her pencil. “That’s today. I hope everything’s all right.”

“Jeffrey was probably having such a good time that he decided to stay a few more days.”

“Without calling us? I don’t believe that. He’s not that irresponsible. I have three new clerks to train today. He promised to help.”

“Well, I have his sister’s number in New York. She might know what happened to him.”

“He wasn’t planning on staying with her. He wasn’t even sure he was going to call her. She has such a busy schedule, no time for her family.” Her words took on that familiar bitter tone he’d heard coming from Jeffrey himself time and time again.

“It’s worth a try,” Harry insisted.

“I’d be embarrassed. Suppose he
didn’t
get in touch with her. It could make for an awkward situation.”

“Well then, relax. He’ll probably come strutting in here this afternoon, with a good, if maddening excuse. If I’m not worried, why should you be?”

She sat down on the edge of his cluttered desk and exhaled dramatically. “I guess you’re right. I’m just so
tired
this morning. And those new people. Phew! Two of them act like they can’t understand a word I say. The third is gonna be trouble, I can tell already. The thirty-minutes’-work-in-three-hours type. You wait and see.”

“You’ve been wrong before.” He scraped out the last of his yogurt. “This isn’t enough for me,” he whined, throwing the container and the spoon into the waste-basket at his feet. “Half a sandwich. I hate diets. I need something substantial.”

“Me, too. To help me get through the day.”

“Since when are you dieting? You don’t need to.” Her lovely slim figure was a constant source of admiration. Those beautiful green eyes and naturally long lashes. Black hair cut short, curling inwards at the chin-line. A very attractive woman. Damn Jeffrey.

“Neither do you,” she countered. “But you struggle along on your half-assed diets anyway, year after year. Why? To stay slim, right? Me, too. I want to stay slim.”

“Well, one good meal won’t make us fat, will it? On me. How about it? Can I buy you lunch?”

She shot up and smiled down at him. “You certainly can. But I thought you’ve already eaten.” She motioned towards the brown paper on the desk, the crumbs of bread and bits of cheese left over.

“A mere appetizer, I assure you.”

They went out into the street, full of traffic and pedestrians shopping and carrying out other errands, pretending they were living an exciting life in a big city. Milbourne wasn’t exciting, but it was clean and attractive. Most of the shops looked new, and those that didn’t were quaint and charming. They walked past the deserted and shuttered building next door—the closest thing to an eyesore in the town—and went into a restaurant on the corner. They found an empty table immediately. When the waitress came, Paula ordered a cheeseburger deluxe, and Harry a banana split. Paula chuckled.

They said nothing until halfway through the meal. They were that close. Silences were not awkward or threatening.

“I’m still worried,” she said, looking off into space somewhere to the right and above her lunch companion’s head. “It’s just so unthinkable for Jeffrey not to call, to do anything on impulse. Anybody else, I’d assume they did what you said. Decided to stay longer, the hell with work. Who wants to call work when you’d rather forget about it? But Jeffrey isn’t like that.”

No, Jeffrey wasn’t like that. Jeffrey was an enigma. He was the forgotten, unknown, unrecognizable relative of an increasingly visible public figure. If anyone wondered what it was like to be the brother of a famous individual—or someone on the verge of being famous (big movie contracts and TV series deals were in the cards for model Anna Braddon, or so everyone said)— all they had to do was look at Jeffrey. He and his sister had never been that close, perhaps that was the problem. He could not bask in reflected glory, could not live among her circle of rich, successful friends. His ambition seemed to decrease as he got older.

While attractive, he was not beautiful like his sister was. He was quiet and likable, fast with a joke, easy to talk with. His qualities were unsensational and unexploitable. No one ever knew quite how he got to Milbourne, as he had not been born there and—being a bachelor—had not come there seeking peace and sunlight for his family. Whenever the subject came up, he would mutter some noncommittal, unintelligible phrase, shrug his big shoulders and cough to show his unease.

No one really knew why Jeffrey shut himself away in a small Connecticut town. No one ever knew what he wanted out of life. After a while, no one cared.

Harry and Paula sat there listening to the muted conversations of other diners in nearby booths, the clatter of plates and yelling from the kitchen, and for once in their lives, there was a void that needed to be filled. A pause that
was
awkward.

Harry wondered later why he said it. It just slipped out:

“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you? “

“Of course,” she said, putting on a perplexed expression, as if she didn’t know what he had really meant. “Aren’t you?”

“Very much. He’s a fine man. A good friend. But your feelings for him go slightly deeper than that, don’t they? I’m sorry.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he were back at work. “I didn’t mean to get so personal. It’s none of my business.”

“That’s all right, Harry,” Paula said, smiling a the-heck-with-it kind of smile. “I can’t really answer your question, if you want to know the truth. I just don’t know how I feel. You know that Jeff and I have been— intimate. But physical intimacy and emotional need are two different things entirely. I want his friendship. I have his friendship. Maybe that’s all there is. All there needs to be. I don’t know.”

He patted her hand (a condescending if well-intentioned gesture, he thought later), then called for the waitress to bring the check. “Unless you want dessert?” he asked.

She declined. They walked back slowly to the store, discussing the new clerks, display plans, stuff that was important in regards to work, but trivial in terms of their friendship.

The afternoon was considerably more eventful than the morning had been.

At 2:30 Jeffrey had still not arrived. Paula called his house again and again, but got no answer. She wished that he had told her specifically where he was going to stay in Manhattan. She didn’t like the idea of bothering his sister—although she had her number—and decided not to do so until absolutely necessary. Surely he would be back by tomorrow.

What bothered her was that she had not even had a chance to say goodbye. She had gone out to do some quick shopping late that afternoon—the last day before his vacation—and he’d been gone by the time she got back. She had called his house to wish him a happy trip, but there had been no answer then, either. Oh, she hoped he was all right.

The new trainees were not shaping up very well, although Paula rationalized that many slow learners blossomed into genuine treasures. Unfortunately, none of the three—all young people from the town wanting summer work—had very outgoing personalities, a must for a successful salesperson. She hoped she wouldn’t have to let them go.

At 3:15, Harry asked to see her and inquired as to the whereabouts of some large posters they had used a year or two ago to advertise a sale on basketballs. “I asked Jeffrey where they were the day he left. He went off to find them, but I guess he had no luck. He left before I had a chance to check with him.”

“Are you putting those old things on sale again?” she asked.

“They might go faster. I don’t want to get stuck again.”

“I think they might be in the cellar. I’ll go and look.”

“Why don’t you send someone down there?” he suggested.

“No. They’d only have to come and get me. Better I look. I think I was the one who put them away in the first place.”

The basement was empty except for the salesman and a family looking through the tent display over in the far corner. Paula walked past it—smiling at a small child who was lounging on the carpet of fake grass around the tent—and entered another chamber through a large metal door. She went down three concrete steps into what was usually referred to as the “sub-basement,” although it was adjacent to the cellar, not really below it. She flipped on the light switch on the wall, illuminating a gray and dusty corridor leading into the far right side of the lower part of the building. She wished that someone would move the switch up to the metal door behind her. Someday someone would break their neck on those steps in the dark.