Charles L Grant, page 21
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rooms until, suddenly, the electricity failed and they'd screamed and clutched each other, and he'd fled.
The sheet was clammy.
Lightning bleached the posters he'd taped to his walls.
He listened for the rain, frowned when he heard none, but he didn't get up. There was no way he was going to go downstairs again, not until his father came home. He didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say, and the look in his mother's eyes had scared him to death.
He propped himself against the headboard, left foot tapping the wall nervously, right leg hanging off the mattress, swinging, kicking, swinging.
He ought to get up. He ought to throw on a coat, get a flashlight, and go find Cheryl and Dory. He'd forgotten all about their hiking expedition until his mother had said something about not finding them at the field. He tried to tell her when the phone lines went down, but she wouldn't listen. And Nancy was no better, babbling on and on about Brady Jones and losing her mind. He ought to get up. Pint was out there in the storm, probably near the ridge, screaming at every lightning bolt, shrieking at each peal of thunder, and Dory would be no help at all. No help. He was the only one. He ought to get up.
He did.
And he stood at the window, averting his face from the next flare of blue-white that let him see the whitecaps on the lake, the waves slapping against the dock, the trees that had lost all their color and had become solid black.
The door opened, hinges squeaking, as thunder deafened him, made him hunch his shoulders.
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Aunt Susan came in. "Are you all right?"
A dark figure, and small, the white of her white blouse and shorts phosphorescent without casting a glow.
"Yeah," he said shakily. "It got a little hairy down there, that's all."
"They're afraid," she answered softly, and took another step. "I'd forgotten what these storms were like out here." She hugged herself and shivered. "Brutal."
"Sometimes, I guess." He lowered himself to the sill, felt the cold of the pane behind him. "The wind's up, though. It won't last long."
"Scary," she said.
He nodded. "Yeah, some."
"Very," she insisted.
He lifted a hand and nearly slipped off his perch. Her laugh was quiet, and friendly, and he could see her glancing around, examining the room.
But he couldn't see her face. It was midnight outside, six hours before its time, and when she nudged his foot with a toe, he started, not realizing how close she'd come.
But he still couldn't see her face.
Thunder.
"At least," she said with a quick laugh, "I'm not on the road. I'd probably run up a tree."
He answered her laugh with one of his own, forced, uneasy, as she moved to stand beside him and look out toward the lake.
"God," she whispered.
He stared at the open doorway.
Lightning.
He closed his eyes.
Thunder.
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She said, "It's times like this, you know, when I miss Wesley the most."
Her hand floated, hovered, rested on his shoulder. "When storms like this came up, he used to laugh at me, talk to me like I was a kid or something. Every time. He would tell me, every time, that thunder can't hurt me, and as long as I don't stand in the middle of a field or stay in the water, I won't get hit by lightning." The hand gripped, and relaxed. Her voice quavered. "Christ, it isn't easy."
He had to look at her then, and exhaled sharply, felt his mouth remain open-while her left hand held his shoulder, her right had been unbuttoning her blouse. White skin and a line of shadow. A shimmering as her chest rose, and fell, and rose and caught, and fell. She still faced the lake, her profile steady as she shrugged the blouse off her right shoulder, used her right hand to slide it off her left.
Oh god, he thought, and couldn't move. He tried to push off the sill, but he couldn't move. And he couldn't take his gaze from the darklight that made her breasts seem larger, fuller, the sheen of perspiration on her skin more like moonlight than lightning when the lightning flashed
again and she said, "It's not easy." Softly. Very softly. As her head turned slowly, and slowly she licked her upper lip and slowly shifted her hand from his shoulder to his chest and slowly worked at the top button until it was free and her hand was on his skin and he shivered and closed his eyes, and stiffened when she pressed into his side, his arm between her breasts, and her breath warm and sliding across his neck, his cheek, the lobe of his ear.
"Aunt Susan." A croak.
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Her thigh moved against the hand he used to grip the sill's damp lip, moved across it, into it, pinching flesh against wood, until her left leg nudged it way between his and she pulled her right leg after it.
He couldn't see her face.
He swallowed. "Aunt Susan." And stared over her head at the doorway. He didn't dare look down. He didn't dare call out. If his mother saw him
... if Nancy saw him ... he didn't dare move and he didn't dare look and he bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could when her other hand joined the first inside his shirt, unbuttoned to his waist though he couldn't remember when, and his stomach muscles jumped when her thumbs brushed across them, and his right knee jerked, and his throat filled with something that burned but not badly. "Aunt Susan, it's ..."
She leaned into him, and he could feel her breasts against him.
Rain snapped at the window.
She seemed to stumble, and he grabbed her shoulders to prevent her from falling, snatched his hands away when she sighed, put them back on her upper arms and held her, tried to pin her, but couldn't push her away.
Her lips touched the hollow of his throat.
He could smell her hair, almost taste it, and a strand lightly tickled the underside of his chin.
"You don't know," she whispered, hands slipping around his sides, fingers spreading across his back. "You won't know for a long time, Bern."
"Know ..." He swallowed. "Know what?"
She leaned her head back.
He couldn't see her face.
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"What it's like." Her eyes. He could see her eyes, glistening as if they were diamonds, or filled with tears, or smiling.
He managed to shake his head. "I guess not."
Her tongue touched him; he started.
A whisper: "Do you make love with your girlfriend? Do you, Bern? Do you make love?"
Jesus. Oh Jesus. Please, Jesus, don't let this.
"I ... no."
He could feel her breasts.
He could feel her stomach.
Rain lashed against the window.
She brought her left hand into the open and ran a finger down his chest, swirled it across his navel, ran it up again to his chin. "Never?"
Thunder.
He closed his eyes.
Jesus, please.
A whisper: "No."
The heel of her hand pressed against his buckle, and slid downward along the length of his zipper until she was able to cup him, and hold him, and take a deep breath that made him moan without wanting to, and shift without meaning to, and open his eyes at the next bolt that exploded on the ridge just above the black rock.
And he saw her face.
And screamed.
Kim stood in the open doorway, her negligee poor protection against the storm-cold wind that slammed inside, pressed the silk against her body, rattled a lampshade and flipped a magazine's pages. The rain 271
wasn't quite a downpour, yet hard enough to thrum on the roof and bounce from the steps onto her bare feet. The entire block was dark, and she didn't doubt the whole town was as well. Nate Pigeon's car had vanished in the gloom, and she glared at the place where she'd last seen it, then glared at the sky and dared it to rain harder. Prayed that the cop who'd disrupted her celebration with her lover had somehow fallen into the preek, which would already be swollen by now, deep enough to drown the dumb son of a bitch.
She massaged her upper arms.
Nate had bolted the moment the deputy had left, mumbling something about seeing her later. Next week. He'd call. See you around.
She saw someone coming toward her through the rain.
A step back, and a one-eyed squint, and a man strode across the lawn, bent against the storm. For a moment she thought the cop had returned to apologize for getting her hopes up about Bev. Then the wind shifted direction, the rain parted, and she saw that he had no uniform, only a suit jacket drenched and dark, his pink shirt virtually invisible, white collar without tie.
He didn't look up.
She backed into the house and closed the door, reached out to turn the bolt, and leapt to one side when the door smashed open and the man stood there in the rain.
"What the hell do you want?" she demanded. "Get the hell out of here!"
He shook his head, raked back his hair. "Hello, Mrs. Raddock," he said.
"Remember me?"
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Glenn charged through the door, Sandera right behind him, and they were met by Marj and Nancy, holding candles. Before either could say a word, he heard Bern scream and flung himself up the stairs and around the corner. Too fast. He hit the opposite wall and had to throw out a hand to keep his balance. As he did, Bern staggered out of his bedroom, shirt open, feet bare. When he saw Glenn, he sagged against the frame and covered his face with his hands.
"Bern," Glenn said anxiously. He glanced into the room, let lightning show him it was empty. "Bern, you okay?"
Footsteps behind him.
"Yeah," Bern said, lifting his face, blinking hard. "Yeah."
Marj brought a candle, protecting its flame with a cupped hand. "What?"
she asked timidly.
"A dream," Glenn told her. "Looks like he had a bad dream, that's all, don't panic." Then he took her elbow gently and led her back to the stairs. "Throw some cold water on your face, son," he said without looking around. "Change your shirt and come on down."
He heard a mumbled, "Right," and steadied his arm around Marj's waist.
She leaned into him and trembled. He held her tighter. And once in the living room, he sat her on the couch before telling Nancy to dig up all the candles she could, Robbie would help her, he wanted light in here, as much light as they could muster. And something warm to drink.
"Aunt Susan's in the kitchen," Nancy said as she left. "She's already put the kettle on."
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"Dory," Marj said weakly.
"It's okay," he assured her. "First I find out what's happened, then we'll go find them."
She looked up at him, cheeks hollowed by the candlelight, eyes red-rimmed and getting swollen. "You're thinking like a cop, Glenn. God, they're your daughters."
"At this point, thinking like a father isn't going to find them," he told her, hoping he didn't sound as cold as the words had felt on his lips. "For a change, having a cop for an old man may do them some good."
He smiled. She made a poor attempt to respond. "It'll be okay. We'll-"
Lightning.
Marjory whimpered.
In less than five minutes there were candlesticks and saucers, two lunch plates and an old silver tray, and the light was strong and golden and the shadows on the walls had not been born in the wind. Marj and Nancy sat on the couch, Sandera and Bern stood by the door, and Susan bustled silently in and out of the room carrying steaming cups of tea, of coffee, and one cup of hot chocolate she'd made for herself.
Glenn wanted to scream at the time it took to get them settled, more than once started for the door to begin the search for the children without them. But each time he did, he looked at his wife and grabbed the reins and held himself and held, until the screaming faded.
"All right," he said at last. "One at a time. Too much time has been wasted already, so don't make a production, okay?"
"Glenn," Marjory cautioned.
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He nodded. "Sorry. Just ... tell me."
Lightning.
And she did, explaining how they were to be at the field, playing ball, then at home for supper. Nothing unusual, until she'd driven there to pick them up and found the field deserted. She didn't worry. There were friends. But none of the friends had seen them, not at all, not all day.
"That's because they weren't there," said Bern, pushing off the wall to stand behind the couch.
"I know that," she snapped. "Honestly, Bernard, haven't you been listening?"
"I mean, because they went hiking," he snapped back, glaring down at the top of her head.
She twisted around. "Hiking? What are you talking about? They didn't go hiking, for god's sake."
"Bern," Glenn said quietly, "how do you know?"
"They didn't!" Marj insisted.
"I saw them," Bern said. "This afternoon. After I got home."
Glenn listened then while the boy told them what Cheryl and Dory had said, and watched his wife swing from rage to terror, watched Bern grow more distressed as he realized his sisters had tricked him, had lied.
And when he was finished, Glenn held up a palm before Marj could speak, held it while he closed his eyes and tried to force himself to think.
But all that happened was an image of his children walking through the storm, trees falling around them, branches lashing at their heads. He grunted. The hand became a fist.
Happy dreams, he thought.
"Jesus Christ," he said aloud. Then he said to 275
Sandera, "Robbie, make sure the first aid kit's still in the car, will you, and bring it here. Marj, check the bathrooms for one." When she leapt up, eyes wide as a startled deer's, he took her arms and whispered, "Just in case, okay? Just in case."
She nodded jerkily.
He smiled as best he could and let her go. "And change into something warm," he called, knowing nothing he could say would keep her in the house. "Bern, those old blankets in the garage. Get them. We may need them."
"What about me?" Susan asked.
"The telephone," he began.
"They're down," she reminded him. Then she looked to the window and saw the storm. "Maybe ..."
He couldn't help a grin. "Maybe you should stay here. In case the phones come back and you can call around again. And have warm soup, food, dry clothes, stuff like that ready when we get back, okay?"
Her gratitude at once annoyed and relieved him, and she vanished into the hallway, popped back and blew him a kiss he returned with a simple nod.
"Daddy?"
He sat beside Nancy and hugged her around the shoulders. "Don't worry, we'll find them. If I know Dory, they haven't gotten very far. I'll bet they're holed up-"
"Daddy, what about Brady?"
It was her voice more than the words that made him look at her just as Sandera returned, a plastic raincoat over one arm-her face was taut with fear, near to breaking, and the violent shudders that rocked her against him made him groan in silence.
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"Darling," he said, "Brady's-"
She pushed him away and backed into the corner, legs curled, clutching her ankles. "I touched him!" she said. "Goddamnit, I touched him!"
And Sandera said, "Jimmy Hale."
And Glenn thought deer just as Bern slammed the door open and said,
"Dad, those cots? You know, the ones we kept under the blankets?"
He didn't speak.
Candlelight danced, streaks of dark on the walls that looked not at all like shadows.
"They're gone, Dad. They weren't there."
Enough, Glenn pleaded as he pushed heavily to his feet; dear God, enough, I can't think, I can't-Marjory stood at the foot of the staircase, a first aid kit in one hand, the other pulling at her throat.
"What?" he asked, and gestured angrily at Bern to close the door before, all the candles were blown out.
"I'm not sure," she said. She'd changed into jeans and a sweater, hiking boots on her feet, obviously changing her mind about remaining in the house during the search. "That bottle of sleeping pills ..." She swayed, and Bern grabbed her. "The bottle's not there, Glenn. It was nearly full. Now it's gone."
The telephone rang.
He could see them then, falling apart in stages around him, cracks in facades and cracks in voices and hands beginning to scrub hands raw. He turned his back on them. He stared at the candles, shunted panic to a sidestreet, filled his lungs and held it. All right, he thought. All right. All right. One step. One step. Cheryl and Dory 277
have a place somewhere. They have the pills. They're trying to make things better by dreaming better things.
Jesus Christ, Erskine, you're out of your goddamn mind.
He lowered his head and breathed through his mouth, one breath at a time, quick, shallow, slower, deeper. He swallowed a taste of acid and turned back to them, hoping his expression was one of confident command.
Susan came to the doorway, looked around and said, "That was for Nancy."
Nancy cowered, knees against her chest. "Who was it?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. He said to remind you about your date tonight, and then we were cut off." She shrugged nervously. "I thought the lines were down."
And Nancy screamed, and Marj ran to her and grabbed her and pulled her face into her shoulder while she wept and beat the armrest with a loose and weak fist.
Glenn looked at Sandera. "A nightmare," he said. "Today's turned into a goddamn nightmare."
"Get them back," Marj implored him over Nancy's sobbing. "Dear god, Glenn, get them back."
"It's Pint," Bern said then.
Scornfully, Glenn dismissed him with a glance, and told Susan to show Sandera where the flashlights were. They'd need them. All of them. In the woods it would be dark, too dark to see in spite of the lightning.
And he called after them to bring all the slickers and raincoats they could find. And hats, if there were any. Anything else they could think of.
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"Dad," Bern insisted, moving hesitantly around the couch.
"Marj, you're going to have to stay with Nancy."
Marj resisted, finally nodded when Nancy tried to curl and climb into her lap.
"Dad, listen to me!"
"Damnit, Bernard-"
Bern grabbed his arm, hard. "Damnit, it's Pint!"
something bad, daddy
They're all nuts, he thought, briefly finding despair; my god, they're ...
