by S. D. Perry
Either that, or he’s already dead.
John sighed, looking out at the bay. The view from their street was fantastic in the evenings, the water lit up in ripples of golden light, but the sight provided little distraction. The thought that Calvin had killed himself…he wasn’t certain he was ready to go there, not yet.
There was something going on. Considering his overwhelmed practice, considering the murders, he thought Bob’s theory—that the citizens of Port Isley were being influenced, somehow—needed to be revisited. Emotions were heightened, people seemed to be having impulse control problems, issues with morality and id…his current halfhearted explanation, dreamed up on his way home from the hospital, was that they had fallen victim to some mildly psychedelic spore or pollen, some new variation that had come with the season, and even that felt crazy. Psychic ability was a step further than he wanted to go.
So why am I here? He thought, turning back to the door. A hand-lettered card—NO SOLICITORS, it read, in neat block letters—had been taped inside the curtained pane.
He answered himself, gazing at the unwelcoming card. Because he didn’t want to reject anything out of hand. Not after his day at the hospital, the intensity of the feelings he’d had. He had been mostly saved from his bizarre emotional turbulence with Sarah when her sister had woken, and a very tense, very forceful Stan Vincent had shown up a third time, carrying his photos; Karen had agreed to look at them and picked out two of the boys who’d attacked her—she wasn’t certain about the third—and John had again been struck by a rage he didn’t expect and couldn’t rationalize, watching her sweet face tighten and then crumple when she looked at the pictures.
John shook his head and rapped on the door once more. When Bob had finally caught up with him—John’s cell had rung about a minute after he’d turned it back on—the reporter had recounted his morning meeting with the teenagers…and had asked John to go check on his elderly neighbor, see if he could assess Calvin’s state of mind. John had only stopped at home long enough to use the bathroom and find out that Bob had called his voice mail three times before heading back out. Perhaps Dick Calvin was suicidal—the spore explanation would account for all kinds of abnormal thoughts and behaviors—but the idea that someone had sensed that about him…
Is probably no crazier than the rest of it. When he’d finally left Sarah and her sister, he’d meant to go straight home and spend the evening at his computer, writing his way through the disorder, making lists of things to consider, to research…but the urgency in Bob’s voice, when they’d spoken—the reporter believed this girl, who believed that Dick Calvin was planning to kill himself—suddenly it seemed like too much was happening too fast for John to take his time.
Way too fast, he thought, recalling his lingering good-bye embrace with Sarah, his tryst with Annie, and the brutal end to which she’d come. John knew a guy from med school who’d gone into etiology, studying disease causation. Dwier, Kurt Dwier. John had his e-mail somewhere, or could find it easily enough, get a phone number. Kurt had done some work at the CDC; he’d have some ideas about how to proceed.
And you’ll say what, exactly? “Hey, Kurt, long time no see. Listen, people are acting out of character around here. That is, some of them. There have been murders. I’ve been having strange thoughts, too…I feel really unfocused…or, rather, too focused, too caught up in myself. With my processing, as it were. Do you think it might be some kind of pollen?” The Kurt Dwier he’d known at school—a short, grinning redhead with a penchant for burping replies to questions—would calmly, rationally hang up on him.
He needed evidence, something real and tangible to back up his claims. Stats from his files, crime data, hospital records…he could make a case. He had to do something. His training and vocation gave him a clear picture of how bad things could get for Port Isley, assuming there was some mind-altering agent at play. How many people in any community were slightly less than balanced, leaning toward trouble? How many would only need a slight nudge to send them over?
What’s actually happening out there?
John turned on the small porch and looked out at the immaculate yard. Tall or fragile plants didn’t grow well in Port Isley, blasted as they were by the winds, but Calvin had nurtured a number of low, hearty flowers in perfectly symmetrical beds that ran along the sides of his home. John recognized marigolds and what he thought was peony; his mother had been a weekend gardener, although her efforts had never been so picture-perfect. The lawn was as flawless as ever, the last of the day’s light against Kehoe’s trees casting long shadows across the manicured green. If Dick was suffering from suicidal depression, it hadn’t stopped him from keeping up appearances.
He’s fine. He walked down the hill, that’s all. John would go home, get some notes down. He would get organized—even the word was soothing, images of neat lists and bullet points calming him, allowing him to momentarily disregard his concerns—and come back in an hour or so.
He turned back toward his house—and saw a handful of teenagers emerging from the old school basement across the street, the girls giggling, the young men swaggering and playing cool. On impulse he changed direction, walking toward Dick’s backyard. He didn’t feel like being sized up by a gaggle of stoned kids, and the path that ran behind their homes was actually quite pleasant by twilight in the summer, cool and thick with shadow. There was a man walking toward him through the dusk, a stranger. John slowed his step. The man was on the tall side but hunched slightly, his head down; he didn’t see John, didn’t seem to see anything as he walked, his gaze on the ground. The guy was too thin, and pale. He didn’t look familiar, either, although the dark of the woods masked him somewhat, turning his eyes into black pools.
The stranger finally looked up when they were less than a dozen feet apart, and John saw that he was fairly young, probably no older than thirty. Surprise registered on the younger man’s face, his body straightening, his hands coming out of his pockets. He was close enough for John to see a flurry of emotions cross his gaze—the stranger was startled, angry, fearful, guilty…then carefully blank, although John believed that the man had been crying, from the raw, red look around his eyes.
Imagination, John told himself. Maybe he had allergies. And why would he be angry or afraid?
Or guilty?
Both men stopped walking and regarded one another. John put on a polite smile and stuck out his hand, stepping forward. The main trail through the park was a good fifty meters west of the small track that connected his house to Dick’s; the man was trespassing, and while John saw no reason to call him out for it, common sense dictated that whenever possible, you tried to meet the people who were lurking behind your home.
“Hi,” he said. “Going for a hike?”
The stranger didn’t back away, exactly, but seemed to hunch away from John’s outstretched hand, jamming his own back into his coat pockets.
Don’t touch, John thought, lowering his hand. Overhead, high in the trees, the wind was picking up. The crash of the branches was like the ocean, the airy surf loud enough to almost drown the stranger’s low, soft voice.
“You’re the doctor.”
“I don’t know if I’m the doctor,” he said. His voice sounded bright and amiable, which made him feel like some cocktail party dork, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “I’m a doctor. John Hanover, I live in the last house on the block.”
He nodded toward his house, although the back porch was hidden by a turn of the track. The stranger didn’t turn to look—but seemed to understand that more was required of him, that an introduction was now mandatory.
“David Mallon,” he said. He didn’t smile. “I took the rental. The gray bungalow.”
Ah. The mysterious neighbor. That explained what he was doing back here. John refreshed his own smile. Not that he particularly wanted to chat, but he’d always felt it paid to be friendly with neighbors, to at least be able to call them by name; you never knew when you might need help. “You’re right
next door, then. Are you here for the summer?”
Mallon nodded. “That’s the plan.” Still no smile, and his posture continued to be defensive, his shoulders up, his whole body leaning away from John’s. Like he thought John had a cold and was afraid of catching it.
“You here for the water or the architecture?” John asked, and at Mallon’s blank look, added, “Our summer people fish, sail, or like Victorians, for the most part.”
“Summer people,” Mallon said, and finally smiled, a faint thing. “Is that what I am?”
“Not necessarily,” John said. He couldn’t tell if Mallon was offended or amused. And suddenly, standing here and chatting with him, trying to analyze him, seemed like a monumental waste of time. “I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted today; I have some things to take care of…it’s nice to meet you. Maybe we can try it again sometime?”
Mallon nodded, but as John started to walk past him, he didn’t move, didn’t take the natural opportunity to end the conversation by continuing his own way. John considered stopping for about a quarter of a second, to ask if Mallon was all right, but the lure of getting home (getting organized) was too great. He simply nodded at the young man—an introvert, obviously, and possibly a mysophobe—and kept walking, his thoughts turning back to his jumble of thinking. He would write it down, quantify and simplify. Events, his clients, something about emotional evolution…
By the time he reached his back porch, he’d entirely forgotten Mallon.
Devon was gone. He’d packed a bunch of his stuff into the ancient Volvo wagon in his uncle’s garage—Sid was still out of town on business, and the Volvo was technically Devon’s, a gift from Sid for his sixteenth birthday; Isley was too small to ever drive anywhere, though Devon drove it to Port Angeles sometimes—and he’d left a long note for Sid, explaining that he had to go to Portland (he’d intimated a boyfriend emergency for Claire, who was also Sid’s niece), and that Amanda would stay for a while (homeless)…and then he’d said good-bye and hugged her and driven away. Amanda had watched his car turn down the hill, heading for the winding route that would lead him to the interstate, his taillights barely flickering at the stop sign. Somehow, the day had passed; it was full dark and starting to cool on this side of town. Back at the apartment, the heat would just be starting to pick up, turning her bedroom into a stifling cave.
Ex-bedroom, she thought, but her homelessness didn’t bother her half as much as watching Devon drive away. Eric, who’d been conspicuously silent all day, was probably still sitting on the porch. He had hung back while she and Devon were embracing and saying their final farewells, offering a disinterested wave to her best friend in the world as he’d deserted her.
Not deserted, she told herself, still watching the empty street. Not abandoned. What choice did he have? It wasn’t like she could ask him to stay in Port Isley, to hold her hand and comfort her through this—this fucked-up weirdness—after she’d seen him floating in the bay. And he was only going to Portland. It was six, seven hours away, tops. Sid was pretty easygoing; he treated Devon like an adult and likely wouldn’t be too freaked that his nephew had taken off. And he’d let Amanda stay for as long as she needed; Sid Shupe was one of those rare adults who actually helped people instead of just talking about it. He’d even offered to let Amanda move in once, after Grace had pulled her last DUI.
She sighed, noting that her daylong abuse of caffeine had left her with a sour stomach and a jittery, grainy feeling. She didn’t feel like crying for a change, but she was bone tired. How long before the threat was gone, before it was safe for Devon to come back? How long would she participate with Bob’s Let’s-Save-Isley idea before she decided to blow town, to make the certified jump from homeless teen to self-sufficient young person?
Eric was suddenly standing behind her, his long-fingered hand slipping around her waist. He’d ducked home while Devon had been packing, and she’d felt kind of…relieved, really. Devon had been chattering away, nervous as hell about leaving—and about being near her, she’d sensed, not in a supernatural way but because every time she moved closer to him, he found a way to be on the other side of the room. By silent consent, they hadn’t spoken about his hookup with Mitchell Jessup, which was just as well. She was pretty much creeped out by the concept, and he was obviously embarrassed. In spite of the awkwardness, though, she’d been glad for some alone time with him, because she didn’t know when she’d see him again, and their friendship was, like, the only truly solid thing in her life. But then Eric had been back in less than an hour, just showed up and walked in, like he’d been invited. He’d been too quiet, mostly listening to Devon’s anxious monologue, occasionally trying to touch her. He’d been weird all day, staring at her every time she looked at him, and he was kind of…stilted, the way he talked. Like he was carefully thinking about everything he said before he said it.
She tensed for just a second when he moved even closer but then made herself relax. With Devon gone, she didn’t exactly have a support network anymore. And Eric was still totally hot, even if he was acting stupid today, and he obviously wanted to help her. For the most part, she liked the touching and his intensity. She’d definitely liked it last night.
She had to think of Peter then, and her mother, and how the night had ended. It seemed like a million years had passed already. She didn’t want to think about it, not at all, and she grasped for a diversion. Bob had said he was going to do some research, talk to his shrink friend, and then call her at Devon’s sometime in the evening. Sid wasn’t supposed to be back until Monday or Tuesday. She and Eric were alone.
The urge to fuck his brains out was sudden and all-encompassing. Without another thought, she turned in to his embrace, sliding her hand to the front of his jeans.
They broke apart long enough to get inside. Barely. And for a few moments, at least, their bodies locked perfectly together, and she was free from thought, from everything but his touch.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was dark, a half moon hanging low in the sky over the black, glittering bay, the trees in the park softening their afternoon symphony. The wind had become a breeze, a warm one. John figured it was the first night in a while that hadn’t turned cool after the sun disappeared, which meant the dog days had finally come to Isley. From this high up on the hill, one couldn’t hear the tourist sounds from the waterfront, the summer night parties that spilled from the bars and restaurants and piers, engines of cars and boats revving, laughter…but John knew they were down there, retired baby boomers and dot-com merge consultants and the idle well-off, interacting with the user-friendly locals. The glow from so many lights made it hard to see the stars.
John stood on Dick Calvin’s porch again, this time waiting for Bob and the police to join him. Bob had insisted, after hearing that the crotchety old man still wasn’t answering his door. John’s certainty, that Calvin wasn’t home, had faded for no reason that he could name, and he found himself pacing up and down the low steps, occasionally glancing up at the too-faint stars, wondering if Amanda Young had actually foreseen Calvin’s suicide.
When the phone buzzed in his pocket, he started. He was wound up, agitated, tired; the combination made him jumpy.
“Hello?”
“John? It’s Sarah.”
John felt his heartbeat pick up, just hearing her voice. “Hi, how are you?”
There was a brief silence, long enough for him to worry, and then she sighed. “I’m all right, I guess. I’m home—at Big Blue, I mean. Karen kicked me out; she said I needed some real sleep.” She laughed, a soft, wry laugh. “Except I’m not sleeping. I’m not even tired.”
“Oh,” he said, already guessing why she’d called. Say no. Say you’re busy. If earlier at the hospital was any indicator, they’d be in the sack before the door closed behind him.
“Do you think you could come over? Just for a little while?”
“I’m, ah, doing something right now…”
“If you don’t want to, that’s OK,�
� she said quickly.
“No, it’s not that. I really am busy.”
“Later, then?”
It didn’t seem to be in him to lie to her. “I could. I’d like to see you. I’m…I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, though, considering…considering what might happen.”
Another silence. He thought she would ask what he meant, but she surprised him. “Would that be so terrible?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “No, it’s not that I don’t want…ah, it’s just…”
Just what? Just, we may regret it? Just, we’re two single, lonely people and there’s no reason not to touch each other? Not to fuck?
The images that flashed through his mind were explicit. Not the gentle lovemaking he’d envisioned earlier, not at all.
sweating sucking fingers sliding screaming
He cleared his throat, forcing the images away, willing his stirring erection to stand down…and abruptly thought of Nina McAndrews, his client and one-time real estate agent, who he’d sent out of town for a full medical workup.
“It’s like I start thinking about it, you know, it, and even the words in my head make me—I get, um, aroused.” Nina, huddled in the corner of his couch, as far from him as she could get. She wouldn’t look at him. “I can’t—once I start thinking about it, I can’t stop, I have to—I have to do something about it.” Nina, crying. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with me?”
“I’m starting to think that there may be some…some chemical influence here, in Port Isley,” he said, taking a breath. “Something that’s making people act rashly, or out of character.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, feeling himself steady. Saying it aloud sounded strange, but not crazy, not impossible. “Don’t you? I mean, I don’t know you that well, I don’t want to presume anything, but earlier, when you said you haven’t been yourself…”