The Dark of Summer

by Dean R. Koontz

  What would happen if she did not improve, if she couldn't be rid of these delusions?

  Must she go to Dr. Recard again? And if that was necessary, would even he be able to help her over so serious an illness? Could anyone help her regain her sanity once she was freely talking to dead people, seeing ghosts, feeling their hands on her neck…?

  She bit her lower lip and tried to tell herself that the situation, no matter how dangerous, was not as bleak as it seemed to be. She was going to pull through this, just as she had pulled through her previous trouble. Once, Dr. Recard had said that the only hopelessly ill mental patients were those who refused to admit there was anything wrong with them. He said that if you could recognize your sickness, knew you were in trouble, you would almost surely pull out of it. She had to believe that he was right. The future was not lost, nor was all hope abandoned. She'd fight through it. Over and over, she reassured herself, told herself she'd win out, but she only believed half of what she said.

  In a few minutes, the tears stopped flowing, dried on her face, leaving a crinkled, sticky feeling after them. She wiped at her face with a corner of the sheet, but didn't feel particularly refreshed. She supposed she should go into the bathroom and wash her face — though she dreaded meeting the ghost again… Then, realizing that she was shrinking from her condition, that she was retreating from recognition of her illness, she pushed the covers up and got out of bed.

  The room was empty.

  She went to the hall door and looked out.

  The ghost was nowhere in sight.

  “Ginny?” she whispered.

  She received no answer, except a slight, almost inaudible echo of her own word.

  She closed the door, smiling. Perhaps she was already better. If she could admit the ghost was a delusion, how could the delusion persist?

  She went and washed her face.

  In bed again, bone weary from the day's strenuous sailing and from her contacts with the spirit, she soon fell asleep. Her sleep was troubled, filled with dark, stirring figures that she could not readily identify but which seemed to threaten her. She turned, murmuring, whimpering, scratching at the sheets until long past dawn.

  NINE

  The following morning, after breakfast in his room, as was his usual routine, Will Barnaby entertained a visitor in the library on the first floor, a somewhat portly gentleman with long sideburns, a mustache and thinning hair, all of which he kept in trim. The visitor, Edgar Aimes, was as well dressed as his host: an expensively tailored summer suit in a lightweight, coffee colored Italian knit fabric, black leather hand-tooled Italian shoes, a light brown shirt and a handwoven tie. But the similarity between Barnaby and Aimes did not end with their clothes. Aimes was as quick and as observant as his host, with dark eyes that seemed always watchful, in search of an advantage, an edge, something that might prove useful in bargaining. And when Aimes spoke, his voice was almost as self-possessed and authoritative as Barnaby's voice. Almost. Clearly, both men were accustomed to having money and to dealing for large stakes.

  Barnaby took a chair behind his desk, leaned back, motioned Aimes to sit down in the easy chair by the bookcases.

  “What's the word from Langley?” Barnaby asked, watching Aimes very closely, as if he distrusted him.

  Aimes sat with a long sigh. He said, “Well, he's still asking too much for the property.”

  “How much?”

  “Forty-two thousand dollars.”

  “That sounds—” Barnaby began.

  “Unreasonable,” Aimes finished.

  Barnaby tapped his fingers on the blotter of the desk. “You think that's too much?”

  “I know it is.”

  “What should he come down to?”

  “For Jenkins' Niche?” Aimes asked, giving himself time to think, to figure. His own profit, as the real estate agent for Barnaby's growing property acquisitions, was dependent upon the purchase price. He didn't want to drive it so low that he hurt himself; yet, he didn't want Barnaby to pay an inordinately high price. After all, he wanted to remain as Barnaby's agent, a rather lucrative position, considering how fast Barnaby had been buying up seafront land.

  “For Jenkins' Niche, of course,” Barnaby said.

  “Thirty-five thousand,” Aimes said.

  “So he's asking seven too much.”

  Aimes waited, not wanting to commit himself further.

  “Is he adamant?”

  Aimes said, “He pretends to be.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” There was a sharp edge in William Barnaby's voice that was not lost on the real estate agent.

  “It means that he can't really intend to stick at that figure. He knows, as well as I do, what the Niche is worth. He's being stubborn, hoping we'll take it for, say thirty-seven or thirty-eight thousand. It's worth his time to hold out on us, for a couple of thousand extra.”

  Barnaby was silent for a time, toying with a silver letter opener, using the sharp point of it to slice up the pressed paper blotter on his desk top. His face was absolutely expressionless, hard and stony — though the slight flush in his face gave evidence of the barely restrained fury which boiled just below the surface.

  Aimes waited, cleaning his fingernails with the tiny point of a pocket knife, not watching Barnaby, apparently bored. After so many years in a hectic business, Aimes knew how to wait in silence when a situation called for patience.

  “How long might Langley play around with us?” Barnaby asked at last, drawing Aimes' attention from his fingernails.

  “It's difficult to say. He hasn't anything to lose by stringing us along. He knows how badly you want the Niche, to add it to your other land. He probably figures that you'll break down before he will.”

  In a tight, hard voice, Barnaby said, “I didn't ask you for a longwinded reply. I asked for a figure, a date. How long will he play around with us?”

  “Perhaps two or three more weeks,” Aimes said. “Another month.”

  “That's too long.”

  “In a month, I'll ram him down to thirty-five thousand. Isn't it worth the wait to save seven thousand dollars?”

  “No.”

  “You're telling me to take his price?”

  “Yes,” Barnaby said.

  “That's senseless.”

  “I don't care.”

  “Will, you're letting your emotions get in the way of good, sound business sense.”

  Barnaby frowned. “That's your opinion.”

  “No, that's the truth.”

  “How so?”

  “It's those fishermen, isn't it?” Aimes asked, no longer interested in his nails, watching Barnaby.

  “I'll break them,” Barnaby said.

  “Eventually,” Aimes admitted. “But why the rush?”

  “I don't want to have to wait to break them,” Barnaby said. “I don't want to have to wait.” He had picked up his letter opener again, was slashing at the blotter once more.

  Aimes said, “Will, I know that a lot of ugliness has passed between you and these men. I can understand that you want to — well, put them in their place. But—”

  “Please, no lectures,” Barnaby said.

  “I hate to see a man waste money.”

  “It won't be wasted.”

  “Revenge is worth seven thousand dollars?” Aimes asked, putting away his penknife.

  “To me it is.”

  Aimes sighed. To him, revenge wasn't worth anything. He said so.

  Barnaby ignored him. He said, “How soon can the deal be concluded if we meet Langley's price?”

  “It's against my better judgment to let you do this—”

  “Forget that.”

  “Okay, then,” Aimes said. “I've already run a title search on the land, and I've got all the other papers ready. At most, a couple of days and the Niche is yours.”

  “Fine.”

  Aimes started to get up.

  “Wait, Edgar.”

  He sat down, patient again.

  Barnaby said,
“These fishermen must have a lease with Langley, for the use of the Niche…”

  “I've checked that.”

  “And?”

  “It's pretty one-sided. There's a dozen different clauses for the landlord's use, if he wants to break the lease.”

  “And that contract is transferable with the land?”

  “Of course.”

  Barnaby smiled. “Then they'll be out on their ears in a week, maybe less.”

  “There'll be more trouble,” Aimes warned.

  “I don't care.”

  “Well, I don't know about that,” Aimes said, fidgeting a bit in his chair, wiping at his thinning hair with the palm of a sun-browned hand. “Those fishermen are a rough bunch, Will. They can get nasty when they feel they have to.”

  “Not to worry,” Barnaby said grimly, his lips tight, his whole face set in an attitude of commitment. “I can be nastier.”

  Aimes was not satisfied. “Will, one of the worst things that you can do, that any businessman can do, is to let your emotions get the best of your reasoned judgment. I've seen men get obsessed with revenge before, and I've seen them be ruined by it. Without exception.”

  “I'm not obsessed.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “And I will win.”

  “You may.”

  “In any case, you're just the hired help, Edgar. None of this is really your concern.”

  Aimes caught the warning in Barnaby's tone, and he was forced to agree. “Yes. You're absolutely right about that.”

  Barnaby rose from his seat, dropped the letter opener again. He said, “I'll expect to hear from you as soon as Bob Langley accepts our offer.”

  “You'll get a call,” Aimes said.

  “Good luck, then.”

  “When you're overpaying by seven thousand, and the seller knows it, you don't need any luck,” Aimes said. “It's already sewed up, right in your back pocket.”

  “It had better be.”

  “I'll be back to you on this sometime today.”

  Alone, then, William Barnaby poured himself a small brandy in a large fishbowl snifter, and he sat down in the easy chair which Aimes had just vacated. He reached up and turned off the lamp” bedside the chair and, in the darkness that the heavy draperies preserved, the bittersweet brandy on his tongue, he thought about the inevitable triumph which was soon to fall into his hands…

  A good businessman, he thought, had to be tough, the tougher the better. Though Edgar Aimes thought differently, Barnaby knew that it did not hurt a businessman to harbor a grudge. A grudge sharpened his senses, made him more alert, gave him a deeper motivation than mere profit. If there was a personal triumph attached to a particular business success, then a man worked all the harder to achieve his aim. Edgar was wrong, then, quite wrong. Perhaps that was why he'd not done more with his real estate agency than he had, why he wasn't the millionaire he should have been. Revenge was an excellent tool to spur one on toward the accomplishment of more mundane affairs.

  He took another sip of brandy, put the big glass down on the table beside the chair.

  And, he thought, hadn't the fishermen asked for this, every last bit of this? Of course they had! By trying to force International Seafood Products down the throats of everyone in Calder, they'd proved that they had no one's interests at heart but their own. When one proved, by his actions, that he had no care for his neighbors, he invited retribution.

  He supposed that Edgar's warning about possible trouble from the fishermen was well meant, and valuable. After all, the fishermen were a rough tumble lot, and they might easily be capable of violence. He would have to be careful, and he would have to look out for his own. But in the end, he knew, everything would be resolved in his favor. He truly was, when all was said and done, tougher than any of them.

  TEN

  Unaware of her uncle's business conference with Edgar Aimes, Gwyn Keller sat in the small, informal dining room, alone, picking at a platter that Grace had piled high with buttermilk pancakes. The genuine blueberry syrup had begun to congeal around the edges of the cakes like purpling blood as she let the food grow cold. Her glass of orange juice had only been half drunk; the chips of ice in it were melted, and it was now too warm to drink.

  Her fruit cup had hardly been touched, the frost on its sides having slid off into a slushy puddle at the base of the crystal pedestal, staining the white tablecloth. She had finished two cups of black coffee, though she had not really wanted even that much.

  When Grace came to see if she wanted anything more, the older woman was surprised to find so much food untouched.

  “Was something wrong with the pancakes?” she asked, rubbing her soft hands together.

  “Oh, no,” Gwyn said.

  “You won't hurt my feelings if you tell me the truth,” Grace said, looking anxiously at the cold griddlecakes.

  “Really, they were fine,” Gwyn said.

  “I could whip up another batch, if you—”

  “Don't worry, Grace,” Gwyn said. “The trouble's with me, not with your cooking.”

  “Would you prefer eggs? I can fix you something else.”

  “I'm not really hungry,” Gwyn said.

  The older woman studied her carefully for a moment, then said, “You aren't looking too well this morning, dear. Your eyes are all puffy, and you look pale under that tan.” She stepped closer and laid a palm against Gwyn's forehead, searching for a fever.

  “I'm not sick at all,” Gwyn said.

  “We could have the doctor here in half an hour.”

  Gwyn smiled and shook her head, cutting the other woman off. She said, “I was so exhausted from yesterday's sailing, that I couldn't really sleep well, if that makes sense. And after tossing and turning all night, I've pretty much ruined my appetite. I feel gritty and altogether unpleasant, but I haven't any virus.”

  “Just the same,” Grace said, “you take a couple of aspirins and lie down a while. It never hurts to take aspirins, if you might be catching a bug of some sort.”

  “I'll do that,” Gwyn assured her. “Maybe later today. Right now, I feel like I want to be up and around.”

  “You're sure about breakfast?” Grace asked.

  “Positive.”

  “You take care.”

  “I will.”

  “You start to feel ill, you tell someone right away.”

  “I promise, Grace.”

  When the cook had gone away, taking the platter of uneaten pancakes with her, leaving Gwyn alone with the other odds and ends of the meal and with the curiously depressing sunlight which spilled through the window opposite her, she felt as if the exchange between them had been absolutely false — not only on her part, but on Grace's part as well. Gwyn had concealed the real reason for her own loss of appetite — the “ghost,” her fear of total mental collapse and eventual institutionalization — while Grace had hidden something equally important. What…? Gwyn felt that there was something distinctly false about the older woman's professed, motherly concern for Gwyn, though she could not exactly put her finger on it. Grace's entire role as a cook, elderly housekeeper, was quite phoney, one hundred percent pretended. Gwyn was sure of that. It was almost as if Grace were being paid to act the part of a cook in some grandiose real-life play, with the Manor as a complex stage. This was the same tint of unreality, of unexposed illusion, which she had also seen about Fritz, when she had first come here — a maddeningly unspecifiable falsity…

  Or was this suspicion only another facet of her own severe mental instability? Was she beginning to see strange conspiracies all around her, hidden faces behind incredibly real masks, plotters lurking in every dark doorway? In short, was she growing paranoid, in addition to all of her other problems?

  If so, she was finished.

  Abruptly, she stood up, letting her napkin fall to the floor, not noticing it, and she left the house for a stroll around the grounds.

  The day was still and warm, the sky high and almost cloudless, incredibly blue and dot
ted with swiftly darting specks that were birds.

  The lawn around Barnaby Manor was so cool, neat and green that Gwyn was persuaded to take off her tennis shoes so that she could feel the slightly dewy grass between her bare toes. She walked, unthinkingly, along the same trail she had first covered with Ben Groves, examining the white statuary, the geometrically arranged flowers, the carefully sculptured shrubbery, her eyes soothed by the complimentary lines that flowed from one object to another.

  By the woods, where she sat on the white stone bench, the purple shadows of the forest soothed her, cool and soft, cutting the glare of the morning sun, sheltering and safe.

  Yet, in time, she realized that she had not come outside to see or enjoy any of these things — not the lawn, the shrubs, the statuary, the flowers, not the white bench or the shadows of the trees. Instead, she had come out with only one intention, unconscious at first but now quite evident: she wanted to go down to the beach…

  The beach and the sea seemed to be the focus for everything that was happening to her. Ginny had died at sea, in the boating accident that had almost claimed Gwyn's life, as well. Now, at this house by the sea, the ghost had appeared to her… And it had made its most bold approach on the beach, by the surge of the waves. Somehow, Gwyn felt, if she were to find an answer to her sickness, she would find it in or by the sea.

  She went down the stone steps to the beach, being careful not to trip and fall, running one hand lightly along the rugged wall.