by Jan Hudson
“The only other person I can think of is . . .” Mary Lou twirled a stiff yellow curl around her finger. “No. No, he wouldn’t do.”
“Who? Have you thought about another driller?” Max felt a glimmer of hope, sat up straight in her chair, and leaned forward.
“Well,” Mary Lou said, wrinkling her nose, “I suppose if you’re really desperate, you might try Goose Gallagher. But he’s over eighty years old, and most of the time he stays drunker than Cooter Brown.”
Max slumped back in the chair. It was like an eleventh hour reprieve. “Right now I’d try the devil himself if he had a drilling rig. Let’s give him a call.”
Goose Gallagher didn’t have a telephone, but Mary Lou wrote out the directions and drew her a map.
Max crossed her fingers and said a prayer as she drove down the winding road by the river.
Goose Gallagher’s place was little more than a shack. No, it was a shack, she revised as she pulled up to the decrepit structure beside the river bank. Put together with mismatched, unpainted boards, it listed north about twenty degrees and looked as if it might collapse at any moment. In the yard, a dilapidated school bus, minus wheels and windows, sat gathering rust under a pecan tree. It looked as if it hadn’t run in thirty years. Five or six chickens scratched at the bare ground beside its gaping door. Two goats pulled at the high grass growing between a discarded wringer-type washing machine and a twisted bedspring propped against a pile of rotting lumber.
Max parked behind an ancient pickup held together with baling wire and determination. Ordering Dowser to stay in the Silverado, she got out and picked her way through scattered debris and chickens and animal droppings. Beer cans of every imaginable brand littered the area. The old collector at the convenience store could have had a field day here.
Rounding the house, Max stopped and stared. A precarious porch, shored up by stacks of rocks, faced the river and was attached to a rickety pier extending out over the water. On the sagging porch an old man sat in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth and swigging from a can of beer. She felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach, as if her last hope had been snatched away. Mary Lou had said he was over eighty. He looked a hundred.
God only knew when his worn khaki shirt and pants had been washed. He had about a two-week growth of white whiskers, and irregular patches of liver spots stained his bald head, pink and slick as a baby’s bottom. His nose was large, hawk-shaped, and covered with a spidery network of red. He must have had a thousand wrinkles around the rheumy blue eyes that looked up as Max approached.
She forced a smile on her face and stepped up on the porch. “Morning,” she said. “You must be Mr. Gallagher. I’m Max Strahan.” She stuck out her hand.
The old man tossed his beer can onto the pile nearby and rose. A little unsteady on his feet, he wiped his hand on his britches leg and extended it to her. “Most folks just call me Goose. What can I do for you, little lady?”
She was surprised by the strength of his grip. Gnarled and rough with calluses, his was the hand of a working man. And his shoulders, though slightly stooped, were almost as broad as Sam’s. “I’m looking for a good water well driller.”
“Well, you’ve come to the best,” he said, puffing out his chest, then catching himself on a post as he swayed. “Drag up a chair and let’s talk business.” He pointed to an aluminum lawn chair leaning against the front wall.
Max unfolded it and sat down carefully, testing her weight against the seat, which had several strips missing. When Goose settled back in his rocker, she told him the location of the well she wanted drilled.
He shook his head. “Little lady, there ain’t no water out there. You’d just be throwin’ your money, down a rat hole. I’ve been drillin’ around here purt near all my life, and I’ve run afoul of that place before. You’d have to accidentally hit a vein off the Edwards formation, and they’re scarcer than hen’s teeth.”
Max couldn’t believe it. He was turning her down. She had to find some way to convince him. Goose Gallagher was her only chance. “What do you think about dowsing?” she asked, broaching the subject carefully.
“Witching, you mean?” Max nodded. “Well,” he said, running his hand over his whiskers, “I know some folks don’t hold with it. And me, it never worked for me. Tried it a time or two. There’s some around here who think they can do it, but they ain’t really no better at findin’ water ‘n anybody else. Wasn’t but one feller I ever saw that could do it. Him and me used to partner some, but he’s been gone from here for a lot of years. Heard Dal died.”
Her heart almost stopped. “Dal?”
“Dal Maxwell. Damned good witcher. Never saw him miss.”
“He was my grandfather, Goose. And I’m just as good as he was.”
Max had said the magic words. Soon she and the old man were trading stories about her grandfather, and he agreed to drill the well. The only problem was, as usual, money. It seemed that Goose had tied one on a couple of weeks ago and driven his pickup into the fountain in front of the courthouse. Tom Phillips, the local sheriff, had confiscated his drilling equipment until he paid the damages.
“Didn’t hurt my pickup none, but I tore that fancy new fountain all to hell. Tom said the mayor told him it would take about two thousand dollars to fix it back. And I ain’t got the wherewithal.”
Max almost groaned. Where was she going to get the money? Maybe she could get a loan at a local bank. Promising to get back with him when she raised the cash, Max headed for town.
All the banks were closed. She had forgotten it was Saturday and, by the time she arrived, after noon. Unless she could come up with another idea, there was nothing to do but wait until Monday. As she drove back to the cottage, it occurred to her that she could borrow the money from Sam. She quickly discarded the idea. She’d sell the Silverado first—and that was her last resort. It was her only remaining asset of any value. She stroked the leather seat beside her. She’d hate to part with this vehicle; she loved it. It had been her first big bonus, and they had traveled a lot of miles together.
When she pulled in the driveway, she stopped and let Dowser out for a run, then turned toward the house. Waiting on the steps were two huge baskets of red roses. She parked quickly and ran over to the house; she laughed as she read the note.
This is all the florist had.
Love, Sam
She took the baskets inside and put one arrangement in the living room and the other in the bedroom. Cupping one bud in her hand, she inhaled the sweet fragrance. No one had ever sent her roses before. She was humming as she went in to take a bath, fantasizing all sorts of delicious scenarios for tonight. “A softer place,” he’d said.
* * *
It was almost ten o’clock. The chicken was dry, the broccoli was mush, and the parslied potatoes had congealed in their butter. Max stashed the whole mess in the refrigerator and blew out the candle on the table. Where was Sam anyway? She’d been sure he would come over. Now she felt like a fool for putting on a silk dress and sexy underwear. She didn’t even know why she’d packed such things.
She tried not to think about Sam, knowing that with the least provocation the lump in her throat would change to tears. Instead she put on a nightshirt, popped a big bowl of popcorn, and climbed into bed to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
* * *
Her body clammy and tangled in twisted sheets, Max came half awake. Dowser whined and his wet nose nudged against her cheek. The room was dark. Her heart was still pounding heavily with the horror of a nightmare. Monsters, body snatchers, had surrounded the house and were about to come in the windows after her. She’d been trying to scream, but no sound would come from her throat. It had seemed so real.
The Doberman whined again and raised his head toward the window, which was at her back.
Max’s heart switched to triple time as childhood terrors rose up like specters, sucking the air from her lungs, paralyzing her limbs. It was real! “They’re here,” she w
hispered with lips almost frozen by fear.
Her first inclination was to bury her head under the covers and wait, shivering, for the inevitable. Using every bit of willpower she possessed, she forced herself to roll over and face the dreaded creatures.
Standing outside the window, his grotesque face illuminated by moonlight, was the most hideous monster Max had ever seen or imagined.
Chapter 6
Max screamed and bounded from the bed in a mad dash from the room, flipping on lights as she went. Damn! Her cell phone was on the bedside table. No way was she going back for it. She ran to the kitchen phone instead. Sam’s number was the first thing she saw on the note board, and she jabbed at the glowing buttons on the dial. He answered on the second ring.
“Sam, call the police! It’s the body snatchers! They’re after me!” She slammed down the receiver and sank to the floor.
Knees drawn up to her chin, she sat huddled by the kitchen cabinets, shivering, trying to catch her breath. Dowser lay beside her, his head in the crook of her arm, his body shaking as hard as hers.
A few minutes later there was a hammering on the door. She nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Max! Open up!”
Sam. It was Sam. She ran to the front door. Her fingers were trembling so badly that it took her three tries before she could turn the lock and slide the bolt. She flung open the door and threw herself into Sam’s arms.
“My God, Angel, you’re shaking like a leaf. What’s wrong?”
“A monster. He was after me.” She buried her face in his bare chest and waved an arm behind her. “I saw him. In there. Looking in the window.”
He held her close and made soothing noises. “It’s okay, love. I’m here.”
A siren came wailing up the drive, then a car door slammed. When Sam tried to move, Max wrapped herself around him with a death grip. “Don’t leave me,” she whimpered.
“I won’t leave you,” he said. “I just need to talk to the deputy for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He sat her down on the couch. Something tore inside him as he watched her curl into a ball. He was filled with helpless fury at the thing that had caused such terror. The Max he knew wasn’t prone to hysteria. He wanted to roar, wanted to pull up trees and beat the ground with them at the idea that someone would put her in such a state.
He strode outside to where Dick Ware stood, shining his flashlight around the house.
“Everything seems okay,” the officer said. “But look what I found in the bushes.” He held up a woman’s stocking. “She probably scared him off, but it was our burglar all right. We’ll check the area, but he’s probably long gone by now.”
Sam could have kicked himself from here to Austin. If he hadn’t been playing games, he would have been with her tonight in her bed. Or his. Damn his stupidity! Well, that could be remedied soon enough, he thought as he walked back inside. He was going to gather up Max and the dog and her stuff and take her home with him where she belonged.
He was surprised when she went along with him without much of a fuss. Since Sam had run across the river, barely taking time to call the sheriffs office before pulling on loafers and a pair of jeans as he ran, he was without a car. He found her keys, packed her bags, and loaded everything into the truck. Max, wrapped in a blanket, snuggled beside him as he drove to his house. He could still feel her trembling.
Max nestled closer to Sam, drawing comfort from the strong arm around her. Maybe her monster had turned out to be just a man with pantyhose over his head, but she had never been so terrified in her life. For that one awesome moment, she had come face to face with the embodiment of every bogeyman she had conjured up in her younger years. She felt like an idiot now. Grown women didn’t believe in monsters. It had been a burglar, not a body snatcher. Still, old fears died hard. And she didn’t think she could have spent the night alone in that house for a million dollars. She shuddered and nuzzled her cheek against Sam’s bare shoulder.
“You don’t have on a shirt,” she said.
He chuckled. “You scared me so badly, I didn’t take time to dress. You’re lucky I didn’t come charging over in my birthday suit.”
“Thanks for coming, Sam. After the broccoli went limp, I was afraid I might never see you again.”
“The broccoli? What are you talking about?”
“I fixed dinner for you tonight, but you didn’t come, and it got overcooked waiting.”
Sam felt like a first class heel. He squeezed her to him and said, “Angel, I . . . I . . .”
“It’s okay. You didn’t say anything about dinner. I just assumed . . .” Her finger traced an idle pattern over his chest, and she felt him grow tense. “Did I thank you for the roses? They’re beautiful.” She bolted upright as they pulled up in front of his house. “Sam, we forgot to bring the roses.”
“Don’t worry about the flowers tonight. We’ll pick them up tomorrow.”
Despite her protests, he carried her into the house. She was far from petite, but he carried her as if she weighed nothing. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he strode through the front door, which was standing wide open, and down the hallway. He didn’t seem to consider taking her to a guest room. He made straight for his king-size bed and laid her on the side where the covers were thrown back and the pillow indented from his head. A brass lamp on one of the bedside tables cast a warm glow over the room. She felt safe here.
He tossed aside the blanket she’d been wrapped in and pulled the sheet up to her chin. “You stay here,” he said, “and I’ll get Dowser settled and bring in your things.”
Face solemn, he stood and stared at her for a moment before he left the room.
Max turned on her side and snuggled against the pillow. It smelled of Sam. A heady mixture of spices, citrus, and musk. Sexy. Masculine. Like Sam.
The big room suited him, she thought as she looked around. Rich, lush carpet was the same russet shade as his hair. A massive dresser and chest of dark wood stood against natural-colored grass cloth walls decorated with more of the western art he loved. Two easy chairs flanked a table by windows which, Max imagined, looked out over the river.
By the bedside phone two books lay open and face down. She picked up one and read the title. Painting for Beginners. She smiled. The other was a Stephen King novel. She scanned the dust jacket and shivered. The taste of fear was still too fresh in her mouth.
Tossing the sheet aside, she got out of bed and found the bathroom. Horrified at what she saw in the mirrors that stretched along the six foot marble vanity, she grimaced. She looked worse than the prowler. Using Sam’s brush, she restored her hair to some semblance of order. Then she washed her face and gargled with mouthwash she found by the sink, surprised to find her knees were none too steady.
“Max!”
The sudden bellow startled her, and the mouth-wash bottle flew from her hand and crashed into the basin. “Damn,” she muttered, grabbing the towel bar with a white-knuckled fist.
Sam jerked open the door. “What happened in here? What are you doing out of bed?”
“I had to go to the bathroom, Sam, and when you yelled, it nearly scared me out of ten years’ growth. I dropped a bottle in the sink. Now look at the mess I’ve made. I’m sorry. I seem to be nothing but trouble for you tonight.” She began gathering up pieces of broken glass, but he stopped her.
He took the shards from her hand and tossed them into a wastebasket. “Forget the damned bottle. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I guess I’m still a little jumpy. My legs don’t seem to want to hold me up.”
He lifted her into his arms and carried her back to bed. When she was under the covers and sitting propped against the pillows, he sat down beside her and brushed a long strand of hair away from her face. “Sweetheart, what happened tonight to frighten you so badly? It seems strange that the little spitfire who nailed my pants to the wall would fall apart over a prowler.”
Trying to collect her thoughts, she licked her lips and
fidgeted with a corner of the sheet. “Well,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “I suppose it’s because I knew you were a man, and I thought he was a body-snatching monster.” She glanced up and saw his puzzled look. Trying to keep her reply light, she managed a feeble smile and added, “I’d watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers on TV and was having a nightmare. When I woke up and saw the man at the window, I thought he was one of them.”
Sam chuckled. “Invasion of the Body Snatchers? You’re going to have to stick to something a little less ghoulish from now on if movies give you nightmares.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I watch scary films all the time. It’s part of the desensitization process. You know, if you see something often enough you sort of become immune. Like doctors and blood. Only in my case it’s creatures from the black lagoon and werewolves. I have teratophobia.”
He frowned. “You have what?”
“Teratophobia. A fear of monsters. I’ve had it as long as I can remember. As a little boy, didn’t you ever lie in bed at night and imagine that monsters were under your bed or in your closet? Didn’t your parents ever tell you that horrible, child-eating bugbears were there waiting to gobble you up if you got out of bed or were bad?”
“Good Lord, no! Who would tell a child such a thing?”
She dropped her gaze to her hands, which were nervously pleating the hem of the sheet. “My father.”
“The bastard.”
She gave a little mirthless laugh. “He was that.”
“And your mother let him get away with it?”
She shook her head. “My mother died when I was about two. I think my father blamed me for it; she was never very well after her pregnancy with me. He adored my mother and my older stepbrother, Carl, but he never liked me very well. Neither did Carl. I suppose I was something of a nuisance.” She shrugged and kept pleating and unpleating the sheet. “My earliest memory was of my father scratching the mattress and telling me that ‘Bloody Bones’ was under my bed and would get me if I didn’t go to sleep. I must have been about three. I think he wanted to go out drinking with some of the other roughnecks and my brother wasn’t home to baby-sit. His tactics worked so well, he kept it up. For years I used to lie in my bed petrified. Afraid to breathe.”