Would Pete be able to manage the shop or would he, in his inexperience, run it into the ground? If he were half as smart as he seemed to be, he'd go to some of the older fellows in town for advice, get Bernie back in to teach him what he needed to know. Roger would help, too, as executor of Gus's estate.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and coated with grit. His eyes drooped closed, shutting out the white and featureless world around him. His ankle still throbbed, but he didn't notice it so much anymore. He didn't feel much of anything, for that matter, except relieved that he didn't have to hate himself any longer.
* * * *
Where?
Her car went around the last curve in a controlled skid, and Sally braked to a sliding stop just behind the blue pickup.
Empty.
But he was here. Somewhere.
Waiting for her.
* * * *
Gus knew time had passed. He was aware that the sun no longer stung his chest, had stopped making his shoes feel like small steam baths. When a high-flying jet passed overhead, he felt the vibration of its engines as much as heard them, but he didn't trouble to open his eyes to see the narrow white trails it left.
Once he thought he heard a car, far away, but its sound was lost in the breeze that still swept across the tops of the columns, mourning its own passing.
The sun's retreat brought cool shade. Gus revived somewhat and took stock. His ankle seemed better. He flexed it, twisted it, and felt no unbearable pain, just a residual ache.
He looked up at the white wall, wondering what ghostly pictures it would show him now. But it was just a wall, shadowless yet shadowed. The burning whiteness had become a quiet, pale gray. He sat a while longer, wondering if the scenes had come from his tortured subconscious, or merely from thirst and incipient heatstroke.
"Us-s-s-s-s!"
The high, clear call echoed among the columns, pure as an eagle's keen. Far more welcome. He lifted his head and listened. Again it came.
"Gu-s-s-s-s-! R-r-r-r-u-u-u-u-uuuu?"
"Here!" he called back. He levered himself to his feet, letting his good ankle take most of his weight. Ignoring the ache, he hurried forward. "I'm here!"
Sally came around a thick column and stopped a few feet from him. Her arms were at her sides, her face was serious.
"Pete said... I thought... You didn't..." She stopped, but didn't look away from his face. A smile struggled to be born on her lips as she said, "I knew you wouldn't leave me."
As simply as that, Gus knew where his future lay.
But first...
"Have you any water?"
"I've got a six-pack of sodas in the car. They're warm—"
"They're wet. That's all that matters." He took a step and his ankle turned under him. "Damn!"
"I'll get them." She was off and running. In a few minutes, she reappeared, carrying the six-pack.
Gus drained the first can in about three swallows. "We need to talk," he said as he popped the top of the second.
Sally rolled a squared-off chunk of white rock next to him, sat on it. "I'm listening."
"I've been running," he said, "for three years."
"I know," she replied, her voice soft with understanding. "Just like I've been hiding for six."
"When I found Whiterock, it felt like a place where I could lose my past. Make a new start."
"For me it was a place to be comfortable, out of the hustle and bustle of the city."
"I didn't think I could ever forgive myself, but I thought, if I got involved enough in something demanding—building up the business—I could forget. Enough so I could live with myself, anyway."
"As long as Pop was alive, I had the perfect excuse not to go back. But then I started being afraid of what I'd have to do when he was gone."
"Maybe you can't ever... Are we having a conversation?"
Sally's eyes widened. She stared at him for a moment, and then she smiled widely.
"I think it's more like a mutual confession." Almost a giggle. "You know. Tell me your sins and I'll tell you mine?"
Gus bit back a sharp answer. Silly as it sounded, maybe she was right. And maybe he'd needed to confess. Much as he would've liked to sink into his own belly button, he wasn't going to. He'd pandered to self-indulgent guilt long enough. It was time to take back his life.
"I had the strangest experience," he said, and his gaze strayed back toward that white wall where he'd seen...
Seen what? The past? The future?
Bullshit! Hallucinations.
Whatever. But the experience had opened his eyes and his mind, as they had never been opened before.
"I was to blame for Emily's death, because I was her father and a father's job is to keep his children safe—"
"Oh, no! You can't—"
He held up his hand. "Let me finish. I can't forgive myself for not taking better care of Marilyn's car. I knew she wouldn't do it, but I was so focused on work, so wrapped up in what I was doing..."
Sally just sat there, her eyes full of sympathy. But not pity. Thank God.
"I'll carry those regrets to my grave. But I don't intend going there anytime soon. First I'm going to pick up the pieces and see if I can put my life back together." He looked at her, hoping she'd heard the implied question.
All she said was "What about the shop?"
"Tomorrow I'm going to find a sign painter. How does 'Emily's Tractor and Automotive Emporium' strike you?"
"Oh, Gus, it's perfect. And can't you just hear them, down at the café, wondering where it came from?" She stood and held out her hand. "Do you need help?"
"No. I'll make it on my own from now on." He hobbled along beside her, stopping every few steps to rest his ankle. He'd have to wrap it when he got back to town. He had a feeling, though, that it would be fine tomorrow. With the enormous burden of guilt gone, he should be about a ton lighter.
"When we get home, I'll have to tell you about my afternoon," he said, wondering if he'd really been so inattentive as to miss half a dozen turns. Or had his subconscious been keeping him in Whiterock? Something had kept him from making the worst mistake of his life, that was for sure.
"Home?"
"Sally, wherever you are is home. I love you."
She flowed into his arms, lifted her face for his kiss.
A long time later she smiled up at him. "Yes, Gus. Let's go home."
They didn't go home, though. Not to her house or his apartment. When they met again in her driveway, Gus suggested they go to Ontario for dinner. "Pack a bag," he said. "We'll make a night of it."
He drove his pickup into her barn and took his duffel to her car. While she was packing, he called Lyle's office and left a message they'd be back the next day.
"This is exciting," she said, once they were on US 20. "I haven't been away for an illicit weekend for ever so long."
"We need to talk," he told her, not responding to the teasing note in her voice, "and I wanted to be where we wouldn't be interrupted."
He wondered again if the impossible conclusion he'd come to would sound as crazy to her as it did, even now, to him.
He turned right at Cairo Junction, instead of left.
"Hey! I thought we were going to Ontario!"
"Not this time. I want to get farther away." He didn't know how far the influence extended, but he was going to be damn sure they got outside it.
Influence? That's as good a word as any for something so unlikely that it probably doesn't even exist.
"...when you have eliminated the impossible..."
What comes next? Think! It could be important.
They were on the outskirts of Boise before he felt safe. He pulled into a motel he'd heard had a decent restaurant attached.
Once he'd parked, he hesitated. "Do I get one room or two?"
Sally looked at him, her expression serious. "I guess that depends on whether you are willing to answer my questions. I want to know... I need to know more about you, Gus."
Reaching across the cab
, he touched her cheek, cupped her chin. "I meant what I said, Sally. Don't ever doubt that. I love you."
"Oh, I know you do now. What I want to know is what made you the man you are. I want to hear about your childhood. What you did on your summer vacations. Whether you like to open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. All the important things you've never shared with me." She bit her lip then went on. "And whether you're planning to stay in Whiterock. Now that I've seen again what the real world is like, I can't imagine ever living anywhere else."
Once again ghostly fingers scrabbled down his spine. "You said—"
"I know what I said. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that I wouldn't be happy away from Whiterock."
"I was afraid of that," he muttered.
"What?"
"Never mind. Let's have dinner." But he stopped at the desk on the way past. They had a suite. "I'll take it," he said.
Sally didn't argue.
An hour later, she leaned across the table, eyes searching his. "What is it, Gus?" she said in a low voice. "What's making you act so strangely?"
He cupped the snifter between his hands, swirled it gently. The restaurant was nearly empty and he'd paid the check, so they weren't likely to be interrupted for a while. But he was having second thoughts. She'd never believe him.
Hell, I'll be lucky if she doesn't call the nutcatchers.
If someone told him what he was about to tell her, he'd know they were stark, raving insane.
"Have you ever thought there was something, well, spooky about Whiterock?" he said at last.
"Spooky?" She laughed. "Gus, you really did have too much sun! Whiterock is about the most ordinary, down-to-earth town in America." Another peal of laughter. "Spooky! Oh, my. That's really funny."
He leaned forward, willed her to look him in the eye. "Who fixed the elk?"
"Why, I don't know. Bernie and Tom and some of the other fellows, I expect."
"When was the bandshell patched? The first time I saw it, there were holes in the roof and half the stucco was gone. You could see the bare lath."
She shook her head. "In April. Just in time for the May Fest."
"Uh-huh! And I suppose whoever did it painted all the storefronts on Main Street, too."
"No, those were done by the own—" Her eyes grew very wide, very round, as she thought about his questions. Her hand trembled as she set the snifter carefully on the table. "But most of them don't live in town anymore, do they?"
Gus shook his head.
"I never gave it a thought until today." He took a sip, swirled the brandy and inhaled the aromatic fumes. "Now what I'm thinking scares me."
"Tell me."
"Not here." He finished his brandy. "Drink up."
"No. I don't think I want any more."
They went to their suite in silence. Once inside, he wanted to take her into his arms. Instead, he sat in one of the wing chairs that graced either side of the gas fireplace. He toed off his sneakers and stretched his legs out in front of him.
Sally curled up in a corner of the overstuffed couch. For a moment she stared at him, evidently weighing what he'd said. "So tell me," she said finally.
"You'll think I'm crazy."
She waved his warning aside. She'd been trying to figure out Gus Loring for weeks. His sanity was the least of her worries. "I want to know why you think Whiterock is spooky."
Instead of answering, he stood and came to face her. A faint smile was on his lips as he reached out with one finger and stroked her cheek. "What did you feel?"
"Your finger. Warm. Gentle." She laid her own fingers on the place he had touched. "I like you to touch me."
"No shock? No tingle?"
"Of course not. You haven't any shoe—" She stared at him.
Always before when he touched her there had been an electrical sensation. The first time it was as if a bright spark of static electricity had leapt between them. She had come to expect it as one example of the strong attraction they had for each other.
But his touch this time had been nothing more than she'd described.
Just a touch.
Even this afternoon, kneeling in the white dust of the old quarry, she'd been ready to rip his clothes off, as she had been each and every time he'd touched her. But now she wasn't.
Why not?
Because he wouldn't commit to staying in Whiterock? Hardly. She wanted to stay there, but if the choice was between Gus and the town, there was no contest. She had realized that as soon as she'd broached the subject. But if there was a possibility...
She shook her head. Pay attention!
"Something's different. And you know what it is."
He seemed to be staring at something invisible. His fingers were steepled together, forefingers tapping slowly at his lips. At last he said, "No... No, I don't know, but I have a suspicion. But it's so incredible, so unbelievable..."
Closing his eyes, he sat completely still and was silent for several minutes.
"Do you ever read science fiction?" he said at last.
What's that got to do with anything? "No, not really. I've seen a few episodes of Star Trek, but I didn't particularly enjoy them."
"Stephen King? Dean Koontz?"
Sally chuckled. "You've seen my library—mostly videos. I'm more into Rogers and Hammerstein than King and Koontz."
"That makes it harder," he said, almost as if to himself. Suddenly he sat up straight. "I think Whiterock is alive."
Openmouthed, she stared at him for a moment. Then she burst out laughing.
He didn't.
His gravity quickly stifled her laughter.
"You're serious?"
Gus nodded.
"And sober." Leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees, he loosely clasped his hands. He looked at them instead of her as he said, "I don't mean 'alive' as we usually think of it, but...aware... Sentient... Intelligent..."
Sally couldn't think of a thing to say. She simply waited. Watched as his hands twisted together. Listened to the crack of his knuckles. Felt his confusion.
He leapt to his feet and paced the length of the room and back. Stopping before the fireplace, he put both hands on the mantel and stared down into the cold hearth.
"Hell! I don't know what I mean."
Part of her wanted to go to him, to soothe him, to say that he'd been working too hard, that he needed a rest.
Part of her believed every word he said.
INTERVAL
Failure?
Negative. Positive outcome remains conceivable.
Patience.
TWENTY-THREE
"Would it help you tell me if I promise not to interrupt and not to laugh?"
Gus looked over his shoulder. She wasn't smiling. Her tone had been calm, reasonable. My God! She's taking me seriously.
Suddenly, his hypothesis didn't seem as far-fetched. He sat back down and leaned back. Took a moment to organize his thoughts. "Every time I've touched you, I felt a...a spark. Like an electrical shock." He hesitated, still seeking the right words. "Sally, when Emily and Marilyn died, I thought I had, too. I ran, trying to hide from myself, I guess. For three years.
"In that whole time, I never felt the need for a woman. Never felt even the faintest hint of sexual desire." He grimaced. "Impotent at thirty-four. Probably permanently. I figured it was the least I deserved."
Her mouth opened, as if she would speak, and closed again. Her eyes were shut, but her fingers were twisting and knotting together, as he'd seen them do before.
"Then I met you. And I've been in a perpetual state of need ever since."
"Horny?"
Had she really said that? A flash of her eyes and a quick grin said she had.
"Horny," he agreed, on a chuckle. He sobered. "I hope your feelings won't be hurt if I say that while you're a lovely, desirable woman, you simply aren't that remarkable."
"I know."
"Something caused that reaction, Sally, and I can only come u
p with one explanation." He willed her to lift her chin, to look him in the eyes.
She did.
"Whiterock." He waited for her to respond. When she didn't, he said, "Well?"
"I'm thinking." Her fingers stilled, wove together, but the knuckles were white. "I don't think you're crazy," she said at last. "But there has to be an explanation. A town can't be alive. And even if it were, how could it possible influence how we feel about each other?"
"I don't know. But while I was down in the pit this afternoon, I remembered something I'd read a long time ago. Sherlock Holmes said it, I think. Something like '...when you have eliminated the impossible what's left,'—no, that's not right. '...whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'"
"You think it's impossible that we should feel such instant...lust, for lack of a better word...for each other?"
"Sally, even when I was sixteen and completely at the mercy of my hormones, I never reacted to a woman like I do to you. That first day? It was all I could do not to take you right there in your entry." Once again he rose and paced the length of the room and back. "This is ridiculous," he said when he was facing her again. "You don't believe me. I'm wasting my breath."
"I do believe you."
"You're kidding!"
"Nope. At least as far as I know. Grandfather Sam was a peculiar fellow, even as a young man. Pop used to tell the most outlandish stories about him. According to Wilma Collotzi and Mrs. Alpin, most of them were probably true. They both remember their parents talking about him.
"Grandpa—my grandfather, Archibald Carruthers—was his only son. He was raised by his aunts, Mildred and Martha, who never married but kept house for their father and then for Grandfather Sam after—"
Her eyes widened and her face took on a...a listening expression. Gus was about to ask her what she'd heard when she said, "Of course! That's what Aunt Trudy was talking about." She rose. "I'll be right back."
While she was in the bedroom, Gus got a couple bottles of water from the small fridge under the wet bar. He'd prefer brandy, but tonight he needed his wits about him.
In a few minutes she was back, carrying a small book, thin, its blue cover faded and threadbare along the edges.
"As I came downstairs this afternoon, I remembered this. For some reason I had this—I guess you'd call it a compulsion—to bring it along." But when she sat down, she didn't immediately open it. Instead, she traced circles on the cover with her forefinger. "Aunt Trudy gave it to me the night before she left. She said I should read it before I decided whether to leave or to stay. It's... She said it's why she left and never comes back for a long visit."
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