The Collective

by The Collective [lit]

  five minutes. I got over to Amberson in ten. It was unlocked. That

  was enough to settle any doubts I had left."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The key ring on the janitor's belt. It went with the janitor."

  Dex shuddered.

  "If the door had been locked--forgive me, Dex, but if you're going

  to play for keeps, you ought to cover every base--there was still

  time enough to get back home ahead of Wilma and burn that note.

  "I went downstairs--and I kept as close to the wall going down

  those stairs as I could, believe me..."

  Henry stepped into the lab and glanced around. It was just as Dex

  had left it. He slicked his tongue over his dry lips and then wiped

  his face with his hand. His heart was thudding in his chest. Get

  hold of yourself, man. One thing at a time. Don't look ahead.

  The boards the janitor had pried off the crate were still stacked on

  the lab table. One table over was the scatter of Charlie Gereson's

  lab notes, never to be completed now. Henry took it all in, and then

  pulled his own flashlight--the one he always kept in the glovebox

  of his car for emergencies--from his back pocket. If this didn't

  qualify as an emergency, nothing did.

  He snapped it on and crossed the lab and went out the door. The

  light bobbed uneasily in the dark for a moment, and then he trained

  it on the floor. He didn't want to step on anything he shouldn't.

  Moving slowly and cautiously, Henry moved around to the side of

  the stairs and shone the light underneath. His breath paused, and

  then resumed again, more slowly. Sudenly the tension and fear

  were gone, and he only felt cold. The crate was under there, just as

  Dex had said it was. And the janitor's ballpoint pen. And his shoes.

  And Charlie Gereson's glasses.

  Henry moved the light from one of these artifacts to the next

  slowly, spotlighting each. Then he glanced at his watch, snapped

  the flashlight off and jammed it back in his pocket. He had half an

  hour. There was no time to waste.

  In the janitor's closet upstairs he found buckets, heavy-duty

  cleaner, rags... and gloves. No prints. He went back downstairs like

  the sorcerer's apprentice, a heavy plastic bucket full of hot water

  and foaming cleaner in each hand, rags draped over his shoulder.

  His footfalls clacked hollowly in the stillness. He thought of Dex

  saying, It sits squat and mute. And still he was cold.

  He began to clean up.

  "She came," Henry said. "Oh yes, she came. And she was... excited

  and happy."

  "What?" Dex said.

  "Excited," he repeated. "She was whining and carping the way she

  always did in that high, unpleasant voice, but that was just habit, I

  think. All those years, Dex, the only part of me she wasn't able to

  completely control, the only part she could never get completely

  under her thumb, was my friendship with you. Our two drinks

  while she was at class. Our chess. Our... companionship."

  Dex nodded. Yes, companionship was the right word. A little light

  in the darkness of loneliness. It hadn't just been the chess or the

  drinks; it had been Henry's face over the board, Henry's voice

  recounting how things were in his department, a bit of harmless

  gossip, a laugh over something.

  "So she was whining and bitching in her best 'just call me Billie'

  style, but I think it was just habit. She was excited and happy, Dex.

  Because she was finally going to be able to get control over the last

  ... little.., bit." He looked at Dex calmly. "I knew she'd come, you

  see. I knew she'd want to see what kind of mess you gotten

  yourself into, Dex."

  "They're downstairs," Henry told Wilma. Wilma was wearing a

  bright yellow sleeveless blouse and green pants that were too tight

  for her. "Right downstairs." And he uttered a sudden, loud laugh.

  Wilma's head whipped around and her narrow face darkened with

  suspicion. "What are you laughing about?" She asked in her loud,

  buzzing voice. "Your best friend gets in a scrape with a girl and

  you're laughing?"

  No, he shouldn't be laughing. But he couldn't help it. It was sitting

  under the stairs, sitting there squat and mute, just try telling that

  thing in the crate to call you Billie, Wilma--and another loud laugh

  escaped him and went rolling down the dim first-floor hall like a

  depth charge.

  "Well, there is a funny side to it," he said, hardly aware of what he

  was saying. "Wait'Il you see. You'll think--"

  Her eyes, always questing, never still, dropped to his front pocket,

  where he had stuffed the rubber gloves.

  "What are those? Are those gloves?"

  Henry began to spew words. At the same time he put his arm

  around Wilma's bony shoulders and led her toward the stairs.

  "Well, he's passed out, you know. He smells like a distillery. Can't

  guess how much he drank. Threw up all over everything. I've been

  cleaning up. Hell of an awful mess, Billie. I persuaded the girl to

  stay a bit. You'll help me, won't you? This is Dex, after all."

  "I don't know," she said, as they began to descend the stairs to the

  basement lab. Her eyes snapped with dark glee. "I'll have to see

  what the situation is. You don't know anything, that's obvious.

  You're hysterical. Exactly what I would have expected."

  "That's right," Henry said. They had reached the bottom of the

  stairs. "Right around here. Just step right around here."

  "But the lab's that way--"

  "Yes... but the girl..." And he began to laugh again in great,

  loonlike bursts.

  "Henry, what is wrong with you?" And now that acidic contempt

  was mixed with something else--something that might have been

  fear.

  That made Henry laugh harder. His laughter echoed and

  rebounded, filling the dark basement with a sound like laughing

  banshees or demons approving a particularly good jest. "The girl,

  Billie," Henry said between bursts of helpless laughter. "That's

  what's so funny, the girl, the girl has crawled under the stairs and

  won't come out, that what's so funny, ah-heh-heh-hahahahaa--"

  And now the dark kerosene of joy lit in her eyes; her lips curled up

  like charring paper in what the denizens of hell might call a smile.

  And Wilma whispered, "What did he do to her?"

  "You can get her out," Henry babbled, leading her to the dark.

  triangular, gaping maw. "I'm sure you can get her out, no trouble,

  no problem." He suddenly grabbed Wilma at the nape of the neck

  and the waist, forcing her down even as he pushed her into the

  space under the stairs.

  "What are you doing?" she screamed querulously. "What are you

  doing, Henry?"

  "What I should have done a long time ago," Henry said, laughing.

  "Get under there, Wilma. Just tell it to call you Billie, you bitch."

  She tried to turn, tried to fight him. One hand clawed for his wrist--

  he saw her spade-shaped nails slice down, but they clawed only

  air. "Stop it, Henry!" She cried. "Stop it right now! Stop this

  foolishness! I--I'll scream!"

  "Scream all you want!" he bellowed, still laugh
ing. He raised one

  foot, planted it in the center of her narrow and joyless backside,

  and pushed. "I'll help you, Wilma! Come on out! Wake up,

  whatever you are! Wake up! Here's your dinner! Poison meat!

  Wake up! Wake up!"

  Wilma screamed piercingly, an inarticulate sound that was still

  more rage than fear.

  And then Henry heard it.

  First a low whistle, the sound a man might make while working

  alone without even being aware of it. Then it rose in pitch, sliding

  up the scale to an earsplitting whine that was barely audible. Then

  it suddenly descended again and became a growl... and then a

  hoarse yammering. It was an utterly savage sound. All his married

  life Henry Northrup had gone in fear of his wife, but the thing in

  the crate made Wilma sound like a child doing a kindergarten

  tantram. Henry had time to think: Holy God, maybe it really is a

  Tasmanian devil... it's some kind of devil, anyway.

  Wilma began to scream again, but this time it was a sweeter tune--

  at least to the ear of Henry Northrup. It was a sound of utter terror.

  Her yellow blouse flashed in the dark under the stairs, a vague

  beacon. She lunged at the opening and Henry pushed her back,

  using all his strength.

  "Henry!" She howled. "Henreeeee!"

  She came again, head first this time, like a charging bull. Henry

  caught her head in both hands, feeling the tight, wiry cap of her

  curls squash under his palms. He Pushed. And then, over Wilma's

  shoulder, he saw something that might have been the gold-glinting

  eyes of a small owl. Eyes that were infinitely cold and hateful. The

  yammering became louder, reaching a crescendo. And when it

  struck at Wilma, the vibration running through her body was

  enough to knock him backwards.

  He caught one glimpse of her face, her bulging eyes, and then she

  was dragged back into the darkness. She screamed once more.Only

  once.

  "Just tell it to call you Billie," he whispered.

  Henry Northrup drew a great, shuddering breath.

  "It went on ... for quite a while," he said. After a long time, maybe

  twenty minutes, the growling and the... the sounds of its feeding...

  that stopped, too. And it started to whistle. Just like you said, Dex.

  As if it were a happy teakettle or something. It whistled for maybe

  five minutes, and then it stopped. I shone my light underneath

  again. The crate had been pulled out a little way. Thre was... fresh

  blood. And Wilma's purse had spilled everywhere. But it got both

  of her shoes. That was something, wasn't it?"

  Dex didn't answer. The room basked in sunshine. Outside, a bird

  sang.

  "I finished cleaning the lab," Henry resumed at last. "It took me

  another forty minutes, and I almost missed a drop of blood that

  was on the light globe ... saw it just as I was going out. But when I

  was done, the place was as neat as a pin. Then I went out to my car

  and drove across campus to the English department. It was getting

  late, but I didn't feel a bit tired. In fact, Dex, I don't think I ever felt

  more clear-headed in my life. There was a crate in the basement of

  the English department. I flashed on that very early in your story.

  Associating one monster with another, I suppose."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Last year when Badlinger was in England--you remember

  Badlinger, don't you?"

  Dex nodded. Badlinger was the man who had beaten Henry out for

  the English department chair... partly because Badlinger's wife was

  bright, vivacious and sociable, while Henry's wife was a shrew.

  Had been a shrew.

  "He was in England on sabbatical," Henry said. "Had all their

  things crated and shipped back. One of them was a giant stuffed

  animal. Nessie, they call it. For his kids. That bastard bought it for

  his kids. I always wanted children, you know. Wilma didn't. She

  said kids get in the way.

  "Anyway, it came back in this gigantic wooden crate, and

  Badlinger dragged it down to the English department basement

  because there was no room in the garage at home, he said, but he

  didn't want to throw it out because it might come in handy

  someday. Meantime, our janitors were using it as a gigantic sort of

  wastebasket. When it was full of trash, they'd dump it into the back

  of the truck on trash day and then fill it up again.

  "I think it was the crate Badlinger's damned stuffed monster came

  back from England in that put the idea in my head. I began to see

  how your Tasmanian devil could be gotten rid of. And that started

  me thinking about something else I wanted to be rid of. That I

  wanted so badly to be rid of.

  "I had my keys, of course. I let myself in and went downstairs. The

  crate was there. It was a big, unwieldy thing, but the janitors' dolly

  was down there as well. I dumped out the little bit of trash that was

  in it and got the crate onto the dolly by standing it on end. I pulled

  it upstairs and wheeled it straight across the mall and back to

  Amberson."

  "You didn't take your car?"

  "No, I left my car in my space in the English department parking

  lot. I couldn't have gotten the crate in there, anyway."

  For Dex, new light began to break. Henry would have been driving

  his MG, of course--an elderly sportscar that Wilma had always

  called Henry's toy. And if Henry had the MG, then Wilma would

  have had the Scout--a jeep with a fold-down back seat. Plenty of

  storage space, as the ads said.

  "I didn't meet anyone," Henry said. "At this time of year--and at no

  other--the campus is quite deserted. The whole thing was almost

  hellishly perfect. I didn't see so much as a pair of headlights. I got

  back to Amberson Hall and took Badlinger's crate downstairs. I left

  it sitting on the dolly with the open end facing under the stairs.

  Then I went back upstairs to the janitors' closet and got that long

  pole they use to open and close the windows. They only have those

  poles in the old buildings now. I went back down and got ready to

  hook the crate--your Paella crate--out from under the stairs. Then I

  had a bad moment. I realized the top of Badlinger's crate was gone,

  you see. I'd noticed it before, but now I realized it. In my guts."

  "What did you do?"

  "Decided to take the chance," Henry said. "I took the window pole

  and pulled the crate out. I eased it out, as if it were full of eggs. No

  ... as if it were full of Mason jars with nitroglycerine in them."

  Dex sat up, staring at Henry. "What... what..."

  Henry looked back somberly. "It was my first good look at it,

  remember. It was horrible." He paused deliberately and then said it

  again: "It was horrible, Dex. It was splattered with blood, some of

  it seemingly grimed right into tile wood. It made me think of... do

  you remember those joke boxes they used to sell? You'd push a

  little lever and tile box would grind and shake, and then a pale

  green hand would come out of the top and push the lever back and

  snap inside again. It made me think of that.

  "I pulled it out--oh
, so carefully--and I said I wouldn't look down

  inside, no matter what. But I did, of course. And I saw..." His voice

  dropped helplessly, seeming to lose all strength. "I saw Wilma's

  face, Dex. Her face."

  "Henry, don't--"

  "I saw her eyes, looking up at me from that box. Her glazed eyes. I

  saw something else, too. Something white. A bone, I think. And a

  black something. Furry. Curled up. Whistling, too. A very low

  whistle. I think it was sleeping."

  "I hooked it out as far as I could, and then I just stood there

  looking at it, realizing that I couldn't drive knowing that thing

  could come out at any time... come out and land on the back of my

  neck. So I started to look around for something--anything--to cover

  the top of Badlinger's crate.

  "I went into the animal husbandry room, and there were a couple

  of cages big enough to hold the Paella crate, but I couldn't find the

  goddamned keys. So I went upstairs and I still couldn't find

  anything. I don't know how long I hunted, but there was this

  continual feeling of time... slipping away. I was getting a little

  crazy. Then I happened to poke into that big lecture room at the far

  end of the hall--"

  "Room 6?"

  "Yes, I think so. They had been painting the walls. There was a big

  canvas dropcloth on the floor to catch the splatters. I took it, and

  then I went back downstairs, and I pushed the Paella crate into

  Badlinger's crate. Carefully!... you wouldn't believe how carefully

  I did it, Dex."

  When the smaller crate was nested inside the larger, Henry

  uncinched the straps on the English department dolly and grabbed

  the end of the dropcloth. It rustled stiffly in the stillness of

  Amberson Hall's basement. His breathing rustled stiffly as well.

  And there was that low whistle. He kept waiting for it to pause, to

  change. It didn't. He had sweated his shirt through; it was plastered

  to his chest and back.

  Moving carefully, refusing to hurry, he wrapped the dropcloth

  around Badlinger's crate three times, then four, then five. In the

  dim light shining through from the lab, Badlinger's crate now

  looked mummified. Holding the seam with one splayed hand, he

  wrapped first one strap around it, then the other. He cinched them

  tight and then stood back a moment. He glanced at his watch. It

  was just past one o'clock. A pulse beat rhythmically at his throat.