"Don't move," a voice said behind him. Davey heard sirens. He looked up to see Officer Johnston's .38 police special aimed at him. The officer advanced, lifted Davey's jacket, yanked Davey's .38 out of his belt.
"Run, boy!" Davey shouted, and the dog mounted the stairs and ran off.
"On the floor," Johnston's hard voice said. The cop pushed Davey flat on his stomach, yanked his hands around his back, cuffed him.
"Oh, good Christ," another cop said, moving down into the cellar. "There was a dog—"
"Fuck the dog," Johnston said. To Davey, he said, "Get up."
Davey began to cry. He felt a blow across his face. He looked up into the angry face of Officer Johnston and said, "I know who did this."
Johnston hit him again. "So do I, fucker."
Davey wanted to cry again, to be five years old with his tiny hand lost in his mother's. But that real world was truly gone now, and he knew, suddenly, that he had grown up.
"I know who did this," he repeated.
The cop kicked him. "Keep your mouth shut."
Later, after Officer Johnston had hit him again, when they were putting him in the patrol car, with the ring of sleepy, curious, bath robed neighbors staring in at him, Davey thought about the dog, and smiled.
15
October 31st
There was blood on his shirt, but it didn't matter. It was Halloween, his day, and no one would notice.
There had been plenty of times, before the soaps and TV movies, when James Weston had done his own makeup. If it had been necessary, he would have brought enough of Weston up to do it.
But there was no need.
He brought Weston up to let him see the house, to let him know what was going to happen. To hear him scream.
Quiet, he said, and James Weston stopped screaming, continued to see.
Watch.
He knocked on the door.
A girl answered. Thin. Sad faced.
"I'm looking for your mother," he made Weston say pleasantly.
"I'm sorry, she's not here."
He smiled. "Don't you recognize me?"
The girl studied him. "I'm sorry. No."
He told her who he was.
She cried and held him and made him come in. She made tea. For an hour, he listened to her, let James Weston, anguished, helpless, listen to her talk about her mother, herself, her sad attempt to love a man she despised named Kevin Michaels.
She was very sad, and wan, and thin.
Then she told him where her mother was, and he killed her.
White walls.
Were these the walls of her office? No. White walls. Where . . . ?
Lydia? Was Lydia here, in those walls, perhaps, pressed into them like a dried flower? Pale, indistinct . . .
"Lydia! Tell your father dinner is ready!" she called.
But Lydia wasn't here. Lydia was home, in the empty house, and she was . . .
Yes. A memory. The ride in the ambulance. Dr. Carpenter's face, so long and earnest. She wished she had her legal pad, her pencil now, to describe his face. She imagined he had been thinking more about his dinner than her.
"Nurse!" she cried. But no one came. There had been a visit earlier in the day: a white uniform, the flat smell of stiff starch. A bland face looking into her eyes, rough hands under her body, tucking, pushing sheets, a flat hand on her back (the Time Machine? No), propping her up like a doll, knocking pillows into shape. The sound: whump whump, little puffs of air on the back of her neck. She felt light as a pillow feather, frightened.
Lydia?
"Lydia, tell your father . . . !"
The witch, The Wizard of Oz. Lydia hid her eyes when the monkey men stole Dorothy into the air. The boys liked it. Almost Easter, on television every year. It was on so many times, Lydia hid her eyes . . .
"Tell your father!" she shouted.
The walls.
Scrubbed white. The smell of disinfectant in the corners. They should have water-mopped it out. She hated white. The dirtiest color. The illusion of cleanliness.
The door opened, old oak painted white, three panels. A face looked in.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Connel?"
Witch's mask.
The Wizard of Oz? No.
Starched white uniform. The nurse lifted the mask. Halloween. Blank face. "Did you call?"
"Lydia?" she said.
The nurse shook her head, retreated. The sound of a party, the nurses' station, someone laughing. Halloween. Har har. An unpleasant sound.
I observe, Mrs. Greene, I observe!
The funeral procession going by the house, her face at the window, pushing at the pane with the flats of her hands, feeling as if she must float through and over the heads of these living like an angel. . . .
Lay me down with lilies, she wrote in her secret diary. The first doctor read it; he said he didn't but she saw him take it when she was supposed to be asleep. Pills. Her mother and Mr. Fields talking to the doctor. He took the diary out of his white coat pocket. Where is Father? Is Columbus, Ohio, far away? He won't come, her mother said, lips tight. Take your pill, to sleep. Mr. Fields pretended to study the walls.
Lay me down with lilies, the fields of night my blanket bright. . .
The black caissons, her hands on the flat, lucid panes, sadness only. Peace. If she told the doctor that she was changed, that it was only a poem about peace, would he believe her?
No.
What happened to me? Why do I know these things . . .
The cold up her arm .
Halloween.
That ugly laugh, har .
Jerry Martin.
"Hello."
Three white panels—no. Someone was there in the doorway. Not the Halloween nurse. She was on the plateau. Stay. Tall, nearly up to the doorframe, pale as the white walls. Dirty color. Thin, suspenders, white shirt covered in bleached red.
The face . . .
"Hello, Mother."
"My God. Bobby."
She said it, knew it. It was him. Danny's height, taller, her slimness. Lydia, in the face. So pale . . .
"Where . . ." she said.
"In California, Mother. An actor. I changed my name, just like you. James Weston. Maybe you've seen me." He smiled, a slight, straight thing.
Why did it look false?
"I didn't know . . ."
"Did you miss me?"
"Oh, Bobby." She held her hands out, fingers splayed. She wanted, very much, for him to come to her.
He walked to the foot of the bed, stopped. The odd smile.
"You don't recognize me? An actor, not a writer. But I use words."
"Of course, Bobby." The fingers reached, wanting his touch.
He edged around the bed, held his hand out.
Her fingers strained, met his. She took his hand and he gripped her wrist, a vise hold.
Numbness.
Ice cold, up her arm.
"Oh . . ."
"It's me." He smiled at her, Bobby's face
She remembered the rest.
—and into her mouth. She feels it scrabbling up into the back of her throat. A burst of images, the burning of a huge bonfire, oaks—
"No!" she screams, turns her head aside, gagging. The thing falls. She feels it strike her teeth and she opens her mouth wide, gagging, pushing with her tongue, and the thing drops free.
As it falls, scrabbling at the ground, churning its tiny legs down away from her, she feels, like a rifle shot of truth, an overwhelming—
"I remember!" She looked up at the face of her son. "I remember!"
"Yes," he said.
"I'm not afraid," she said. Her face was radiant. "You can't hurt me."
"You're alive. I already have." He loomed over her, his mouth opening. "You wrote about me."
"Yes."
"I want to hurt you, but I want you to live to die the way you were supposed to." His hands, her son's hands, descended upon her. "Let me tell you what I've done, and what I'm going to do. . . ."
&nb
sp; 16
October 31st
When a sharp, loud, impatient knock came on Kevin's office door, he knew immediately who it was.
"Come in."
The door opened. Raymond Fillet turned to speak to someone out in the hallway, then entered alone.
Fillet strutted to Kevin's desk, stopped abruptly. He looked at the ceiling. Kevin had never seen him so ill at ease.
"It's been a rough month, Michaels," he said, letting his ferret eyes meet Kevin's briefly, before breaking contact.
"Yes," Kevin answered. He pointed to the padded armchair inches from where Fillet stood. "Would you like to sit down?"
"No," Fillet said. "As I said, a very difficult month. We've lost Sidney Weiss to Northwestern, which was a blow, of course; and then there was the unpleasantness with your brief resignation . . ."
Kevin sensed a slight lifting of Fillet's spirits.
"And then, of course," Fillet went on, "we lost dear Henry Beardman to that madness last week. As well as yesterday, that student from your class . . ."
"Nicholas Backman."
"Yes, young Backman. Horrible."
Horrible, Kevin thought, because Backman's father, who had bought his son's admission, will no longer be providing money to the university.
Kevin waited patiently as Fillet's uneasiness returned.
"It's . . . not that I want to do this," Fillet said finally. His eyes returned from their wandering, zeroed in on Kevin's. "But it seems that John Groteman's decision on your reinstatement was premature. There was an inquiry . . ." Fillet could not keep the smirk off his face. "It seems there was a prior case that takes precedence, something in the Economics Department in 1957. I'm afraid your resignation will have to stand."
"Raymond—" Kevin began.
Fillet's hand went up. "This time it's irreversible, Michaels. Things must end somewhere. President Groteman has ruled."
Fillet waved Charles Steadman into the room from the hallway. Steadman wore a superior grin along with his tailored clothes and T. S. Eliot affectations. "Young Steadman here was, I thought, very unjustly treated to begin with. He will, as of this afternoon, take your place permanently on the faculty. It's only right, Michaels; and, I believe . . ."
Again Fillet's uneasiness returned, intensifying as Kevin rose and walked around his desk to face him.
"I . . . think you will agree," Fillet blustered, "that the only way to handle these things is through proper channels. The department head should have his say, and well, that's what I've had in this matter—"
Kevin raised his hand as if to strike him. Fillet flinched, and, Kevin was pleased to note, Steadman stepped back, eyes wide, his own hands mute at his side.
Kevin turned, began to gather the papers on his desk. "I'll be out in an hour," he said.
"Fine," Fillet said quickly. "You're a fair man, Michaels. I expect no trouble. If, in the near future, an opening should occur—in fact, if, perhaps, the man I have in mind to fill Henry Beardman's spot is unavailable, we would of course be happy to have you back here, at least on a temporary basis, while we looked—"
"Please leave," Kevin said.
"Surely," Fillet stammered. "You have things to do. It's been a pleasure . . ."
Kevin listened to no more. Fillet's words faded until the door had been closed.
Twenty minutes later, Kevin was packing when the phone rang.
"Yes?"
"Kevin Michaels?"
"Yes." He noticed the agitation in the female voice.
"Mr. Michaels, this is New Polk County Hospital. Eileen Connel is a patient here. Someone . . . assaulted Ms. Connel in her room. It's horrible, but apparently her daughter has been murdered. Ms. Connel is insisting on seeing you, Mr. Michaels, and, well . . ."
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Kevin said.
"Thank you, Mr. Michaels. I'm afraid . . ." The voice paused. "I'm afraid Ms. Connel is dying."
She was surrounded, by tubes and machines. At first, he didn't see her; the bed looked freshly made, flat, unoccupied. But she was in it, covers tucked at her chin, her thin face swollen with bruises, her thin white hair pushed carelessly back from her forehead.
"Eileen," he said.
He thought she was dead. A machine registered her heartbeat, but her skin was gray, lifeless.
She opened her eyes.
"Eileen," he said again.
She whispered something. As he bent closer, he realized that it was his name.
"Yes," he said.
She held up her hand, paper thin. There were bruises, bandages, up and down her arm.
She took his hand, tried to squeeze. Weakly, she pulled him down toward her.
"Listen," she whispered faintly.
She paused, closed her eyes, breathed deeply. She appeared to be battling herself.
"Eileen—" Kevin began.
Her eyes opened, focused on him. "I . . . It's going to be very difficult for me to keep my mind clear."
She drew in a long breath, closed her eyes. Her mouth twitched. She spoke something that sounded like a command to herself, "Stay here." Kevin moved closer, standing over her chair.
She opened her startling gray eyes. "I remember, Kevin."
He watched her eyes drift. She held his hand tighter, tried to rise. "No . . . Don't you dare raise your hand to me, Danny Sullivan! Go live in New York City! Get out!"
A tremor ran through her. She settled back, clenching her teeth. She hissed, said, "Stay . . ."
When she opened her eyes again, they were clear. "That boy in jail," she whispered, "he didn't kill those people. James Weston killed them. Lydia, too. Ask the boy where to find James Weston."
"Eileen," Kevin said. "You—"
"Listen to me!" Again she closed her eyes, clenched her teeth in effort.
She opened her eyes, reached her hand up to claw at Kevin's shoulder. "I told you, I remember! The thing in James Weston is the same thing that was in Jerry Martin. It was in me! That was how I learned."
"Eileen, I can't—"
Her grip tightened. "Listen to me! That was Season of Witches. That was where it came from. A thief . . ." Her eyes were hard and clear. "That was how I learned, Kevin."
"What did you learn?" he said quietly.
"Find James Weston. You have to destroy the thing inside him. It's . . ." She stiffened, fought to control herself.
Kevin gripped Eileen Connel by the shoulder, held her. "Tell me what you learned, Eileen."
Her eyes were hard as ice. "Promise me you'll find James Weston."
Kevin gripped her tight. "I will. Tell me."
Her gaze softened.
Kevin saw the erratic beat of her heart on the monitor. Ashamed, he bent his ear down to her, eagerly.
"You already have it;" she whispered. "Jerry Martin just . . . made me see it."
"Eileen, what—?"
She smiled up at him, closed her eyes. The monitor showed a straight line, began to sound its alarm that she was dead.
"I love you, Kevin. . . ."
"I hear they're moving you tomorrow."
From the bed at the back of his cell, knees pulled up, Davey Putnam regarded Kevin Michaels with a sullenness that closely resembled dulled fear. There were bruises on his face. His seeming uncaring attitude was undercut by a wariness detectable in his sharp eyes.
"I said, they're moving you tomorrow," Kevin repeated. The boy said nothing.
"Don't you care?"
"How did you get in here?" the boy asked.
"I told the cop out front I was from your attorney's office."
"You lied."
"Yes."
Kevin detected a heightening of the boy's interest. "Why?"
"Maybe you didn't do what they say you did.”
“Are you a reporter?"
"No. But will you be very frank with me?" Kevin asked.
"Maybe."
"Maybe isn't good enough."
Davey rose from the bed. Kevin saw that one eye was blackened, nearly closed. The b
oy came to the bars of the cell, gripped them hard, pressed his face between them. "James Weston is going to kill me."
"They say you killed him, and hid his body somewhere.”
“He killed them all!" The boy's fear was so palpable Kevin felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
The door at the far end of the long gray corridor opened. Officer Johnston put his head in, looked grimly at Kevin. "Everything all right?"
"Yes," Kevin said.
"Three more minutes and you're out."
"Fine."
Johnston glared at him, closed the door.
"Look," Kevin said to Davey. "They found your fingerprints all over Ben Meyer's house, on the shovel that buried the bodies, all over the Backman house, even on the knife in your friend's back and on the bag of cocaine in the cellar. That was all in the papers. The only way I could prove any of what you say is to find James Weston."
The boy looked at him steadily. "I don't know if I can trust you."
"Do you have a choice?"
The boy looked so suddenly young and helpless, so absent of bravado, that Kevin wanted to reach through the bars and hold him.
"The dog could find him," Davey said.
"What dog?"
"There was a dog with me. He knows James Weston.”
“What happened to him?"
"He ran away when the police got to Nick Backman's house."
"Where would he be now?"
The door at the end of the corridor opened again. "That's it," Johnston's hard voice said.
Kevin looked at Davey. "Tell me where to look for the dog."
Davey hesitated. "All right," he said.
Davey dreamed he heard, through the gray, flat walls, the howl of the dog running. He imagined the dog tearing through the fields, something cold at his heels. But the dog was uncatchable.
Suddenly, the dog turned in mid-run, twisted up into the air. His rusty-brown coat turned just behind his body, hair billowing. He caught the cold, stalking thing in his mouth, gripped its neck deep in his teeth, and closed. The stalking thing cried a hollow cry and fell back, throwing its deadened hands ineffectively to the sky—
He awoke.
Up on his elbows, the cold, hard wafer of mattress unyielding. Tiny gray and white pinstripes, a hard starched sheet, an unfeathered pillow filled with broken foam. Light in the corridor.
October Page 16