Doug sat on the windowsill and listened, and was reminded of men he had known in prison, men who spent hours in the library teaching themselves the law, the same hours again every night preaching passionately to each other about the injustices of it all and what they were going to do about it the next time their lawyers visited.
It was preaching to the converted.
An hour later they realized it as well, and decided they would confront Parrish at the party tomorrow and pump him for all the information they could. They quieted then, and waited until he had spread the magazines in front of Judy and asked for her opinion.
None of them were prepared for her response.
The first photograph made her grow pale; the second had her left hand shaking; the third and the fourth made her drop the magazines and push herself to her feet.
“Lord,” Clark said with a grunted laugh, “he’s not all that ugly, you know.”
“Judy,” Liz said, “what’s the matter?”
She waved away the question, waved away Doug when he took a step toward her. “I’m all right. I. . . it must be the food. I ate too fast.” She hurried to the staircase, to the bathroom, and slammed the door.
Doug stood with one hand on the newel post and looked up. “Clark,” he said quietly, “I think you’d better take her home, if you don’t mind. Ollie, too, We’ve done enough for one night.”
“No, hey,” Ollie protested angrily. “All you guys are forgetting about me, aren’t you? I mean, what the hell are you going to do about me?”
Liz wrapped an arm around her shoulder to hold her down, to comfort her while she struggled not to cry again, struggled not to lose control. “Ollie, the doctor—”
“Shit on the doctor!” she snapped, and stood up. “Clark, please. I want to go home.” She strode to the front door, one hand absently on her stomach, and waited while the attorney’s face shifted from petulance at being elected chauffeur again to a firm decision that someone ought to be the man around here since Doug was clearly not offering himself.
Then Judy burst out of the bathroom, ran down the steps no more composed than before, and nodded brusquely when Ollie told her Clark was their cabbie. She did not look at Doug. She ignored Liz’s good night. And Doug stood in the doorway until they were gone.
Liz joined him, a hand at his back. “I’ll take the kids.”
He didn’t look around. “Yesterday, I want to Winterrest. Just to look at it. I like to, it’s an impressive piece of work. Liz, I leaned on the wall, and it moved.”
She said nothing immediately. Then: “Your imagination. Walls don’t move.”
“And New Jersey doesn’t have earthquakes. And women don’t get pregnant overnight.”
Her hand slipped away from his waist. “That isn’t the same, Doug, and you know it. There are explanations for earthquakes, and there are denials of unwanted pregnancies. But walls just do not move.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I know.”
She backed away and called the children. They protested, saw that Doug was no longer on their side, and grumbled out to the car. Liz turned on the stoop.
“Doug, what are you going to do? I mean, about the tea party tomorrow?”
He stared at the dark. “I don’t know, Liz. I don’t know.”
“Well, I can tell you now I’m not going. I don’t give a damn if he builds those condos from here to Pennsylvania, I’m not going to set a foot on that place tomorrow.”
He nodded and watched them leave, watched the moon make corpses of the trees straight ahead.
Five minutes later he closed and locked the door, locked all the windows, and stood in the dark—listening, not thinking, to the terrified race of his heart.
PART FOUR
THE MENU
ONE
1
Doug rolled over too quickly in the bed, clamped his hands gingerly to his temples, and cursed, damning himself for even thinking of moving. What had awakened him was a none-too-subtle ache in his head—it settled there, digging in with dull claws, stirring only when he shifted to sit on the edge of the mattress and massage his brow, the back of his neck.
Through a vertical gap in the draperies he could see sunlight as if diffused through grey glass, and a strip of black cloud scarred white around the edges. Rain, he thought; good god, it’s going to rain.
But the only chill he felt was the one that coasted along his skin, tightening it, making him shudder to send it away.
He forced a groan for the sake of his conscience, jammed his knuckles into his eyes and rubbed, pulled, then lowered his hands and blinked until he could see without a laving of tears. His head still complained, but he managed to feel a bit more alive, and could remember what had gotten him here in the first place.
After the others had left and he had gotten control of the fear that had gripped him, he had wandered into the kitchen, had seen an unopened bottle and poured himself a dram of scotch. Back in the living room he had sifted through the magazines again, sipping, puzzling, refilling his glass and sipping.
He had no idea when the thought herded first surfaced. He only knew that he had abruptly given up the pretext of genteel drinking and had taken a long numbing swallow straight from the bottle. Later, with the window dark and the air leaden around his shoulders, he had made his way to the bed; sometime after that he managed to pass out.
Now he stumbled into the bathroom, gritted his teeth, and let the shower run hot; thirty minutes later he was shaved and dressed, out in the stable providing fresh water and hay for an impatient Maggie. As he spoke with her, apologizing, he stepped back from the scene and took a close look at the week.
He was right—they were being set up.
It was like the first few days after he had arrived in prison—the stripping away of his civilian clothes, his civilian dreams and attitudes, the brusque and terrifying orientation not only by the authorities but by the inmates as well, and the gradual, horrifying acceptance that for the next several years manipulation and intimidation would be the rules of the game.
But if they were being set up, what was the purpose?
If they were being set up, who was pulling the strings?
Maggie followed him to the paddock, nudging his back in her hurry to have him open the gate. And as he watched her break into a playful, high-stepping canter across the grass, he wondered what part Parrish had in all this.
Breakfast was quick, his movements more urgent as he strode into the study, stood at the drafting table, and stared at the measured lines that would, in time, give birth to a new home. He wanted to work, but the Scotch-muddled thoughts of the previous night returned, maddeningly out of order. He grabbed the magazines from the living room and swept the Branchville design to the floor. With an Exactoblade he sliced out Parrish’s photographs and spread them across the slanted board. Then he sat on the stool and stared at them, one after another, rearranging their dated sequences as if playing the shell game.
Nothing changed.
The houses were the same, and Eban Parrish was the same, even as far back as seventy years ago.
Setting aside the impossibility of the man not changing, not aging a day in almost a century, he concentrated first on the duplication of the mansion’s basic design.
It had nothing to do with Clark’s suggestion of an ambitious realtor—no matter what else he was, Parrish wasn’t the type. And it definitely had nothing to do with randomness. Just as there was nothing random about the way he pieced a house together line by line, there was nothing random in the way Parrish was spreading carbon copies of Winterrest across the country.
Purpose here, too; there had to be a purpose. And he was positive it wasn’t just because the old man liked the design.
He saw it ten minutes later—the only caption that gave him the name of a town. Flat River, Nebraska.
Spinning around, he grabbed for the telephone book and opened it to the front pages where the area codes were listed by state. There were two for Nebrask
a, and he stared out the window.
Who would he call?
He knew no one there, and contacting the police to find out if there was a Winterrest estate in or near the town seemed prankish. They would probably hang up on him, after chewing him out for wasting their time.
Who would he call?
He slipped an invisible coin and dialed 308 Information, asked for a listing for Flat River, and when the operator found it his heart paused, started again when she told him no one or no business called Winterrest was located in her territory; when he dialed 402, in case there were two towns with the same name, he was not surprised when he learned there wasn’t.
He paced into the living room and back, telling himself there was nothing to worry about, that what Parrish did with his time was his own affair. Yet there was still that growing conviction he was being manipulated, being prepared for something he would not like.
A look to Maggie, then, and he dialed 308 Information again and asked for the local Flat River newspaper, no he didn’t know the name, but it was very important and he’d appreciate the help. The operator, friendly enough to joke about his memory, found it after only a few minutes’ searching. And before he lost his nerve he dialed, listened for eleven rings, and had decided the office was closed for the day when his silent prayer was answered.
It was a secretary, her turn to cover the phones on Sunday, and she was suitably impressed, and considerably mystified, that he was calling all the way from the East Coast.
“Miss,” he said, “I’m trying to locate the owner of a piece of property out there. I’m an architect, you see, and my secretary took a message from the owner on Monday, while I was away.”
“You oughta try Information,” she said, and suddenly sounded as if she had decided to gargle. “Sorry.” She laughed. “Got a Coke here, lots of ice at the bottom of the glass. Straw.”
He laughed with her, and tapped the photograph she could not see. “I would,” he said regretfully, “but there’s a problem. I can’t read the woman’s handwriting. All I know is, he lives in a place called Winter-rest.”
Silence; more gargling.
“Miss?”
“Winterrest? Sure, I know it.”
He gripped the edge of the table tightly. “You do?”
“Sure, who don’t?” She giggled. “Well, I guess you don’t, do you, but we sure do. Biggest place around here, ‘cepting some of the bigshot farms. There’s a party or something out there today, in fact.” Her voice soured. “Very exclusive, so I’m told.”
Doug sat heavily on the stool. “So you’re told?”
“Well, I didn’t get an invitation. ‘Course, I never had anything to do with them out there, so I don’t suppose I should have. Still, it’d be nice, y’know? Keep on good terms with the press and all.”
“Yes.” The word was forced out; there was no breath left in his lungs. “Miss,” he said, “forgive me for sounding stupid, but how big is Flat River?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Last count I heard was eight, nine thousand. Not counting the cows.” She laughed merrily, an old joke on a new customer. Then he heard a buzzer in the background. “Hey, Mister,” she said, “I gotta go. Got someone waiting on me out front.”
“But Winterrest—”
“I can’t help you there,” she said. “Far as I know, Mr. Parrish never put in a phone all the time he’s been there.”
“And how long has that been,” he said mechanically.
“Mister, I wouldn’t know. He was here before I was born.”
I do not believe in immortality, he thought; I do not believe a man can be in two places at the same time.
And I definitely do not believe in magic.
The telephone rang. He answered with a brusque “Yeah?” and instantly knew Parrish was on the other end.
“Mr. Muir?”
He cleared his throat, and stared at the pictures, one by one. “Yes, Mr. Parrish, what can I do for you?”
who are you?
“I am truly sorry to bother you on such a lovely Sunday, but the offer I mentioned—”
“No,” he said heatedly. “No, I’m still not interested.”
“I see. Well, that’s very good.”
More coolly: “Sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”
“Not at all, Mr. Muir. If I were able to accommodate all my clients all the time, I’d be immorally wealthy.”
“I know what you mean. Believe me, I know what you mean.”
Parrish chuckled politely. “In that case, I shan’t bother you any longer. Will I see you later this afternoon?”
Without thinking, he shook his head.
“Mr. Muir?”
He stared at the pictures, at Maggie, at the room. “No,” he said. “I have . . . work, a lot of work. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”
“I see.” A slow inhalation; bubbling. “I’m sorry to hear that.” A pause filled with static. “Forgive me for asking, Mr. Muir, but you’re not feeling under the weather, I trust.”
who the hell are you?
“Fighting off a cold, I think. Nothing serious. But it’s not easy to work with it, and I can’t spare the time.”
“Ah. Well, do take care, Mr. Muir. Things like that have a habit of cropping up and turning nasty.”
“I will,” he said. “Thanks.” Then he pushed at one of the pictures with his finger. “Magic,” he said softly.
“I beg your pardon. Magic, Mr. Muir?”
He jerked his head away from the earpiece, not aware he had spoken aloud, thinking the man had already hung up.
“Did you say magic, Mr. Muir?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, I did.”
“And why did you say magic, Mr. Muir?”
This is ridiculous, he thought. “Just thinking out loud, Mr. Parrish, that’s all. My mind was already somewhere else.”
“Ah. Well, if you want my advice, you will put no credence in so-called magic, or in so-called miracles for that matter. It’s difficult enough for some people to believe in the living. And perhaps, after all, I will see you later.”
“But—”
The dial tone hummed.
He lowered the telephone to the floor, straightened, and chastised himself for lacking the courage to ask the man directly about Flat River. Not that he would have received an answer; Parrish would have denied knowing a thing.
Lying, he thought, right through his teeth.
He inhaled slowly, deeply, and checked his watch— it was after eleven. The instant decision not to go to Winterrest did not, as he’d hoped, lift any burden from his shoulders. If anything, he felt worse, more nervous, and more determined to find out if Liz was right and it was only imagination that was keeping his mind off balance.
Right about now, though, he thought it might be worthwhile to talk to someone like Piper Cleary.
“Funny, but you don’t strike me as bein the kinda guy that thinks about things like that. No offense.”
Doug sat uneasily on the top step of the Cleary back porch, his hat pulled low as much to keep the cloud-diffused sun from his eyes as to prevent Piper from reading his expression. Cleary himself sat on the browning grass, his three remaining hounds frisking around him, every so often smacking him with their wire-whip tails when he grabbed for their heads to wrestle them to the ground.
“No offense taken, Pipe. I’m just curious.”
“Are you, now.”
Doug nodded.
Cleary adjusted his deerstalker and squinted at the house. They had passed the pleasantries already, Doug complaining about a mild hangover, Piper commiserating and explaining how Wilbur and Nell had chewed him out for his drinking last night from the moment the sun came up until they had left for the restaurant. They were worried, he said acidly, about his being decent this afternoon; like they were some kind of gentry instead of folks who made their living slinging hash and breaking eggs.
When they were settled, however, a can of beer passing for the hair of the dog in their hands (Piper obviously ha
ving begun treatment long before Doug arrived), he waved his free arm at the estate hidden by the trees behind him.
“I’ve been sayin it for years, y’know, but people don’t like to hear it. Y’know, like hearin a son or a husband or somebody’s died, they say it can’t be, they only saw him last week. If they can’t touch it, smell it, taste it, they don’t know it.
“Me, now, I got the woods. I got my hounds, and we tramp all over the damned place, we see things back in there you’d never think in your whole life’d be true.”
“Like Sitter’s witches,” he suggested, anxious to have the man stay on the subject. And not at all sure he wasn’t a little crazy himself for listening to all this.
Piper drank deeply, belched with a glassy-eyed grin and shook his head. “Nah, not like that at all. Sitter’s a good man, don’t get me wrong, but his head’s not exactly screwed on right. Take me, f’instance. Would you believe I used to be a hell of a big guy?” He lifted one arm, palm parallel to the ground. “Not big that way.” He spread his arm wide. “That way. Two-hundred-and-fifteen pounds of solid flesh. Then a doc says I gotta lose or I’m dead before I’m sixty. So I lose. Now I got all this skin and nothin to put in it.”
“You believe that, Doug?”
He sipped at the beer, trying not to grimace. “It is hard to believe, Pipe, you have to admit it.”
“Sure it is, but it’s true. What you see ain’t the real me. The real me is as fat as a pig.” He emptied his can, and opened another. “Now, do you believe in God?”
He leaned away from the odd question. “God?”
“Yeah,” he said, pointing at the sky. “You know. God.”
“Well . . . I suppose so.”
“You believe in the Devil?”
“No.” A quick answer, no thinking required.
“Wrong,” Piper answered sternly. “It’s like the woods, Mr. Muir. Everything’s got a reason for bein there, and everything that’s there has a shadow. You got sparrows and hawks, you got mice and bobcats, you got all that stuff. You also got God and the Devil. It don’t make sense to believe in one without the other. You got your good, and you got your bad, it’s as simple as that.”
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