On the way back up the hill, he found himself smiling. By the time he hit the dirt trail up into the mountains he was singing, comforted by having found a reasonable explanation.
He was sitting on his haunches in the grass, stroking Monday, when the old-fashioned wall phone jangled. Two longs and one short, his code on the town's archaic party-line. Peter went inside to answer, stumbled over a chair and banged his knee against the coffee table. He swore as he limped over to the phone.
"Peter? Gladys. How are you?"
"Fine, Gladys."
"You don't sound fine, Peter. Are you well?"
"I just hit my goddamn knee."
"Don't swear," she admonished. "It's Sunday. Peter Rourke, I demand to know why you haven't stopped by to see me."
" I apologize, Gladys. I've been writing."
"So? You never stop?"
He grinned. "I guess this means I'd best drive on in this afternoon and explain myself."
"Darn right," she chuckled.
"Carrot cake?"
"Carrot cake, Peter. All you can eat."
"You've got a date, honey."
She giggled. "Don't say things like that. At my age the reaction could be fatal!"
Rourke laughed, choked and froze. His talent had stirred. Oh, no. There. Again. Soft, and as difficult to ignore as a lover's insistent whisper. He tried to brush it aside. Wise words, Gladys. Reactions can indeed prove fatal, but age is not necessarily a critical factor. He let the conversation drag. They traded lame jokes and clumsy pleasantries.
Another twinge, low but powerful.
He had to get off the telephone. Fast. What if it ballooned, just erupted and took over the way it had when he was a kid? Peter had no idea what he might do or say. He had never actually lost control in someone else's presence.
But as he and Gladys exchanged goodbyes, the restless murmur faded away. Rourke went to the kitchen sink and threw cold water on his face. He began to accept the maddening truth.
Things had reversed themselves, and his talent was probably back to stay. Well, if that was the case then would have to work with it; teach himself to handle it again. He really had no choice, regardless of what had triggered it after so long a time and despite the omnipresent fear. Maybe this is why I had to come back here. Why I felt I had to come home again.
How strange. While the uneasy sensation had passed like the distant thunder of a wayward storm, it had almost seemed... alive.
22
MARTONI
Two Trees was quiet, still enough to be painful.
Old Anthony Martoni rested his elbows on the meat counter and sighed. His eyes wandered to the front window of his grocery store, where swirling dust wove geometric patterns in the scorched air. Martoni was wishing that the little bell above his door would ring, that someone would come in. That something, anything, would happen.
I feel dizzy, he thought. Gotta try and get some more sleep. Jeez, but all these horny dreams out of nowhere. Too much for an old fart like me to handle.
The grocer opened his top drawer. A handful of greenbacks covered the tall stack of I.O.U. notes. He shifted the small pile of bills to one side and took out a faded, black-and-white photo of Helena.
She was wincing at the camera, the sun's glare causing her to crinkle the little folds of skin at the outer edges of her eyes. Martoni's wife had been a diminutive, shy woman who hated to have her picture taken. Once, during the War in Europe, he had received a photograph. It was folded in newspaper and bent in four places. Helena had allowed her father to take it. There she stood, stiff and pale in a knee-length black dress, brown hair pulled back into a tight, modest bun. Her eyes were closed, and her smile looked like she'd practiced in front of the mirror for days.
He had treasured that photograph for what it must have cost her. He'd lost it when he was wounded for the third time, but by then it didn't matter. They sent him home.
Helena's phobic reaction to cameras had been a running joke throughout their twenty-five years of marriage. Full of beer at a picnic, more than a decade ago, he had snapped another picture. Martoni had sent it away to be developed; then hid it, intending to surprise Helena on their anniversary. She'd had her stroke and it was too late. Helena just slipped away, as quiet as ever, still no trouble to anyone. Helena, the human being he'd valued more than life itself.
All that time together, he thought. And yet when you come right down to it, I barely got to know you.
He replaced the photo and closed the drawer, feeling very much alone. Martoni sat back and closed his eyes. Just another old man, napping. His last thought before dropping off to sleep was sad. A moment of utter clarity, within which he truly comprehended how much of life gets wasted. Why dissect a mistake when it's already been made, he thought. Or worry about a future you can't possibly predict? We never seem to learn to live in the present, while there's still some future left.
Martoni slept. He had a dream, and in that dream the past became the present. He clasped it, held onto it. Anthony Martoni was young again; with Helena, and happy. They made love urgently, over and over again, and never got tired.
zzzzzzzzzzzz
Martoni was unaware of the incredibly large horde of flies that suddenly gathered on his screen door as if sent for him. The crowd of crawling, buzzing insects continued to grow until it blocked the light of the sun. A black-robed ominous chorus, come to whisper a warning.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Martoni slumbered on, contented.
So the flies flew away. They stayed low to the ground in a dense cluster, as if sharing one mind. There was a sinister tone to the sound of their wings, a ragged whine — the howl of a surgeon's bonesaw splitting the top of a skull.
The formation began to collapse just as it reached the Interstate a few miles outside of town. Whatever had controlled the flies abruptly released them, left them milling about in confusion and veering toward all points of the compass…
23
VARGAS
…If the insects had remained in a cloud for a few moments longer, Vargas would have seen them. He would have considered it a sign meant for him.
He was that ready. Baking in the heat, parched and dazed; standing out there on the lower lip of nothing, by a narrow strip of highway. Alone, without a clue to where he was or why he'd come.
Vargas, too, had experienced impossibly potent visions. His were dreams of absolute power, untamed lust. He was drunk on the wine of corruption; stuffed full of raw, pink flesh carved at the table to The Beast. He now understood that the thing would be his, over and over, whenever he wished to do it. Moreover, that the pleasure could be increased a thousandfold. Vargas was offered tantalizing peeks, tormentingly sensual promises meant to tease and inflame him. They did. He'd already lost more than half of his mind, and all but a fragment of his soul.
The nights were wonderful, but when he opened his eyes in the morning he was filled with despair; crushed to find himself a mere mortal again. He ached for his fantasy to take root and flower into reality. He had begun to believe that it would. Someday soon.
But when? What must he do to make it happen — and why was he here, in the middle of this fucking desert?
Something moved in the far, purple hills. It shimmered like a mirage and then took shape at the end of the highway. The thing crept along, turned his direction; inched closer, like a shiny black beetle. Vargas finally heard the engine. He stood watching as the car grew larger. A brand new Cadillac, dark as printer's ink, sparkling in the blistering warm. He raised his arm and stuck out his thumb, certain he'd been on this ride all of his life.
An hour, a millisecond: Glare of chrome, layered wax. The stench of gasoline and rubber, jarring after the flat, pure desert air. The brakes squealed. A horn honked, and his heart jumped.
Vargas approached the magical, glittering vehicle, his pulse racing. It seemed insulated, protected by an energy field. He was unable to see who, or what, was inside. No matter how he bent his head or turned his eyes, he
was constantly blinded by daggers of light. He nearly ran away.
The imposing black Caddy squatted there, toad-like, and purred like a satisfied panther. The door to the passenger side swung open.
Faint music beckoned and sucked him closer. Vargas held his breath and ducked down, then hopped onto the leather front seat and into the future. He fixed his gaze on the plush carpeting that pillowed his throbbing feet.
"Close it," said a voice. The door. He yanked hard, yet it whispered into place. The Caddy crouched and leaped out onto the blacktop to cruise at blurring speed. Vargas gathered his courage and faced the driver.
He was shocked to find a human being. A big man, around Chalmer's size, but otherwise unimpressive. Visibly puffy, out of shape. A wimp who wore thick prescription glasses.
His stomach sank, went acid with disappointment and flickering rage. He'd tried to be patient, settled for scraps and vague promises, but no more. Anthony Vargas had played the fool long enough. Now someone would pay.
"You're pretty quiet, aren't you?" the driver said.
Vargas made himself belch. "Guess I don't feel so good," he responded. "Too much sun. Think I'm gonna be sick."
"Jesus, don't!"
In a flash, he'd pulled over and parked by the side of the road. Vargas weighed his choices, still pretending to gag. He opened his door as if to vomit.
"Careful!"
"Sorry."
"Hey, just get away from the car, okay? Toss your cookies and get it over with. Don't worry, I'll wait for you."
Vargas extended his hand and smiled disarmingly. "Nice of you, man. I appreciate that."
The huge eyes hiding behind the dense lenses were a puppy-sweet brown, guileless and trusting. The clumsy cream puff looked like an owl caught in the beam of a flashlight. He clasped Vargas' proffered hand and pumped mechanically, his mind elsewhere. He was distracted by the awful thought of stains on the upholstery of his brand new pride and joy. The man withdrew his grip, leaving Vargas close up and unencumbered.
Vargas curled his fingers, tensed his hand, bent his wrist back. He cocked his arm and took aim, then whipped the base of his palm — all of his strength behind it — under the man's nose. Gore splattered and gristle cracked, bone drove straight up through the brain. Limbs twitched. Breath rattled. The man was dead, but his body didn't know yet: Ruined face, shattered glasses, pathetic expression of surprise.
Vargas snaked an arm around behind the corpse to unlock the door. He pushed the body out and dumped it, unceremoniously, onto the scorching hot desert highway. Next, he stripped the man of clothing, jewelry and identification. Just in time, too — the stranger farted, emptied his bowels and stopped breathing altogether. Vargas shaded his eyes. He looked to the clouds for some kind of sign. He was holding fast to his new faith; a true convert, a believer.
"For you, master!" he shrieked. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine and rolled in reverse for several hundred feet. He was laughing.
"For you!"
He gunned the Caddy and deliberately ran over the naked corpse, nearly losing control of the vehicle when its tires bumped the immense form stretched out in the road. Vargas slammed on the brakes. He put the car in reverse and backed over the body a second time. Then into drive, across it a third time. The man was now just a mass of blue organs and red meat. Vargas threw the car into park, jumped out and threw several large chunks of the sacrifice into the pristine trunk.
He felt consumed by a kind of sexual ecstasy.
Vargas swung the big car around and started back towards the mine. He cranked the radio, found some good jazz, played bongos on the steering wheel. This felt good, really good —like with the thing in a way, only better. Richer. Vargas was nuclear, a stud. A wild man with a license to kill, traveling in style.
Soon it was calm again, quiet. Drooling vultures began to circle high above. The bolder males, cautious at first, eventually landed and began to peck at the steaming feast…
…Perhaps an hour later. We are beneath the earth, now. Footsteps echo with grunts and heavy breathing. Gooseflesh. Rotting damp, eerie dark. Two voices:
"Goddamn you, Tony, stop fucking around and tell me!"
"I will."
"I mean it, Vargas. You've got me spooked. I wanna know where that brand new car came from."
"Gotta show you something first."
"The fuck?"
"Come on, Chalmers, it's only a little further down. Right around this bend here. Chicken?"
"I don't dig small places or dark ones, Vargas, and this damned hole is both."
"You'll get used to it."
"Like hell I will. Now, where did you heist the car from? What did you go and do, Tony?"
"As soon as we get to the end of this tunnel I'll explain. Now, how do you feel?"
"Dizzy."
"That's all? Nothing else?"
"It stinks down here, man. You been shitting down here or something?"
"Tell me what you feel, Chalmers. Tell me!"
"Well..."
"It's important. Say it."
"Crawly, like. Jumpy."
"Yes. Oh, yes. Go on."
"I dunno. Sort of charged up, the way you are when there's a storm coming and the air gets static. Makes those sparks happen when you touch somethin' metal. I kind of like it, though. Is this a test?"
"In a way, Chalmers."
"Talk to me, Tony. Now."
"Follow me down. I'll fill you in as we go. I think you're going to find this very interesting."
"Gawd, you have been shitting down here. Hey, where are you?"
"Here. Come on, use your lantern."
"Quit on me just now. Busted, I guess."
"Stay close, then. I know the way by heart."
"I don't like this..."
"Just a little further."
"Only if you —"
"Sure. Why not. Okay, Chalmers, I killed a man today."
"What? Jesus, Tony!"
"I sacrificed him, actually, but it doesn't matter. You'll see."
"Doesn't matter? Have you wigged out?"
"Watch your step here. There's a drop. Look, let me start at the beginning, from when I was down in Los Angeles and felt it for the first time."
"But…"
"Look. There."
Chalmers gagged and spat. "Fuck, Tony! What did you do to him!"
"You listen, Chalmers," Vargas said softly. "Then, when I get to the finish, you can call me crazy if you want to." The two men ventured deeper. Their words careened from wall to wall. The sunlight could not follow them, and soon the tunnel swallowed them. Soon, it was as if no one had passed that way in years.
24
ROURKE/TWO TREES
"Edith is such a precious person," Gladys said. It was hard to understand her when she had a mouth full of carrot cake.
"You two are still friends?"
"Friends? Why, of course we are!"
They were seated in the plump woman's garish kitchen. The wallpaper was flocked. Peter had to make an effort not to glance down at his watch. He didn't want to appear rude, but the time was dragging by.
"Well," he said, "the last time I spoke to you she was driving you crazy with all of that astrology and Tarot bullshit."
"Edith is an old woman," Gladys intoned, as if she herself were not. "Old women get lonely and make things up. We're still good friends."
"I'm glad."
She startled him by asking if he intended to pay a visit to his mother's grave... since it was Sunday.
"Yes," Rourke replied. "I guess I will."
The very thought made him go hollow inside. He got to his feet and praised her carrot cake by patting his full belly. "Time for me to be moving on, Gladys."
She made a childish face. He kissed her on the forehead. Her voice betrayed her loneliness.
"See you soon?"
She was still waving goodbye from her kitchen window as Rourke honked his horn and drove away. He thought about the dead.
[grandfather]
<
br /> His imagination flashed on dirty grey cement tombstones, covered with sweet, fresh-cut flowers that had long ago turned to weeds. Then below to cold, naked bones. Worms and maggots. Long snarling yellow teeth, laid bare by rot. Peter shuddered. The talent had unhinged him a bit. Something had bent too far and nearly broken.
He coasted down the alley behind Jake's garage — past that ancient, rusting tractor — and headed for Agatha's house. He was following an instinct as basic and as reliable as a bat's radar. When Maggie Moore opened the door, he was delighted to see honest pleasure in her eyes.
"Peter!"
"I believe I owe you a trip to the soda fountain," he said. "Let's go see if there's anything there that still sells for a quarter."
"If there isn't, we'll go dutch."
They walked in silence.
Dry air crackled like tin-foil around the faded walls and split wooden fences of the little town. Evening, silent as a cat's paw, slithered out onto the floor of the desert and moved forward. At the drug store, Peter held the screen door open for Maggie, then closed it gently behind.
Urich brought them two cold drinks. Unlike Martoni, the elderly druggist wore an air of aloof detachment. He smiled slowly at the two of them, the quarters Peter handed him, and as expected said: "Payment enough, I reckon."
The old man left Maggie and Peter alone, moving about efficiently, as if they were but one small table in a room full of impatient customers. As though he still had a business that meant something.
"You loved somebody." Maggie said. Observation, not intended as a question. He answered anyway.
"It didn't last long."
"She played around?"
"She died."
Maggie recoiled slightly.
"That was some time ago," he lied. "It really doesn't matter anymore."
"Yes, it does," Maggie said.
"Whoa, girl. Ease up."
"It just makes me sad. She doesn't seem to have left you with very much. You hide it pretty well, but I think deep down you don't know who you are."
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