“What?”
“A whole lot of people think they’ve got ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Nedders snickered. “What about voices? Anybody talking to themselves?”
“Yeah, we got a little of that. Mickey Elfbones is hearing them, for one. He spent last night making tin foil hats. He’s sure I don’t know.”
“Tell me about the ghosts.”
“Well, there’s this one woman who I visited today, her mother died a year ago. And now she’s back, tromping around the house. Even got in her bed last night, she said. Told me she’s going to put salt across her bedroom door tonight. It’s ghost repellent.”
“Really? Is that some old wives’ tale or something?”
“How the shit should I know? Old wives, New Age, whatever. I tested the directional wave from the dish last night. Sent it over the ocean as we planned. Worked like a fucking charm. Bunch of seals got all fucked up. Seal-huggers came and rescued them.”
“Nice. What else?”
Pete gave him a few more details, keeping the best for last. “There’s one more thing. We’re way ahead of schedule.”
“How’s that?”
“People are hearing things even when their sets aren’t on.”
“Already? It can’t be.”
“It sure as hell is.”
“In the lab tests it rarely happened, and only after long exposure. Have you double-checked all the wave levels?”
“Everything’s right as rain, Neddy. Right as fucking rain.”
“I was just thinking about those ghost hallucinations. I’d like to know if you see any evidence of people living in the same residence sharing hallucinations. If you find a shared one, I want to know if one was affected first or if they were both affected and one switched to the other’s delusion. Suggestibility. And watch for people who have standing haunt stories about their homes. I’ll bet if they already know stories, they will tend to dream up the ghosts.”
“Interesting. Gotta go. Felicia’s keeping my dinner warm.”
“She’s patient. What is it, past ten?”
“Just. Felicia understands about working late.” He laughed. “I made sure she understood.”
“How’d you do that? Beat her up?” Nedders was joking.
“Works for me.” Pete wasn’t joking. “I got a three-point plan for keeping wives in line. First you love ’em up, bring ’em candy, some bubbly bath, and fuck their brains out. Next point is a little glitter. Diamonds really make ’em behave. Then, if that doesn’t work, you have to beat the shit out of them, but never leave a mark. Cover your ass, Neddy, that’s what you taught me, and that’s what I do.”
“You trying a cable box on her?”
“No. We only have a couple TVs, bedroom and den, and I sure don’t want to be exposed. Maybe if she pisses me off, I’ll buy her a set for her craft room. ”
“What’s a craft room?”
“It’s where women keep all that diddly-shit stuff they make things with. Glue and yarn and sewing crap. Felicia has a bunch of flower pots. She likes to paint them. She thinks she’s an artist.”
“Is she any good?”
Pete laughed, low and lewd. “If she wasn’t any good, I wouldn’t keep her. The woman can pick up a champagne bottle with her pussy and carry it across the room without dropping it. She does exercises. You oughta see what she can do.”
“Maybe you oughta put an eye in your bedroom one night and let me take a look. Recon.”
“Mi casa es su casa, amigo. I’ll let you know when to tune in.”
53
The body of Minnie Lavia, neighbor of Lobelia Hatch, had been taken away at last. Her parrot flew the coop in a flash of green when Lobelia unlocked Minnie’s door before the police got there. She had gone in, practically dragging a reluctant Daniel with her, but once they entered the room with the body and got a whiff and an up-close look at the face the parrot must have been redesigning for days, it was Lobelia who vomited all over Minnie’s poor, dead feet. Daniel had escorted her outside to await the police and had apologized to a nice redheaded sergeant for his mother’s vomit. All the while, his penis kept telling him to fuck Minnie in the empty eye socket. Sex was the farthest thing from Daniel’s mind, but Dick never stopped thinking about it, and he had absolutely no scruples. Woman, eye socket, the butterscotch pudding cooling in Mother’s refrigerator earlier tonight, it was all the same to him. Daniel had let it add a little protein to the pudding, then smoothed it over so Lobelia wouldn’t know—the truth was, he allowed it because the image of the old battle-ax eating his jism pleased him tremendously. Serves her right.
Daniel helped Mother to her chair by the television, then got her a nice big dish. The pudding was still lukewarm, but nicely thickened. He slathered whipped cream on it because that’s what she liked, placed a sleeping pill and a glass of water beside her and went home, pleading a need for sleep. The real need was to get away from Lobelia and her big fat mouth. Ever since she’d recovered from her vom-itfest, she’d been yammering on about Minnie Lavia and her messy house. “If she’d known the police were coming over tonight, you can bet she would have vacuumed,” Lobelia declared. That was when Daniel decided he either had to leave or take the more drastic measures against her, as suggested by his penis.
54
Eleven o’clock in Caledonia. All over town, people were either in bed, or would be soon. About thirty percent of Caledonia Cable’s customers had new systems and in many of those houses, people were feeling a little strange, exhibiting neuroses hitherto unseen, hearing voices, hearing noises, creaks and footsteps, and having nightmares.
There was another death in town that night. Abby Abernathy, a morose woman who lived in the same cheap apartment complex as Mickey Elfbones, had spent the day watching her programs and the late afternoon and evening watching the Soap Channel, taking in rerun after rerun of her favorite serials. Abby, who was in love with at least two men on each show, wrote letters to them during commercials, commiserating and advising them on problems they were having with their wives and lovers.
Abby had a tenuous hold on reality in the first place and now that she had the new cable box—and the wonderful Soap Channel—things deteriorated rapidly. Sitting in front of the television, squinting through little granny glasses perched on her nose, she muttered and sang, called to the people on the shows, trying to get their attention. “Don’t talk to her, she cheated on you with your father!” and “Don’t touch her! She’s a zombie, brought back from the dead!” and “She’s carrying Brad’s baby, don’t marry her!” and on and on. On this day, she proposed to four of the leading men, but none answered, though she was pretty sure one of the females had told her to get lost, that Jeremy was hers and Abby couldn’t have him.
Finally, during a late-night rerun, after pleading with Gerald to leave that bitch Chloe and come live with her, she threatened to take sleeping pills. She threatened three times, and he continued to ignore her.
Finally, she went into the bathroom and got the bottle. Then she went to the fridge and took an iced tea tumbler full of white wine from the box she kept next to the orange juice. Topping it with vodka from the freezer, she carried it to the living room and, right in front of Gerald, swallowed the pills one by one. She had to go back twice for more wine and vodka to finish off the bottle.
That bastard Gerald never even noticed when she died.
Lara Sweethome felt better after confiding in that nice Pete Banning, who owned Caledonia Cable. He was her doctor’s brother, a fact they both found fascinating. She was sure the doctor would be pleased to know they’d met. Pete was very different from the doctor in some ways. Not as handsome, but far more outgoing. The doctor was sort of an understated type, dignified but very approachable. She loved his shy smile. Pete, on the other hand, had a huge, glowing smile, and was incredibly outgoing. She even asked if he was married. He’d never answered the question, and that gave her hope. Maybe she’d ask him over for coffee.
Like the doctor,
he was such a good listener—even better, really, because he seemed to really love hearing about ghosts. He asked questions and hung on her every word. The doctor, good as he was, didn’t believe in ghosts, so she knew he thought she was imagining things. Hopefully, he’d call back in a day or two and make a date to come over and meet her mother. He wasn’t married either, come to think of it.
She had heard footsteps most of the evening, but the doctor’s tranquilizers had helped and they didn’t bother her too much. But she didn’t want her mother climbing into bed with her again. That was horrible, especially because she’d dreamed it was a man before she felt those cold breasts pressing into her back.
She almost slept in the bathtub, but buoyed by Pete’s visit, she poured a thick line of salt across the doorway, closed the door over it, and slept in her own bed. Because of the medication, she didn’t wake up, even when the covers moved by themselves and something cool climbed in between the sheets with her.
Doris Tilton wore her earplugs and slept with her husband because sleeping in the recliner had left her sore and cranky. When she’d returned home from her shopping trip, she felt refreshed, and Wallis had quickly whisked her off to an expensive, romantic lunch and a drive up to San Simeon to tour Hearst Castle. She loved to go there, but Wallis could rarely be talked into it, so this seemed extra special to her. Arriving back in town, Wallis had taken her to another exclusive restaurant for a late dinner. When they arrived home, they had gone straight to bed. Wallis didn’t even want to watch the news. Instead, they made love, simply and slowly. She snuggled up to him now and in his sleep the old goat reached out and cupped her breast. He hadn’t done that in a decade.
In the apartment of the Flagg family, one of the kids finally noticed the lady-in-white phantom pacing back and forth behind the couch. Both kids thought it was pretty cool, Mother Flagg was unnerved, and Father Flagg said it was fog.
Mia Hunt Hartz called the police twice because of noises in her backyard. They came out once, but declined a second trip. Now, lying sleepless in bed, she heard the childish monstrosities again, screeching, running, tramping. The voices seemed very close in the silence of the night and, with a nervous shiver, she got up and closed the window, the blinds, and the curtains. It made no difference. Finally, Mia went to the guest room on the other end of the house and slept there. She could still hear them, but they weren’t quite so loud.
Gabe and Kevin were asleep, locked away in their bedroom, which was at the opposite end of the house from the living room. Gabe had let Kevin have another half glass of wine—he didn’t want to give him a tranquilizer when he’d been drinking—and the younger man had dropped off quickly, but he remained, after nearly an hour in bed, spooned in against Gabe, curled up as tight as he could, the fingers of one hand twined through Gabe’s in a rictus that would probably leave them both with pins and needles.
Gabe couldn’t sleep. Instead, he pondered the imponderables, ranging from the existence of ghosts, of God, of good and evil, to the mysteries of Will Banning, his relationship with Maggie, and his dislike of the mere mention of Pete. Then he thought about cats, birds, and seals, and finally, he began to doze off.
On the edge of sleep, he came wide awake, thinking he heard a baby cry. No, he told himself, it was just your imagination. After a long period of silence, the soft sounds of Kevin’s rhythmic breathing finally lulled him to sleep.
Out in the living room, Jason and Carrie Cockburn made several unnoticed appearances. If Pete had a camera in that house, he would have messed his shorts. How could hallucinations appear without the people present? And how could he be seeing them through a camera lens if they really were just simple hallucinations?
Mickey Elfbones built some more hats, this time using tin snips to cut up aluminum pie plates to put inside his hats. That was because the cardboard stiffeners hadn’t done a damned thing. Doc Banning’s tranks had made work easier—leveling off the panic attacks so that he could function as long as animals couldn’t actually touch him, but they didn’t do anything for the voices. He’d hoped they would.
The pie-tin hat was uncomfortable, but Pete kept it on in bed. Awaiting sleep, he mentally designed a skullcap style hat in his head. He’d make one of those tomorrow before bedtime. This was just too uncomfortable.
Pete Banning, sitting in his home office, watched Heather Boyd get ready for bed. The young woman with the to-die-for body didn’t have the television or pajamas on, but she did spend some time with a large vibrator, relieving stress in the old-fashioned way, the covers neatly folded back so Pete had a front-row seat. Pete saw stress released from her body eight times, then he forgot about counting.
Putting away his own stress-relieving tool, he decided he would have to pay a service call to Miss Boyd at his earliest convenience. Now, it was time for sleep. He stood up, glancing at the clock. An hour remained before his latest broadcasting experiment would begin. It was an experiment Hitchcock would have loved.
55
Will felt like he had been caught masturbating, and he knew it was ridiculous. He hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of; after seeing something pretty damn incomprehensible, he had called out Michael’s name—thank heaven that was all I said—and then fainted. It was nothing to be ashamed of.
“Will?” Maggie said.
She sat next to him on the couch as they pretended to watch the news. Freud had taken over her lap; Rorschach snoozed on the sofa back between them, and Jung was draped across Will’s legs. The boys were fine and for that he was grateful.
“Will?” she repeated.
“What?”
“How you doing?”
“I’m good. You should go home now.”
“I’ll go soon. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.” He heard sharpness in his voice, but didn’t feel like apologizing, just being alone. “The cats are fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Will,” Maggie began, turning her body toward him, “I know there’s something wrong. You can tell me anything—you know that. You told me when you came home and found Candy giving your brother a blow job. You told me when Barbara peed in your beer—”
“I have no proof of that. I just think she did.”
Maggie took his hand in both of hers. “Who else would have done it? Vomiting on her was the perfect way to say you wanted a divorce.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“You did it because she peed in your beer. Instant karma.”
Will stroked Jung with his free hand. “That was funny in a twisted sort of way. I told you why she did it, didn’t I?”
Maggie cocked her head in that way she had that always made Will smile. “No. You just said you were fighting.”
“Well, we were, that’s true. That’s all we ever did.”
“It turned her on,” Maggie said solemnly. “She’d fuck your brains out after a fight.”
Will blushed. “I told you that?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s rude.”
“I like that you felt comfortable enough to tell me, Will. That makes me feel good. So why were you fighting?”
“If you could sum up Barbara in one word, what word would it be?”
“Sorry, can’t do it. I need two words.”
Will smiled. “Okay. Two words.”
“Domineering bitch.”
He chuckled lightly. “That’s exactly why she did it. She wanted to dominate me sexually. She wanted me to let her piss on me during sex.”
“Oh, yuck! She liked golden showers?”
“I love that expression. Yeah. I mean, I don’t know if she’d ever actually done it, but she sure wanted to.” He paused. “She also wanted to tie me up.”
Maggie cocked an eyebrow. “That’s not so odd. Lots of people play that game, don’t they?”
“Sure, but Barbara? Would you let that woman anywhere near you with a rope?”<
br />
“I see your point.”
“It would probably be fun with someone you trusted. I mean, I’d let you tie me up without a second thought.” Suddenly feeling like a teenager, Will looked down at the cat in his lap.
“You would?”
“I just meant that I’m not a prude. I’ve never tried it though. Look at the women I married. None of them could be trusted to, you know, uh. . .” Why did I start that?
Maggie still held his hand and she gave it a hesitant squeeze. “Not to pee on you while you were helpless. Or leave you like that while they went shopping. Or . . . or hurt you. Slap you or something worse. Will?”
He made himself meet her eyes. “Yeah, you said exactly what I was thinking. They turned sex into this contest of self-control. I never dared goof around, play games. All three of them had fits if I made a joke. Sex was so deadly serious to them.”
“You were their prey, Will. They were all bullies.”
“I realize that. Now. Took me long enough.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you either,” Will said softly. “I trust you.”
“I trust you, too,” Maggie said softly. Now she looked down. “Enough to ask you to tie me up. I know you’d never hurt me.”
“You’d like that? Getting tied up?”
“Only with the right person.” She met his eyes, flushing madly.
Will was getting aroused. Thank heaven the evidence was hidden beneath Jung. He didn’t want to think of Maggie that way. It was wrong. It was dangerous. But he couldn’t stop it. He had to break the spell. “Maybe I’d pee on you,” he said raggedly.
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