Nights Towns: Three Novels, a Box Set

by Douglas Clegg

  Torch was half-limping, half-running, calling out something that Tommy couldn't make out, and then Tommy noticed that Torch was not even interested in attacking the two of them (thank you, God, I will never have a beer again until I'm legal age, I promise, thank you, thank you).

  But Rick was not satisfied with this.

  As Torch ran alongside the wall, near the boys, Rick leaped and tackled the raggedy man, shoving his face in the snow.

  18

  Teddy's head throbbed with the cold, with the air that seemed so clean, like her mother's laundry when she used to hang it out to dry in the summer and Teddy would smell it on the dogwood-scented breeze, the cat ran into the street and Teddy would join the cat there, too, in a second, as she dashed out of the alley, frozen, but alive for a moment, alive, and wanted to die so badly she could feel it.

  19

  "Tell me what's it like to burn in hell?" Rick said as he pushed Torch's face into the melting snow.

  "You fucking asshole!" Tommy screamed. Bending down, he gave Rick a heavy blow to his back. Rick kicked back with his legs, landing a shot right into Tommy's crotch. Tommy slipped on the ice and fell on to the cold concrete, clutching himself and groaning. "You asshole," he moaned.

  "I ain't gonna hurt this fucker, wussy, I just want to see his face!" And with one move, Rick reached across Torch's head and ripped off the bandana and rags.

  "Tehh-ee," Torch moaned.

  20

  Teddy screamed when she heard the car brakes squealing, and for just a second she thought it was her own self running across Main Street, rolling under the car as it skidded to a stop.

  But it was her kitty, the one that she had brought back from the dead, only to send it back again in a shower of red across its black fur.

  21

  "Jesus Fucking Christ!" Rick gasped, half-laughing, partly in awe. He rolled off Torch, and the man crawled onwards, and then up to his full height, still limp-running now down the street as if the incident with the boys had not even occurred.

  "You fucking asshole," Tommy groaned, brushing himself off, still wincing from the pain shooting through his groin. "Sometimes I wonder why I hang around you."

  "Did you see that?" Rick asked. "I never seen anything so repulsive in all my life! Jeez, it was just like one of your dad's horror movies!"

  "Asshole," was all Tommy could bring himself to say, and he unfortunately was as curious about Torch's face as Rick had been, and he would've liked to kick himself again in the balls just for wanting to see. He stood up, feeling sore down there, and hobbled after Torch.

  "Where you goin', pussface?"

  "I'm going to make sure he's okay," Tommy said.

  "Yeah, sure, you just want to get a peek for yourself!" Rick yelled.

  22

  When Teddy screamed, something swooped down in a blurred rush and picked her up from alongside the curb and carried her back into the alley.

  "Tehh-ee," Torch said as he cradled her in his arms and began hobbling down the alley to their hiding place. He heard footsteps behind him, and even though he couldn't smell the Bad Ones who wanted Teddy and the Power she had, he wasn't taking any chances.

  Behind him he heard a boy's voice cry out, "Hey! You okay?"

  23

  Tommy thought for just a second he knew that little girl that Torch was holding: Teddy Amory, the weird chick who supposedly burned up or else ran away with her brother, Jake, another creepozoid.

  But, heck, if that girl was still in town, wouldn't everybody already know about her?

  Tommy pulled the corners of his jacket together because it seemed particularly cold. Maybe it was just some other albino kid that Torch was protecting from the likes of Rick Stetson. Maybe it's just the Pabst Blue Ribbon clouding my brain. Then Tommy Mackenzie remembered that his father would be really pissed off if he didn't show up soon to work the concession stand at the Key Theater in time for the next showing of Sleeping Beauty. In a life like his, Tommy knew why he hung around with creeps like Rick Stetson: because everyone else seems worse.

  24

  Safely back in the dimly lit, concrete room, Torch wrote angrily on the Etch A Sketch: NEVER. EVER. DO. THAT.

  "The kitty," Teddy said, but had no more tears to offer. She lay on her mattress and wished with all her heart that it had been her lying dead in the street and not the black cat. "I'm afraid," she whispered, but she didn't tell Torch what she was truly afraid of.

  Herself.

  She was afraid that everything she loved would die like that cat. The way her mother had, the way her father had.

  And Torch. She was afraid that Torch would die, because she loved him so much.

  "Please," she whimpered, gazing steadily into his red eyes, "kill me."

  Chapter Eleven

  WARREN

  1

  Clare pressed her back into the door to open it; her arms were loaded down with groceries. The door swung wide with the effort and slammed back into the wall. "Damn it," Clare muttered. She was holding two paper grocery bags in her arms, and dragging a third by the tips of her aching fingers. She wasn't sure if she would make it all the way to the kitchen with it and let the bag drop the few inches to the floor. "Daddy, I'm home!"

  She heard his gruff greeting that was always more "ahem" than "hello." She carried the other bags into the kitchen and then came back out for the third. When she lifted it, the sack broke and cans of soup went rolling across the oak floor. "Shit."

  After she picked up all the cans and stacked them in the pantry, she took one of the Swiss Miss tapioca puddings from the refrigerator. Then she got a spoon and some paper towels and went back toward the den. "I got your favorite pudding," she said as she entered the room.

  "For me?" Warren said. He was stretched out on the couch where she'd let him sleep last night. It looked like he hadn't moved at all. Dr. Cammack was sitting in an armchair near the fireplace. Clare shot Warren an angry look and took the small cup of pudding over to her father.

  "Here, Daddy, it's your favorite."

  "What is it?" He looked at the plastic container skeptically. His hands trembled as he took the spoon from her. Clare laid the paper towels across his lap.

  "Tapioca."

  The old man wrinkled his nose and turned the container of pudding upside down; nothing spilled out. "This stuff is for babies." Dr. Cammack set the pudding down on the arm of his chair.

  "You love tapioca," Clare said firmly.

  "Now I love tapioca," Warren volunteered, "toss it here, Doc." Warren held his hands up for a catch. Dr. Cammack picked up the pudding and was about to toss it, but Clare took it and the spoon from his hands and brought them both over to Warren.

  "If you're going to steal food from my father, you could at least sit up when you eat."

  "Okey-dokey." Warren sat up and began eating the tapioca. "We were watching Soul Train. Have you ever noticed that if you take a nap in front of the TV on Saturdays, no matter what time you wake up, Soul Train is always on? "

  Clare glanced at the TV screen; a basketball game was on. "That's not Soul Train."

  "You be civil to my son-in-law," Dr. Cammack said, but was now engrossed in the game.

  "What are you still here for?" Clare asked.

  "Doc and I were having an interesting conversation. I mixed a few martinis, which I drank, while Doc had a tall glass of milk."

  "Is there a point to this?"

  "As a matter of fact, there is. Patience has never been your hallmark, Moonbeam."

  "Stop it, Warren."

  "You be civil, do you hear me, girl?" her father growled. He began coughing, and Clare made a move to go get his medicine, but the coughing subsided.

  "Seems Doc's been talking to my wife again."

  "Warren."

  "But not just talking, 'beam, no-siree. Seems she paid him a visit after you dropped him off from this funeral today. She came out of his closet. Isn't that just like her? Don't you tell me to shut up, you heed your daddy and be civil. Lily j
ust came right out of Doc's closet, isn't that right, Doc?"

  Dr. Cammack nodded. "Lily's always liked surprises, why, when she was only six years old she hid under the bed and spoke to Rose and me, pretending that the room was haunted."

  "See?" Warren said, his mouth fall of tapioca. "Doc remembers things. At least what's important."

  Clare tensed. "Warren, why don't we discuss this in the kitchen? You can tell me all about it while I get dinner ready."

  Warren ignored her. "What else do you remember about today, Doc? When she came out of the closet?"

  "The party. Just like old times. She's throwing a party over at the old house, just like we used to have."

  "That's right, Doc, and we're all invited, aren't we?"

  "She said it's a come-as-you-are party. She's always been full of surprises. I remember when I took her to the convention in Richmond, just to show off my beautiful girl, and they all gathered around her, those old goats, but she wouldn't have any of them, no sir, she would only dance with her daddy."

  2

  In the Kitchen

  "You heard what Doc said, 'beam."

  "Warren Whalen, you are not welcome in this house anymore." Times like these Clare wondered how she could ever have become involved with this disheveled loser standing before her.

  "I think my father-in-law might disagree with you. And I'm not really what's at issue, am I? Me, I'm just sleeping late, enjoying my nightmares, letting my beard grow, and wearing the same suit for two weeks in a row. Occasionally thinking I see a ghost. Generally losing my mind. Nothing new there. Look at you, you haven't had a decent night's sleep in over a year; you're popping Valiums like they were Life Savers, good God, Clare, it's like we've both aged ten years in the past twelve months—"

  "Don't," Clare said, clutching the handle on one of the kitchen drawers. "Just stop it." The drawer was stuck and she had to tug hard at it; finally the entire drawer came out, and the stainless steel forks, knives, and spoons went flying. They landed on the linoleum with a metallic clatter.

  "Shit." Clare began sobbing, low at first, as if the weeping was deep inside her, gradually coming up to the surface. She dropped to the floor like a rag doll. On her knees, she began reaching around and picking up the silverware that was scattered. She kept her head down, eyes on the floor. "Now look what you made me do," she said through her tears, and then laughed,."I'll have to wash these in the sink now. Shit, shit, shit."

  Warren crouched down and picked up a few spoons. "I'm not talking ghosts anymore, Clare."

  "Oh, you've given up your 'the dead haunt the living' routine? Then what are you talking, Warren?" she said with sudden fury, looking him in the face. Her hand was raised in a fist that clenched around several forks. "What exactly are you talking?"

  "Blackmail, Moonbeam, pure and simple."

  Clare sat back on the floor. Her arms hugged her knees as she brought them up to her chin. "Oh, hahaha, really, Warren. That's rich, really, blackmail."

  Warren calmly picked up the rest of the silverware and set it in the sink. "I think the man in the next room might be interested to hear about his daughter's lover. Or was it his daughter's husband? I always get those two confused. How about you?"

  "Don't "

  "Look. What if this guy who's been calling, who's right here in town now, obviously has some scheme that he thinks is worth something. Who the hell knows what it is? Maybe he thinks it will look bad for the school if the whole story were to come out—who knows if this joker even knows what the whole story is? "

  "No one in this entire county was spared the details of "

  "Look, it makes more sense to me than spooks, okay? And that's what I was beginning to believe, myself."

  "Warren, do you believe "

  "I don't believe in anything I can't see with these two eyes. Now I don't know what kind of game this Cup fellow has lined up for us out at the old house, but I intend to be there for the kickoff. I think whoever it is he got to dress up like Lily and chat with Doc will be out there, too, and I'd like to shake her hand for doing such a first-rate job on the old man. Doc said Lily invited us for cocktails at seven, and that gives me about forty minutes to get there. You coming? This could be interesting."

  "Warren " Clare didn't know what to say, and when she looked at Warren's face, she realized that he understood that she was badly frightened. I'm scared, I don't know what the hell is going on, I never really loved you, but I like you. I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want anyone to get hurt, because there's something there, it may not be a ghost, but it probably isn't some idiot blackmailer. But Clare did not know what it was, just that phrase: what goes around, comes around. Finally, she said, "I'm staying here with Daddy. Even if what you think is correct, that somebody wants to go digging up skeletons, what's the point in going there? Why not just call the police? "

  "Honey, as they say down at the Henchman, 'T'aint no cause.' I'm just doing my usual brilliant guesswork. But I do have a little itsy-bitsy microcassette on me so we can save whatever enlightening conversation occurs there for Sheriff Connally and his boys in blue. Now, it's getting late; howsabout a kiss for luck?"

  "No."

  "Just like your sister."

  She slapped him hard. Twice.

  3

  When Warren pulled his Audi in front of the Marlowe-Houston House, he reached underneath the front seat and pulled out a can of Coors. He popped the top, letting the foam spray out across the dashboard. "Shit," he said, and then glanced down at the cassette recorder next to him on the seat. "I am now drinking a Diet Pepsi, for the benefit of you Mothers Against Drunk Drivers." He laughed and tapped the machine. "You on? I guess I should do that testing-one-two-three routine bullshit. All right, testing, one-two-three." He propped the beer between his knees. He picked up the cassette recorder and played back what he had just recorded. Then he drank some beer. He looked out across the lake, away from the house. "I never noticed how we've got a skyline here in Pontefract," he held the cassette up to his lips. "All those houses, and Steeple Ridge back there. The lake's so dark and all the lights are sparkling off the water. Is there a moon out? Well, there are a lot of clouds, anyway." He set the recorder down on one of his knees and finished drinking the beer. He glanced at his watch: 7:10 p.m.

  "It's after seven, seven-ten to be precise, on Saturday, January 3rd, 1987. I am about to enter the Marlowe-Houston House to meet with—" he let out a laugh. "I don't know, my dead wife. She's throwing a party here tonight. I am arriving fashionably late. Look"—he tapped on the recorder's condenser mike—"I don't know who the hell is doing this, but whoever's behind these shenanigans is in this house, and I will be talking with him, or them, shortly." Warren switched the machine off. He stuck it in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  He tossed the empty beer can into the backseat. He got out of the car and stretched. The lake carried sounds of trucks rumbling out on the overpass. Warren picked up some gravel from the road and threw it toward the lake.

  He knew what he was avoiding. He was avoiding looking at the house. "How can you even stand to go back to the old house?" Clare asked as he walked out the door that evening, and the question seemed to reverberate in the highway noise from over the hills.

  "Because," he had told her, "it's just that. An old house."

  As he turned to look at the house, he kept telling himself that.

  The house itself didn't bother him much. It didn't look much different than all the other old mansions that speckled the area. The Georgian-style front, like most of the prep school's campus, the columns, the porch that ran the whole way around the house. Warren preferred his own Victorian-style home.

  "That's a lie," he said aloud, reaching into his breast pocket and turning the tape recorder back on, "you know why you don't want to go in there."

  As if shaking off the cold breeze, Warren shuddered and walked around his car, talking into the tape recorder. He went up the front steps of the house, bringing his hand up to knock on the door.
With his fist in midair, he began laughing. "I've got the key," he said, and fished in his pockets until he found it.

  After he opened the front door and stepped across the threshold, a peculiar odor assaulted him. "Jesus, it smells like shit in here, who died?" He reached over and flicked on the foyer light. The strong pungent odor was enough to send him out of the house; he made a sour face. "Sure could use some air freshener. Hello? Anybody home?"

  Warren whistled "As Time Goes By" as he headed into the living room. He scanned the glass display cases filled with local Indian and pre-twentieth century artifacts. "I am walking through the Marlowe-Houston House now," he said, checking to make sure the tape recorder was still on. "Doesn't look like my host is throwing much of a party. Hey, this is interesting, what is this," he pressed his fingers against one of the glass panes. "Some chip from an Indian burial urn? Part of some ancient tablet? No, looky here, it's just a piece of china from somebody's tea set."

  The living room furniture was covered with broadcloth dust covers, and Warren drew one of the cloths back and sat on the edge of a red velveteen settee. The back of the settee was up against the pink-and-green flower patterned drapes of the front picture window; Warren poked his hand through the split in the drapes and looked out into the dark night. He let the drapes go. "Gad, this place looks like the anteroom for a French brothel. It wasn't like this last year. Or was it? Who the hell is the interior decorator for the Historical Society?" Then, in a louder voice, "If whoever invited me here doesn't show up in five minutes I am leaving!"