Nights Towns: Three Novels, a Box Set

by Douglas Clegg

  "I don't want to die," she said to Ted E. Bear, as ragged a bed companion as any woman of thirty-six held onto—and still more faithful than most. She hugged it to her, feeling not much more grown up or less frightened than that little girl who had lived in the Marlowe-Houston House and plucked out this bear's eyes because she didn't want it to see what it could see. The bear went over the mountain, the song went, to see what it could see.

  On Monday morning, January 5, 1987, Clare was sweat-soaked, and Warren's white T-shirt had a large brownish-red blotch where his neck would go. My scarlet letter, Clare thought as she threw the shirt into the wastebasket.

  She called Warren's house again, with no answer.

  Then Clare called George Connally, Sheriff of Pontefract, Virginia.

  7

  From The Nightmare Book of Cup Coffey:

  SATURDAY NIGHT/SUNDAY

  JANUARY 3–4, 1987

  Been doing the only thing I can do after Saturday's peculiar outing with Nagle.

  Got drunk.

  Well, Nagle threw me for a loop. Either the guy's cracked or something—I already know I'm cracked, so maybe I should just accept his theories about dead people. It feels pretty good to be drunk. This has been one hell of a weekend. We got a little girl who gives good s ance, but who is now missing. We got some dead people running around making long-distance calls (who does AT&T bill to?). We got an empty field which isn't really empty—lots of Injun bones. We got a bunch of kids set on fire a couple of centuries back. We got this drunk guy named Cup Coffey who wonders if this is all going to be here tomorrow morning, or if he's going to wake up in front of his distorted-image TV set back in his lousy Washington apartment.

  So everything goes on hold; last night, went out to Henchman Lounge and drank seven beers in quick succession, wanted to cry to the barmaid, but she had blue hair and gold teeth and I just couldn't bring myself to cry when I saw that. Pilfered some MoonPies from Patsy's fridge when I got in. How I made it home I'll never know. Message from Nagle today, but I can't bring myself to call him. This is crazy. Beer for lunch. In and out of the bathroom while I'm writing this.

  Tomorrow morning I guess I'll head back to DC. Nothing keeping me here. Hope the hangover doesn't hit too hard.

  8

  Monday morning, Cup awoke to Patsy's call: "It's quarter to nine, Mr. Coffey, rise and shine!" She went ahead and pushed his door open a crack. Her pie-shaped face was covered with some kind of white cream. She kept her baby blue chenille robe closed tight with one hand and with the other sprayed some kind of room deodorizer around. Finally, all he saw of her was a disembodied hand and that aerosol can spewing out its mist. The room suddenly smelled of lilacs. Cup began coughing. He fanned the air when the spray ceased.

  As Patsy padded down the hall, her fluffy slippers making a piffle-piffle-piffle sound, she called back, "With the windows closed all winter long the place starts to get a bit stale, and a breath of spring is in order."

  Cup's head ached, and he tasted the sour beer on his tongue, mixed now with lilac spray. He sat up, looked at the clock, reached for the bottle of aspirin in his shaving kit by the bed. He tried opening the childproof cap, but with no luck. He got up, set the aspirin bottle down on the floor, grabbed the ashtray from the dresser and brought it down hard on the plastic bottle, cracking it. Aspirin, much of it smashed, poured like sand out of the cracks. Cup grabbed the few whole ones and popped them in his mouth. He chewed them. They tasted about as good as the lilac and stale beer combo.

  After he showered, he got started packing: he threw everything in the suitcase. He sat on the lid to close it. He picked up the black notebook that lay under his pillow.

  No nightmares last night. He didn't think there'd ever be any again. He opened the book to its last page. He wrote in it:

  Monday, January 5, 1987

  Doesn't look like there's much else to put in this. Its whole purpose is used up. It was my link. My connection. But over and out. Good-bye to all that. Here's to no more nightmares. Damn the neuroses and full speed ahead!

  He tossed the notebook into the trash, and then thought better of it. If Patsy decided to go snooping in the trash can she might get a rude shock. He laughed to himself. He picked the notebook up and set it on top of his suitcase.

  After he called for the cab to take him to the bus station, Cup watched from the bedroom window for that taxi service's green station wagon. Patsy invited him to wait downstairs in the parlor, but he didn't really feel like listening to her chatter. He was through with this town. He was through with the bad memories. No more bullshit, no more grasping to some adolescent fantasy. Lily Cammack Whalen, the blond goddess of his dreams, was dead and buried. It was over. He had an overactive imagination. Someone had made a prank call. Dr. Nagle was about seventy. Old men always had theories. Old men worried about death. Old men wanted so badly to believe that the shadows that the fire cast were shadows of something. But Cup believed then, as he gazed out the window, almost fearlessly at the Marlowe-Houston House, that the shadows he had a glimpse of were shadows and nothing more.

  Just a house, and just a field. Anything that happened there was gone, a canceled check. Just as he'd told his students once, that when spring follows winter, those are not the same leaves on the tree, not the same petals on the flower in bloom. It is a different leaf, a different petal, and it is only our misinterpretation of natural phenomena that leads us to believe in the continuity of existence. He'd certainly gotten enough angry parents on his back after sharing that little tidbit with the fifth grade.

  Or, as Cap's successful Uncle Phil had told him on several occasions, "Life's a bitch and then you die."

  A car did pull up in front of Campbell's Boardinghouse, but it was a black-and-white police car. A policeman got out of the car and disappeared from Cup's sight under the porch roof.

  A few moments later, Patsy called up the stairs, "Oh, Mr. Coffey, you have a visitor!"

  9

  "How do you do, Mr. Coffey, I'm George Connally, sheriff here in Pontefract." The sheriff was a handsome man but with a scruffy look. Cup guessed he was probably in his early forties. He had thick hair the color of a golden retriever's, and a broad smile that was somewhat lessened by a tightness to his face and sad hazel eyes. Newly planted worries furrowed his brow.

  "Hello," Cup said warily.

  "There's been a kind of accident nearby, Mr. Coffey."

  Patsy Campbell hovered like a spy satellite, watering potted plants around the windowsill, and George Connally suggested to Cup that it might be better if they took a little walk down East Campus Drive.

  Walking out into the street, George turned to Cup and said bluntly, "A man died the other night, last night or the night before. Although we won't be sure until the county coroner takes a look. Mr. Coffey, there are some unusual circumstances surrounding this man's death. His name was Warren Whalen, and your name was mentioned in connection with him."

  10

  Cup was down at the courthouse for three hours, mainly waiting, not really understanding the point of all the questions that the sheriff and a state detective were firing at him. After his interview with the detective named Firestone ("like the tire," the detective kept repeating, feeling that he had not exhausted the comparison completely by the fourth go-round), Cup walked out into the sheriff's main office. The young blond girl they called Bonnie offered him some coffee. Another woman was sitting near this girl's desk. He hadn't noticed her until just then, and she was quite striking—sitting there, her shoulders squared as if prepared for an onslaught, her eyes like dark almonds. She kept her coat on, even though the heat was turned up in the office. Her dark hair curled up against the back of her neck. It looked soft, fragrant. Pretty, rather vulnerable looking even with her defensive posture. But her eyes—intelligent and bright. Hiding something with their lids drawn halfway down.

  "I'd rather you didn't stare," the woman said.

  The voice caught Cup by surprise. He recognized it. "Do I know
you?"

  Bonnie, pouring coffee from a percolator into a Styrofoam cup, chirped, "Mr. Coffey, this is Mrs. Terry."

  At the mention of his name, Mrs. Terry stood up and said she needed to use the bathroom. Bonnie directed her down the hall.

  "That was Lily Cammack's sister, wasn't it?" Cup asked when the dark-haired woman had left.

  Bonnie nodded and brought him the steaming cup. Bonnie was pretty, and Cup didn't think she was much over twenty. She had a way of sashaying toward him when she brought the coffee; it was refreshing to have a young pretty girl flirt with him. But then he saw the ring on her left hand. "You're married," he said, matter-of-factly.

  Bonnie wrinkled her nose. "Isn't everybody?"

  "I'm not."

  Her eyes widened a bit. Bonnie Holroyd had what Cup would call alpine breasts, their peaks and slopes pushing against her fuzzy sweater. These were the advanced ski slopes. "You're cute. I heard you were from Washington." Bonnie sat on the edge of her desk, her skirt hiked up to expose her white thigh. She swung her legs back and forth like a little girl. "I've never even been to Richmond. Farthest west I've ever been is Covington. I'll bet it's pretty wild up in Washington."

  "Like Rome in its last days."

  "You have any weed?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "You know, weed, dope, grass." She winked.

  "Sorry, not part of my diet. Anyway, that's illegal and you work for the sheriff."

  "My husband works for the sheriff, and he is my connection. See, he whattayoucallsits, confiscates it from kids, you know, and then he brings it home and we party. You like to party?"

  Lyle Holroyd walked into the office then, and Bonnie shut up immediately. Lyle looked sternly at Cup. "You trying to get a peek up my wife's dress, Mister?"

  Cup was taken aback, but Lyle began laughing, as did Bonnie, who jumped girlishly from the desk and went back around it.

  "This is your husband?" Cup asked.

  Bonnie cracked a half-smile and muttered to Lyle, "Introduce yourself to the man, Godzilla."

  But while Lyle Holroyd introduced himself, Cup's mind went back to Lily's sister, Clare. She had not come back from the bathroom a few minutes later when Sheriff Connally came back out of the room with the detective and told Cup he was free and clear. "Where'd Mrs. Terry go, Bonnie?" George asked the girl.

  Bonnie shrugged. "Far as I know, George, she's still camping out in the john. You want me to go knock?"

  "No, I'm sure she'll be back in a bit," George said, nodding to Cup.

  As Cup went out the office door, Bonnie called out, "Good-bye, Mr. Washington-DeeCee."

  Cup walked down the hallway to the restrooms.

  He stood in front of the women s bathroom, thinking of knocking on the door, and then decided it would be a dumb thing to do. What would he say to her, anyway? Sorry about your sister, and sorry about your brother-in-law, and oh, yeah, did you by any chance call me up in Washington a couple of weeks ago and pretend you were your sister, because, lady, you sound just like her.

  Cup was just about to walk back down the hall and leave the courthouse when the restroom door swung open. Clare Terry came out, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw him.

  "You," she said flatly, as if he were a headache that had just come on, but not without some warning.

  "We've never met," Cup said, extending his hand.

  "Yes we have, Bonnie Holroyd introduced us." She stood in front of him, her back against the restroom door, her arms crossed. She squinted her dark eyes fiercely at Cup. He could tell that she had been crying in the bathroom; they were rimmed with pink, bloodshot, and the lids around them were puffy.

  "I was a friend of your sister's."

  She regarded him in such a way that he thought it best to shut up. She seemed to be staring through him. "My sister is dead. What are you doing here, Mr. Coffey?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Well, I know all about you." Her lips were set thin and tight; his eyes were drawn to them as she spoke. He felt drained, defenseless. "And I want to tell you that I am on to you. Do you understand me? I am on to you. And I suggest you leave Pontefract as soon as possible with this, this disease you've brought with you—" Her speech became slow and clumsy. Her lips lost their firmness and began trembling. She turned away from him so that he could not see the tears in her eyes.

  "Look, lady, if I have a disease, let me tell you, I caught it right here in this town. If you were half the woman your sister was—"

  Before Cup could finish this last sentence, Clare Terry, her face red with anger, turned to face him again. She slapped him. The smacking sound echoed down the hall.

  Cup's cheek stung, and Clare was crying. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said. He raised his hands as much in defense against future slaps as in supplication.

  Clare, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, walked swiftly back down the hall to the sheriff's office.

  11

  "You're what?" Prescott said when he opened the door to the Historical Society office.

  Cup entered the room, rubbing his hands together, shivering from the cold outside. His face was a glowing pink, and his brown hair stuck out in feathery wings where the wind had blown it.

  "I said looks like I'm stuck. Here in Pontefract. At least for a few more days. I was just down at the sheriff's office talking with some police detective from Roanoke or Richmond or someplace."

  "I know," Prescott said, bringing a chair around from behind a long wooden table. "Here, sit down. I've spoken with Sheriff Connally myself."

  "I felt like they wanted me to confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping. So I told him about the phone message up in DC and most of the other stuff, the calls down to Dr. Cammack's and with Lily's husband. I've never been given the third degree like that before."

  "Sounds like an unpleasant day."

  "I'm exaggerating. I was treated pretty well. I got the impression that this detective didn't really suspect any foul play, and when I went out into the office I passed a woman who turned out to be Lily's sister, but she was introduced to me as Mrs. Terry. But she's Clare Cammack—I just didn't think that she might be married."

  "Yes—well, divorced, I believe. Lived up in New York for a while."

  "Well, she sounded just like Lily. Threw me for a loop. Didn't look much like her, but when I heard that voice I kind of think she might have made that call to me in Washington. Oh, and she's a great slapper." Cup pointed to the dark bruise forming just beneath his right eye.

  "I imagine so."

  "Something funny is going on. I asked if it was okay to get the hell out of Dodge, and the sheriff asks me why, and then laughs and says something like 'Oh, yeah, who would want to hang around Pontefract in the dead of winter?' What happened with Whalen, anyway?"

  "They didn't tell you?"

  "Well, to be honest, I felt sort of weird asking; this sheriff was so on edge I didn't want to seem overly curious. I felt like the word suspect was already stamped on my forehead."

  "You know, Cup, you're not stuck here at all. You can leave, and I think if you're smart you'll get on the next bus out of town."

  "First you want me to stay and help you with some bizarre research, and now—you know, the sheriff was like that. Early in the day he suggested I stay until Wednesday, but when I left his office an hour ago I got the feeling he never wanted to see my face again—in a friendly way, like he was looking out for me. What gives?"

  "I wish I had the answer to that. I was never terribly fond of Warren Whalen. Brian Cammack only hired him as Disciplinary Counselor because he didn't want his son-in-law to take his prize daughter elsewhere to live. He wasn't particularly good at the job, and he had the morals of an alley cat. But I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy the kind of death that man faced."

  "Drop the other shoe, please. Nobody told me a thing."

  "I spoke with George Connally this morning, just after he'd spoken with you at Patsy Campbell's—you mentioned my name, and he wanted to hear some good word about you.
It didn't take him long to remember your name from twelve years ago, Cup. He was a deputy then. I reminded him that the Kinter death was just an accident, and he let slip that what happened to Warren Whalen was nothing that neat. Warren was found dead in the Marlowe-Houston's cellar. He had scratched himself to death, Cup."

  12

  Warren's Tape

  Sheriff George Connally sat at his desk and sucked on an ice cube while he listened to the cassette tape they'd found near Warren Whalen's body.

  " Take me to your leader, sweetheart. I didn't catch your name " Whalen said. "Cassie? Cassie what?" There was a sound on the tape like wind blowing, and George figured it was the material of whatever pocket Whalen had stuck the tape recorder into.

  After a few seconds, there was the sound of a door creaking. "Well, all this for me?" Whalen asked. "Your fearless leader, whoever he is, has certainly—Jesus, that smell, what the hell is that Yes, yes Oh, Christ! No, no, I just thought I saw something when you touched me How did you fit all these people down here? Who's the guest of honor Oh, yeah? This is one weird little surprise party. Who put you up to this, anyway?"

  Warren Whalen acted just as if someone was talking to him and he was listening for their responses and then continuing. His monologue seemed indecipherable. He kept up this one-sided conversation as he went down the stairs of the cellar, which acted as an echo chamber and his voice became booming. As he spoke, he described what sounded like a party gathering, people he didn't recognize for the most part. He introduced himself around, with no one responding.

  George fast-forwarded the tape. There was something there he would come back to, but not yet.

  Then he started the tape again. "Oh my God," Whalen said, "where am I? Who are you people—lord, Lily No, it can't be—Get it off me, get it the fuck off me, don't you touch me, don't—" His voice became frantic, pleading, then broke into a stop-start series of sobs and gasps. "Oh, God, my God, what is it, oh, God help me, Christ—" His voice erupted into a falsetto scream, and then the scratching sound began. His clothes being torn as if a wild animal were attacking him, the cassette recorder crashing to the floor, but still running. Still recording. The sounds of Whalen thrashing about, sounds gurgling up from his throat like something caught in a bear trap, and that constant scratching sound, echoing in that cellar where he lay dying. "Lily no no get them off me. Jesus, it's inside me fuck oh, God-God-God-God-God—" until this last word, God, became just a series of hard Gs melting into each other.