The Angry Dream

by Gil Brewer

  Her gaze found mine and there was a look in her eyes that I did not like. Then she turned to Luckham. “That’s what they said. Everybody told me. And you’re wrong, Sheriff.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yes. I was with Al last night. We were together at his house, all night—until early this morning. So you’ve got the wrong man.”

  Luckham sat down heavily in his chair, not looking at anything, searching the floor.

  “That’s the way it is,” Lois said.

  “That right, Harper?” Luckham said.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t you say that?”

  “You wouldn’t have believed it from me.”

  Lois touched my arm, her eyes anxious.

  “Am I free to leave?” I said.

  Luckham said, “Yes, you’re free to leave.” He sounded as sick as he looked.

  “Come on, Al,” Lois said.

  We went outside and I closed the door. She kept holding to my arm and there was a softness about her mouth, her eyes very bright, a spot of bright color on each cheek.

  “I’m sorry about your father, Lois.”

  “Never mind about that,” she said. Her expression did not change. “I’ve got something to tell you, Al.”

  Her white Jaguar was parked in the road behind the coupé. I didn’t want to go with her. Maybe she really thought we had been together all night. She’d been drunk when she came to the house.

  “Where are we going?” I asked her.

  “Home. Come on, we’ll use my car.”

  We got into the Jaguar. But she didn’t start the car.

  “So now I’ve lied for you,” she said.

  She watched me.

  “I didn’t come to your place until very late,” she said. “It must’ve been three, or later—because I was in Riverton last night. I was everywhere last night. Only I finally came to you, because I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

  “Why did you lie for me?”

  “Don’t you know, Al?”

  I did not speak.

  “There’s something I’m going to tell you, Al. I don’t quite know how—but I’ve got to tell you. You’ve got to help me.”

  The only thing I could think of was Noraine and that I wanted to see her and tell her how wrong I had been about everything.

  “Did you kill him?” she said.

  “No.”

  “I was pretty sure you didn’t, Al. I couldn’t figure why you would—unless you knew what I knew. And even then, I couldn’t see why you’d kill him.

  “It doesn’t matter that he’s dead,” she said. “Can you understand that. I’m glad he’s dead, Al—it simplifies an awful lot of things—I mean, he was never like a father at all, Al.”

  The wind drew past the Jaguar, carrying snow with it. You could watch it become darker and darker and I became more and more worried. In another moment, I would have to leave her.

  “For a long time,” she said, “it’s been kind of funny at our house. What I mean is, my father always seemed to have plenty of money. Only he never did anything to get it. I used to ask him—so did Weyman—but he only laughed. He told us he had business in other towns. Every week or so he went away. Three years ago, I found out—almost three years.”

  She spoke softly, slightly twisted under the wheel of the sports car. It was cold inside the car.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “One time I saw him. You remember the springhouse, out back? Well, he went out there an awful lot. Only this time I saw him come back with something in his hands and I hid in the kitchen. It was money. I went out there and I found it—a wooden box of money under a stone slab—a piece of slate, Al. So much money it was terrible!”

  I could say nothing. Her face was very pale.

  “So one time I told him I’d found it. He said it was his, that he kept it there because he didn’t believe in banks.”

  “Lois—don’t you see?”

  “Yes. Of course, I thought of that—that he’d taken it from the vault. But I never said it to him and he never talked about it again—except for one thing.”

  “What?” My voice was very loud.

  “He said as long as Weyman and I lived with him, we could have whatever we wanted—but that if we went away, we wouldn’t get a cent.”

  “So you stayed on.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. No—”

  “Only I knew that sometime I would take that money and go,” she said, and her face changed now. “I knew that, Al. I didn’t know when. It would be when I got fed up here, or when—and then you came back, Al.”

  She moved slightly toward me, her eyes shining in the shadowed darkness of the car.

  “So I went out to the springhouse today, this afternoon. And the money was gone, Al!”

  I felt her hand on my arm and the fingers clenched. “Al, you’ve got to help me find it—it must be around somewhere. It’s got to be.”

  “Did you go in the house?”

  “No, I was looking for you—I was crazy, Al—and then somebody said the sheriff had you down here. So I came. Al, we’ll find the money and go—we’ll go together.”

  “We’d better get up to the house,” I said.

  She started the car and we drove off swiftly.

  “We’ll find it,” she said. “I know we will.”

  “Lois?”

  “Yes?”

  I looked at her profile. We came fast through Pine Springs, the engine roaring and echoing in the night.

  “There’s something you’ve got to know.”

  “I should be sad,” she said, “but I can’t be sad! I know we’ll find that money, and it’s ours, and we’ve got each other.”

  “Lois!”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve got it wrong. It’s not that way with me. I thought it was that way, but I was wrong.”

  The car began to slow a little.

  “How do you mean?” she asked.

  “I mean it’s just not that way for me, Lois. I thought it was—and I’m sorry. I’m in love with Noraine Temple.”

  She slammed on the brakes. The Jaguar slithered in the road, bounced on the shoulder and stopped. Her hands were bare and white on the wheel, tightly clenched. She seemed frozen.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Damn you!” She screamed it. “Damn you!”

  She started the car abruptly and we tore on up the road, the engine roaring louder and louder. She turned up the road on the hill and the wheels struck the snow-covered gravel of her driveway. She hit the brakes ruthlessly. The car slid out of control, smashed against the front steps leading to the entrance of the house, and halted. She got out and stood there a moment looking up at the house. I came around the front of the car.

  “Are you all right?”

  She gave a short laugh, not turning toward me.

  The front of the house was open and I heard someone running inside, the loud slap-slap of feet. I went up the front steps and through the door into the house.

  “Al—wait!” Lois called.

  “Weyman!” I shouted.

  I went on through the house and then heard somebody speak, the voice muffled through the walls. It seemed to come from below somewhere—perhaps the cellar. I heard Lois coming through the house.

  “Al?” she called again.

  I came into the dining room and saw a heavy oaken door standing partially open. The door had a big wrought-iron bolt on it, and wrought-iron hinges. Light shone through the crack in the door.

  Suddenly the door swung open and Weyman Gunther stepped into the room. He looked at me a little slyly, then shut the door behind him.

  “Hello, Harper.”

  There was something wrong with Weyman Gunther, something you felt you should see clearly, yet something you missed completely.

  “Weyman,” Lois said, stopping across the room.

  “Hello, Sis,” he said. He did not move from in front of the large oaken door.<
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  He was wearing gray flannel trousers and a dark blue turtle-neck sweater. He did not have his glasses on and this gave his eyes a peculiar appearance, as if he were peering into far distances. His hair wisped about his head and he was extremely pale and a little on the gray side, but his eyes were bright. His hands were pressed back against the oaken door, the fingers spread apart.

  “What’ve you been doing?” Lois said.

  “Me?” Weyman said, keeping his eyes very closely on me now. “I might ask the same about you, Sis. You’ve been with him, haven’t you?”

  “Weyman!”

  He still did not move from the door, his head tilted as if he were listening—listening for something far away.

  “Your father’s dead,” I said. “Did you know that, Weyman?”

  “Yes. I heard about that.”

  “Have you seen Miss Temple?” I asked him.

  “Temple? Oh, Miss Temple—no, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “What’s behind that door?” I said.

  “Nothing at all. It leads down to the cellar,” he said. “To the rumpus room, that way.”

  “Al,” Lois said, “are you going to help me?”

  “I want to know why he’s standing there like that.”

  “Who?” Weyman said. “Me? I don’t know what you mean.”

  There was a noise from below and a moan. He stiffened against the door, listening with a kind of frantic agitation.

  “Step aside.”

  He shook his head, watching me, pressing back against the door. “No,” he said softly. “No, I won’t do that.”

  I grabbed him, flung him hard. I opened the door and looked down there in the bright bath of light. I saw Noraine. She had been lying on a couch and had just begun to sit up. Weyman was coming at me.

  “You’re too late!” he gasped.

  I hit him. The blow jarred me to the shoulder and my fist flashed pain. Weyman crashed against the door and it slapped back open against the wall.

  “Yes,” he said. “Too late, you hear?”

  I heard Lois exclaim something. Weyman saw her and his eyes widened.

  “No! Sis!”

  I buried my fist to the wrist in his middle. A great volume of air rushed from him as he doubled on my fist. I brought the same fist up and it caught him in the face.

  “Sis!” he gasped. “Sis—no! Keep your hands off!”

  I backed a little and he ran at me, his eyes absolutely crazy. I hit him again. I wasn’t hurting him at all. He had no breath, yet he kept coming. I hit him again. He windmilled backwards straight at the open doorway and I watched him sail through the air and strike down there.

  Noraine looked up at me along the stair well.

  “Al!” she called. “Al!”

  Halfway down the stairs I paused. I could see him down there on the brown carpet, holding his leg, moaning softly. Noraine stood over him, watching me as I came down the stairs. I stepped toward her.

  Weyman came to his feet, limping badly and made a run up the stairs.

  “Sis!” he screamed. “Sis—wait—don’t you touch that!”

  He was three-quarters of the way up when I saw Lois appear at the head of the stairs. Her face was white save for the slash of red across her lips. She slammed the door. He crashed against the door, working the handle.

  “She’s locked us in!”

  I tried the door. It was locked, all right, and it felt as sound as a rock. I slammed my shoulder against it and it didn’t even vibrate.

  “So you found the money,” Lois said from the other side of the door, her voice matter-of-fact. “Packed it all in a suitcase, ready to go.”

  Weyman leaned against the stair railing, staring at me, swallowing. “Yes,” he said. “Yes—but I was waiting for you.”

  “I can imagine, Brother dear,” she said. “Waiting with that down there.”

  “Open the door, Sis!”

  I heard her heels clicking away down the hall. I turned and went down the stairs to Noraine.

  “What did he do to you?”

  “It’s all right,” she said, trying to smile. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she looked wildly nervous. Her dark skirt and blouse were rumpled, the hair a tangle of blonde curls. The lipstick was gone from her lips and her lips looked bruised. I grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Has he hurt you?”

  She shook her head, looking up past my shoulders. “He couldn’t,” she said. “He couldn’t hurt me.”

  We looked at each other and she smiled just a little.

  “When you left,” she said, “the sheriff came. Just as you got out back with—with Sam. I got rid of him, and I was just leaving when Weyman came in. I’ve been down here ever since. He’s held me here—but Al, he couldn’t do anything, not really.”

  I grabbed her to me, holding her tightly, and I heard myself tell her all the things I’d wanted to tell her, how wrong I had been. “And never mind about Sam,” I said. “I don’t care about that.”

  Her voice was quite calm. “I was seeing Sam for you, Al. You’re so pigheaded. Sam kept hinting about having lots of money—so I kept prompting him. Then, last night, that’s what I wanted to tell you. Sam was going to tell me all about the money—he promised. He was just going to tell me when Weyman shot him through the window.”

  “Sis!” Weyman yelled from up there.

  “Did Weyman say he shot his father?”

  She nodded. “He told me everything, Al. He found the money from your father’s bank in an old chest upstairs, along with some worthless bonds. He packed the money in a suitcase and he said he and I were going away together. That’s when you came.”

  “Sis!” he yelled. “Unlock the door!”

  “But why did he kill his father?” I asked Noraine.

  “Because he wanted me and he knew Sam was—well, close. So when he saw us in there, he couldn’t stand it.” Her voice was very low now. “He’s not right, Al—I mean, not right at all.”

  Weyman was standing with his face pressed against the door.

  Noraine said, “I wanted to tell you about Weyman. It’s been going on for days—I mean, once before he tried to get me. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t—not the way you were. And now—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Why didn’t you get out of here? He was upstairs when we came, wasn’t he?”

  “I was asleep,” she said. “Then I heard somebody talking up there, and it woke me up. It was you.”

  “Any other way out of here?”

  She shook her head. “None that I know of.”

  Weyman yelled, “Sis!” He turned on the stairs, shouting at me. “She’s pouring kerosene around up there.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No,” he said. “Here, look.”

  I went back up the stairs. He pointed to the threshold of the door. A liquid had seeped through under the door, staining the wood, and I could hear splashes up there in the dining room and her heels as she walked through the house. I smelled it. Kerosene.

  “Lois,” I said. “Lois?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll find out.” She came close to the door and her voice sounded strained. “You can have her,” she said. “That’s what you want. And him, too—you can have him in the bargain. Isn’t that nice of me?”

  “Lois, open the door.”

  “No. I’m going up by the falls and watch. Think of me up there, Al—and think of what you could have had. I’ve got nearly a hundred and ninety thousand dollars. Isn’t that rich?” She ceased talking and I thought she was crying, but then it began to sound like tight laughter. “What do you think about that, Al?”

  “Think of your brother, then,” I said.

  “Think of Weyman? He’s better off dead—much better off.”

  I heard her walk away, her heels clicking again. There was a crash and something made of tin struck the floor, rattling. Then she came back toward the door again.

  “Sis!�
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  “Lois,” I said. “Lois, you’ll never get away with this.”

  “Yes, I will, Al. Yes, I will.”

  “What’s she going to do?” Noraine said.

  “Lois?” I called.

  “I’m right here, Al. Right on the other side of the door—as close to you as I’ll ever be again. I wanted to be so close to you, but you didn’t want me. You hurt me once and now you’ve done it again, only now it’s going to end. I waited too long. A woman’s got to think of herself sometimes.”

  “Lois, open the door.”

  She was walking away. “Lois!”

  She did not answer. She wasn’t going to answer. I turned and looked down the stairs. Weyman was halfway down, staring at me with those curious eyes of his, and Noraine watched me from down there. I moved down the stairs past Weyman.

  The room was sealed in tightly and there were no windows. It was a large room, with the furnace at the far end of the cellar, in shadow. The furnishings down here were comfortable; two large leather couches, some overstuffed chairs. There was a radio and TV combination, and a Hi-Fi system built into one of the walls. The walls were cedar. The floor was covered with thick brown carpet. I heard something crackle far away and there was a faint hissing, then a distant roar.

  “She’s set the house on fire,” Weyman said. He spoke softly. “You can see the smoke under the door up there.”

  I came back by the stairs and looked up. A fine, almost indiscernible hair of smoke curled under the cellar door. Already the crackling and hissing was distinct.

  Noraine said nothing, standing there stiffly looking up at the door. I went along the walls of the room. I kept moving, looking at the walls and the low ceiling. We were sealed in beautifully. I came past the furnace, neat and clean, an oil furnace. It was roaring, too. The noise of the fire overhead was growing in intensity now. I came back along the far wall and saw the large square metal-sheathed piping running along close to the ceiling, then vanishing in a slow curve upward.

  “Weyman?”

  He moved slowly over to where I stood, limping badly.

  “What’s this?”

  “Air vent.”

  “Where does it lead?”

  “Upstairs into the hall outside the dining room.”

  I leaped up and whacked it with my hand. It made a sound like a bass drum.

  “They run all through the house for circulation,” he said.