"You filthy animal," Erwin raged. His words drew no response from Fletcher. "I don't know what kind of mindtricks you've been playing," Erwin went on, "but I want you to undo them. Right now. Hear me? Right now!" Fletcher's pupils slipped back into view, much to Erwin's satisfaction. He was tired of being ignored. "And then I want you-"
He stopped to let out a groan of disgust as Fletcher reached out and took a handful of his own shit, then mashed it into his groin. Erwin averted his eyes, but what his gaze found in the shadows was infinitely worse than Fletcher's scatological games.
There was a body there, lying with its face to the wall. A body he recognized.
There were no words to express the horror of that moment; nor its terrible clarity. He could only let out a sob, a wracking sob, that went unheard by the masturbator. He knew why now. He was dead. His wizened body was lying in the corner of the room, drained of life by Fletcher. Whatever consciousness he still possessed, it was clinging to the memory of the flesh, but it had no influence in the living world. He could not be seen or heard or felt. He was a phantom.
He sank down in front of Fletcher and studied his face. It was brutish beneath the beard, the brow louting, the mouth grotesquely wide.
"What are you?" he murmured to himself.
Fletcher's manipulations were apparently bringing him close to crisis. His breathing was fast and shallow, and punctuated with little grunts. Erwin couldn't bring himself to watch the act concluded. As the grunts grew louder he rose d made for the door, passing through it, down the hall and ut into the sunlight.
Mrs. Semevikov had gone on her way, and Ken was heading back into his house with an armful of roses, but there was a thin, high-pitched whining sound coming from nearby. Something is in pain, Erwin thought, which fact curiously comforted him, to know that he was not the only soul suffering right now. He went in search of the sufferer, and didn't have to look far. It was the rose bushes that were giving off the whine; a sound he assumed only the dead could hear.
It was a poor compensation. Tears, or rather the memory of tears, fell from his remembered eyes, and he quietly swore an oath that even if he had to do a deal with the Devil to possess the means, he would somehow revenge himself on the beast that had taken his life. Nor would it be quick. He'd make the bastard suffer so loudly the grief of a million roses could not drown out his screams.
The Friday of Festival Weekend was always a slack day at the doctor's.
Early next week there'd be a waiting room full of folks who'd put off a visit because they had too much to do, their fingers turned septic, their constipation chronic. But today only those in extreme discomfort, or so lonely a trip to see Dr. Powell was a treat, came in.
None of the patients made any mention of recent events to Phoebe, though she didn't doubt that every man, woman, and child in Everville was by now steeped in the scandal. Even Dr. Powell kept his remarks to a minimum. He was sorry to hear about Morton's death, he said, and would perfectly understand if she needed to take a few days off. She thanked him, and asked if she might perhaps leave around two, so she could drive over to Silverton and meet the funeral director. The answer, of course, was yes.
In fact, that wasn't the only meeting she had planned. She needed more urgently than ever the guidance of a legal mind; someone who could give her a clear picture of just how bad a position she was in. She would try to see Erwin this afternoon she'd decided, rather than wait until Monday. A lot could happen in seventy-two hours, as the turmoil of the last twenty-four proved. Better that she knew the bad news and planned accordingly.
iv The fish was good. Tesia took her leisurely time eating, and listened while she ate, tuning in to conversations going on at five tables in her vicinity. It was a trick she'd first learned as a screenwriter (quickly finding that ordinary conversation was littered with remarks no producer would believe) and had gone on to hone it during her travels, when it had allowed her to keep track of the way the world was going without benefit of media or social skills.
today, much to her surprise, she found that three of the five conversations were about the same thing: the life and crimes of a local woman called Phoebe, who was apparently implicated in the bizarre demise of her husband.
While she was listening to one of the tables debating the morals of adultery, a parched-looking fellow, whom she took to be the manager of the place, came through with hamburgers for the debaters, and on his way back to the counter gathered up her dishes and casually asked if she'd enjoyed the fish. She said she had. Then, hoping to squeeze a little more information from him said: "I was wondering... do you happen to know a guy called Fletcher?"
The man, his name tag read Bosley, thought for a moment. "Fletcher... Fletcher... " he said.
While he mused, Raul said, Tesla?
"In a minute," she thought to Raul.
But there's something-Raul went on.
He got no further before Bosley said, "I don't believe I know of any Fletcher. Does he live in town?"
"No. He's a visitor."
"We're swamped with visitors," Bosley replied.
Clearly this wasn't going to prove a fruitful line of inquiry. But while she had the man in front of her she decided to quiz him about something else.
"Phoebe," she said. Bosley lost his smile. "Do you know
?"
"She came in now and again," Bosley conceded.
"What's she like?" By the expression on his face, Bosley was caught between the requirements of civility and his desire to ignore Tesla's question entirely. "Everybody's talking about her."
"Then I hope her story serves as a lesson," Bosley replied, chilly now.
"The Lord sees her sin and judges her."
"Has she been accused of something?"
"In the Lord's eyes-"
"Forget the fucking Lord's eyes," Tesla said, irritated by the guy's cant. "I want to know what she's like."
Bosley set the dishes back on the table and quietly said, "I think you'd better leave."
"What for?" "You're not welcome to break bread with us," he replied.
"Why the hell not?"
"Your language."
"What about it?" Tesla said.
The F word, Raul prompted.
She repeated it aloud, to test the thesis. "Fuck?" she said, "you don't like me sayingfuck?"
Bosley flinched as though the syllables were stings. "Get out," he said.
"All I said was fuck," Tesla replied sweetly. "What's wrong withfuck?" Bosley had taken hurts enough. "I want you out of here," he said, the volume of his voice rising. "Your foul tongue isn't welcome."
"I can't stay for the peach cobbler?" Tcsia said. "Out!" Bosley yelled. The gossiping patrons had fallen silent now. All eyes were turned in the direction of Tesla's table. "Take your abominations elsewhere. They're not welcome here."
Tesia lounged in her chair. "Fuck isn't an abomination," she said.
"Fuck's just a word, it's just a useful little word. Come on, Bosley, admit it. There are times when onlyfuck will do."
"I want you out of here."
"You see. I want you the fuck out of here would sound so much more forceful."
There were giggles from here and there, and a few nervous coughs. "What do you say to your wife on a Saturday night? You want to fornicate, honcy? No, you say I want a fuck." "Out!" Bosley yelled. There were others coming to his aid now, among them a cook from the kitchen who looked like he might have seen the light in San Quentin. Tesla got to her feet.
"Okay, I'm going," she said. She gave the cook a dazzling grin. "Great fish," she said, and sauntered to the door. "Of course we shouldn't forget the most important use of fuck," she said as she went. "The exclamation. As in oh fuck, or what a fuck up." She'd reached the door, and halted there to look back at Bosley. "Or the ever-useful fuck you," she said, and, offering him a little smile, took her leave.
She was standing on the corner, wondering where she might next go in search of Fletcher, when Raul whispered, Did you hear what I said in there?
"I was just defending my constitutional rights," Tesla replied.
Before that, Raul murmured.
"What?" she said.
I don't know what, he replied. I just felt some presence or other "You sound nervous," Tesia replied, glancing around. The intersection was busier than ever. It was an unlikely place to he haunted, she thought, at least right now. At midnight, perhaps, it'd be a different story.
"Didn't they bury suicides at crossroads?" she said to Raul. There was no reply. "Raul?"
Listen.
"What am I-?"
Just listen, will you?
There was plenty to hear. horns honking, tires squealing, folks laughing and chattering, music from an open window, shouting through an open door.
Not that, Raul said.
"What then?"
Somebody's whispering.
She listened again, trying to filter out the din of people d vehicles. Close your eyes, Rau I said, it's easier in the dark.
She did so. The din continued, but she felt a little more remote from it.
There, Raul murmured.
He was right. Somewhere between the traffic and the chatter, a tiny voice was trying to be heard. No, it seemed to be saying. And something about ketchup. Tesla concentrated, trying to tune her mind's ear into the voice, the way she'd tuned in to the conversations in the Diner. No, it said again, no about, no about "Know about," Tesla murmured. "It knows about something."
"Ketch... ketch... " the voice said.
Ketch?
"Ketch a-" No, not ketch a: Fletcher.
"You hear that?" she said to Raul. "It knows about Fletcher. That's what it's saying. It knows about Fletcher." She listened again, tuning into the frequency where the voice had been. The sound was still there, but barely. She held her breath, focusing every jot of her attention upon interpreting the signal. It wasn't words she was hearing now, it was a number. Two. Two. Six.
She said it aloud, so that the whisperer knew she'd understood.
"Two-two-six. Right?"
And now came further syllables. Itch or witch. Then hell, or something like it.
"Try again," she said softly. But either her powers of concentration or the whisperer's strength was giving out. Itch, she thought it said again. Then it was gone. She kept listening, hoping it would make further contact, but there was nothing. "Shit," she muttered.
What we need's a map, Raul said.
"What for?"
It was an address, Tesla. He was telling you where to find Fletcher. She looked back towards the diner. Her waitress caught sight of her as she opened the door.
"Please@'the woman began. "It's okay," Tesla said. "I just want one of these." She picked up a Festival brochure from the rack just inside the door. "Have a nice day."
When did you get to be so rabid about Jesus, by the way? Raul asked her as she sat astride the bike studying the map on the back of the brochure.
"I'm not," she said. "I love all that shit. I just think words are-" She stopped. Peered more closely at the map. "Mitchell Street," she said. "That's got to be it. Mitchell."
She pocketed the map and started the bike. "Are you ready for this?" she said.
Precious, he replied.
"What?"
You were going to say words are precious.
"was I?"
And no: I'm not ready.
FIVE
Erwin had journeyed down to 10tty's Diner in search of the familiar; some face or voice he knew and liked, to settle the panic in him. Instead he'd heard a woman he'd never seen in his life before asking about his murderer, and he had almost gone crazy with frustration, haranguing her at a volume that would have torn his throat if he'd had a throat to tear, while she paraded her command of gutter-talk for Bosley.
She was neither as stupid or insensitive as that display might have suggested, however. Once she was outside she'd stopped to listen, and he'd pressed so close to her it would have been deemed molestation if he'd been flesh and blood, telling her over and over where Fletcher was. His tenacity had paid off. She'd gone back for the city map, and while she'd studied it, he had tried to warn her that Fletcher was dangerous.
This time, however, she hadn't heard. He wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps people couldn't map-read and hear the dead talk at the same time.
Perhaps the fault Jay with him, and he'd lost the knack of communication with the living moments after finding it. Whichever, what he had hoped would blossom into a fruitful exchange had been cut short, and the woman had been off on her motorcycle before he could tell her about Fletcher's murderous tendencies. He was not overly concerned for her well-being.
If she was in search of Fletcher, he reasoned, then she surely knew what he was capable of, and to judge by her performance in the diner she was no Milquetoast.
He watched her carving her way through the traffic on Main Street and envied her access to the combustion engine. Though he'd always been contemptuous of ghost stories (they'd belonged to the negligible realm of fable and fantasy), he knew phantoms had a reputation for defying gravity. they hovered, they flew; they perched in trees and steeples. Why then did he feel so earthbound, his body-. which he knew damn well was notional; the real thing was lying in his living room still behaving as though gravity had a claim on it?
Sighing, he started back towards his house. If the return journey took as long as the outward, then by the time he reached home the encounter he'd initiated would be over. But what was a lost soul to do? He would have to make his way as best he could, and hope that with time he'd better understand the state he'd died into.
Phoebe went to Erwin's office unannounced and found it closed. On any other day but today she would have left the matter there. Gone home. Waited till Monday. But these were very special circumstances. She couldn't wait; not another hour. She would go by his house, she decided, and beg for just half an hour of his time. That wasn't much to ask, now was it? Especially since she'd inconvenienced herself for him the day before.