Night Of The Beast (27 page)

I was selfish,
he thought
. I always found some way to avoid the subject of children, and look at me now. We shouldn't have deprived ourselves of that, Helena. It was my fault. I wanted you just as you were, with no marks, no sagging in your tender flesh. I was stupid and unthinking. I could have had a small part of you with me, living on after I'm gone. Is that why I keep dreaming we're making love? Amazing, at my age
.

His head felt heavy, so he lowered it. And that's how Rourke found him: Behind the counter like a wax dummy, twitching in his sleep.

When Peter shook him, Martoni opened his eyes. His skin was pale and he was breathing in short, rasping gasps. Rourke used the talent to probe, gingerly. He found an incredibly weary mind filled with lazy images from the distant past. Martoni was oblivious to his own pathetic condition.

"You're sick."

Martoni shook his head and tried to speak. Rourke had to lean forward to hear him.

"No, just tired. Not sleeping right. Dreams, always these funny dreams. I'm fine."

"Yeah? You look like hell."

Rourke touched his friend's forehead, expecting to feel the warmth of a fever. He stepped back. Martoni's skin was as cold as ice. "I'm putting you to bed."

Martoni tried to raise his voice to argue, but it wasn't worth the effort. He shrugged. Rourke carried him through the back of the store and into the bedroom, wondering why there was so little heat left in the frail, old body. Martoni felt frozen to the touch. His skin was like worn parchment; it seemed ready to crack beneath the pressure of Rourke's fingers.

Peter's scalp crawled. He skulled weirdness, a shudder thing. It was hiding in Martoni. A parasite, eating the man alive.

He eased the grocer into bed. Martoni immediately went back to sleep. His room, in direct contrast to the neat little grocery store, was a mess. Half-eaten pieces of blackened fruit littered the floor, along with scores of empty soft drink cans. Rourke opened a window, almost gagging at the stench of decay.

The bathroom was a wreck as well, the tiles piled high with unwashed clothing. There were traces of dried vomit around the rim of the toilet bowl. Peter threw the dirty clothes in the hamper and started a bath. The closest thing Two Trees had to a doctor was now Urich, the druggist. He'd have to go and fetch him.

Rourke found a thermometer in the medicine chest and shook it down. He placed it in Martoni's mouth, watching carefully to make sure that the old man didn't bite down. Three minutes: No fever.

Martoni slept through the bath and having his clothes changed. Rourke shook him; forced him to stay awake long enough to swallow some beef broth and a few vitamin pills. He closed the window tight and covered Martoni with extra blankets.

The grocer looked up at Rourke with the helplessness of a small child. "I'm embarrassed."

"Don't be," Peter grinned. "I seem to remember you wiping my ass more than once when I was a kid."

Martoni drifted off again.

"I'm no doctor," Urich whined. The druggist was afraid to shoulder the responsibility.

"Neither am I, but I'm sure it's serious. Please." Urich finished dusting his already spotless counter. "Sounds to me like you've done everything possible for the time being. I'll stop by this evening and see how he's doing."

Rourke's temper flared. "I thought he was your friend, Urich. You don't seem very fucking concerned for his welfare."

Urich sighed. "He's old, Peter. There's nothing we can do about that. Now, don't climb on me with spurs for stating a fact." He turned away. "Pick me up around six. I'll see what I can do."

Glenn Bates was in his office, cleaning a rifle. He had dark circles under his eyes and seemed wound tighter than a Swiss watch. He acknowledged Rourke's presence with a vague grunt.

"Glenn, I need a favor."

Bates waited silently.

"Martoni is sick. I cleaned his place and got him to eat something. Urich's going over a little later on, but do you think you could check on him during the night?"

"Sure."

He went back to work as if Rourke had ceased to exist.

Peter took his cue and left. Jesus, he thought, Bates too. Going sour, something a little bent down deep inside. He's fighting for his life, and the battleground is deep within his own mind.

What the hell is on the loose around here?

Louise Polson gripped the thick oaken bedpost. She tugged her useless legs into a more comfortable position and adjusted the pillow. It was hot, the air rolling over her skin like warm syrup, and she had fallen asleep again. She'd been talking to her first husband, William. He'd dropped by for a visit. Louise had forgotten most of the conversation, except that she'd been quietly attempting to convince him that he'd have to stay dead.

She laced her fingers to pray.

Heavy boots thumped against the worn carpet and began to climb the stairs. Hiram. His slightly clumsy gait told her he'd been drinking again. It wasn't like him, not this early in the day. Not so often.

"What's wrong, Hi?"

Her husband seemed morose. He sat facing away, shoulders slumped and eyes on the rug. He chuckled without mirth.

"What could be wrong? Hell, we even got us a second guest today. Big fella, red hair. I put him in room 66 just a minute ago. You know, where that little pecker Jason used to stay. Time we used the room again." He fell silent.

Louise waited, giving him space. Hiram circled the bed and stretched out flat at her side. He slid an arm under her head and hugged her. "I reckon I've been into the bottle a bit too much of late."

"That's okay, but why?"

Thoughtful wrinkles. "I don't know exactly. Guess maybe I'm starting to see how you feel, always stuck in here. Trapped. This town makes me sad. It's gonna dry up and blow away any day now, you know what I mean? We're all gettin' old. Oh, ignore me. I'm just depressed."

"Listen, Hi..."

Hiram startled her by leaping to his feet. He stomped the floor with the heel of one boot. "Goddamn spiders," he swore. "I hate those suckers."

Calming down, Hi took her hand. "I was born here, Louise, and I've spent my whole life here. But pretty soon it'll all be gone. Just sand and some sticks of wood and maybe the damn bugs. That hurts."

"I know," she said softly. "I understand."

He sighed. One solitary tear trickled down his tanned, lined cheek. He sought her eyes, an answer. "Babe, did you ever figure it out? Why God does things?"

She shook her head. "No. Nobody knows all that much about God but God."

"And He's not talking, right?"

Louise smiling. "Oh, He's talking. I'm sure about that, Hi. We're just not listening."

Hiram straightened and pulled his arm away. He stared at Louise, perplexed. "You sound pretty darned certain. I thought your faith was shaken."

"It was."

"You said you might have lost it, Lou."

"Maybe I did, or could be it left me for awhile. It might even have had a good reason. All I know is that something is stirring again, something that was hibernating for a long, long time. And faith is all we have to fight it with, Hi. All we have in the whole, wide world."

Down the hall, Fred Langstrom sat motionless before his easel. He was working on a painting of the desert sunrise. He chose his colors with care and gently mixed them together near the edge of his palette.

Langstrom turned back to the canvas. He gasped. Something new was in the center of his painting: Once again, it was the coal black shadow of a man. He seemed almost deformed; hunched over and ominous. It was larger than before, and Fred Langstrom could not remember having put it there.

Michael Moore bore a great resemblance to his sister. He had Maggie's deep, warm eyes and fine features; even a similar smile. But he moved like a caged cat, always restraining himself as if denying some violent impulse. He was a young-looking thirty, very muscular and quick. When Peter met him, Michael was wearing blue-jeans, a brown shirt and tennis shoes with no socks. As he bantered with his sister, Rourke found himself enjoying the Moore's rich irreverence.

Maggie came back from the kitchen carrying a tray of soft drinks. She sat on the carpet between them. "It isn't funny," she chided. "You scared me half to death last night."

"Scared you half to death? I was terrified! First I have to ask hordes of dense farmers for directions to even get near this godforsaken place, and then my car breaks down for no reason just after dark. I have to walk for miles before I see some lights. I find the house, figuring I'm going to surprise and delight my sister, and knock on the door. Nothing. Okay, so she's out on a date or baying at the moon. I use the damned key she mailed me and let myself in, but then I hear somebody sneaking around inside." He chuckled and paused to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes.

"You've got to picture this. I go into this routine, like I'm in some old detective movie. I throw my shoes around — smart, huh? — to try and get the bad guy to move so I can spot him. Believe me, I almost messed my pants before I recognized her and turned on the lights."

Maggie flushed, remembering. "Me too," she said.

"My kid sister in the buff with a meat cleaver. Incredible."

"I'll bet it was," Rourke said. "Shame it was wasted on you."

Michael gave him a broad wink and a winning smile. "Oh, I'll admit that I experienced a certain amount of artistic appreciation. But other than that, you're right."

Maggie threw a magazine. Quick and graceful, Michael dodged out of the way and returned to his former position. "And I'll tell you something, she was going to use that fucking cleaver."

Rourke glanced at Maggie, trying to picture her becoming violent. "Somehow I doubt that," he said.

Michael snorted. "Don't underrate Maggie," he said. "She's got brass ovaries. For the unititiated, that's female balls."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"I'll say. When we were younger, I got myself in some serious trouble one time."

"Serious trouble?"

"It's a long story, but Maggie came down to talk me out of robbing a casino."

Rourke blinked. "That's serious, all right."

"So I'm inside loading wads of cash into a canvas sack, and I hear something, so I'm thinking it's the security guard or something. I turn around, and it's my goddamned sister, telling me I'm in trouble and to get on home!"

Rourke grinned. "You broke in too?"

Maggie nodded and then shook her head sadly. "I was an idiot to do that."

"Well, to make the long story shorter, the cops do show up. We're cornered and pretty well fucked, see? But just as I'm about to give up, Maggie stands and puts up her hands like she's in a hand forties movie and says 'you got me, copper."

Rourke gaped at Maggie. "You didn't."

"I kid you not," Michael said. "She turned herself in while I slipped out the back, and took the fall for something she didn't do."

Maggie looked uncomfortable. "I was seventeen and he was twenty," she said. "I did a couple of easy months and got out. They would have been a lot harder on Mike."

"Like I said, brass ovaries. So I knew Maggie would use the cleaver. I damned near fell backwards trying to cover my balls."

"Michael!" Maggie protested, clearly embarassed.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed. "It's only funny because we were both so freaked out."

"When I saw the gun," Maggie moaned, "I almost died."

"Gun?"

Michael shrugged. "I've been working nights as a security guard. I'm used to carrying it with me."

Peter raised his hand, palm forward. "Peace, no explanation necessary. These are the times that try men's souls."

They heard Monday barking in the distance, chasing a rabbit through the sage. Michael tapped his fingers along an LP resting flat on the coffee table.

"So you're a musician, huh? I admire that."

"And he's good," Maggie stated emphatically. "I listened to some of that Rock Candy album last night, Pete. You're terrific, is what you are."

"My turn to blush."

Michael belched. He ignored a disapproving glare from his sister. "My sister and I grew up loving books," he said. "Reading a lot helps us pretend we're intelligent."

Maggie laughed. "What was it Kissinger said? The best thing about fame is, now when I'm boring, people think it's their fault."

"You two should give me a few pointers," Rourke smiled. "I've been trying to fool everyone about my brains for years, now."

"Oh, it's easy," Maggie said. "Michael and I have played this game for years. Whenever some sophomoric idiot lays a quote on you, spout the other point of view."

"Such as?"

Michael snapped his fingers. "A cliché, please. One mundane platitude, my man."

"Okay. 'There is no sin but ignorance...' Christopher Marlowe, I believe."

"Ignorance is bliss," Michael said. "Thomas Gray. See?"

"Sure. 'Turn the other cheek' from Jesus."

Maggie jumped in. "'Walk softly and carry a bit stick' Teddy Roosevelt."

"My turn, Rourke," Michael said. "Let me think... 'No evil can happen to a good man.' Plato."

"'Nice guys finish last.' Leo Durocher."

Michael and Maggie both roared. Michael slapped his knee. "Beautiful! One more. Ah... 'Nothing endures but change.' Heraclitus."