Shivers (22 page)

They were coming toward Broadway and Lafeyette now, and from this distance the station ahead looked like little more than a white rectangle getting larger and larger as they advanced.
A white rectangle getting larger and larger as they advanced.
Eric stared out the window, his body rocking back and forth as the cars swayed uneasily from side to side. Swaying,
vibrating.

“Oh my God!” Eric said it out loud, but softly, his words inaudible even to those nearest.

The white rectangle was coming closer and closer.

Eric’s body swayed back and forth. He turned away from the window and looked around him, seeing the other people packed in the car, their pained faces, perfumed bodies, their tired, desperate looks. Swaying, swaying. Each of them holding on to the vertical bars above their heads, the horizontal bars which went from floor to ceiling, or the swinging metal “straps” which hung from the iron bar overhead. Not daring to touch one another.
Flashes of what he’d seen in the trance shot through Eric’s head and he imagined his fellow passengers naked, writhing and twisting in agony.

The rectangle of the station loomed larger now, until it enveloped the train. The train roared into the station and came to a halt as it approached the other end of the platform.

Some of the passengers began to exit.

“Eric. Eric? Are you coming?”

“Wha—” Eric turned and saw that Hammond was at the door, preventing it from closing with the bulk of his body.

“Come on now, I can’t hold it forever.”

Eric stepped outside. The door wheezed shut and the train pulled out of the station.

“Daydreaming?” Hammond asked.

Eric only smiled, snapped himself back to normal; and followed Hammond out of the subway.

The town of Tanton had once been a thriving community, a summer resort for the rich and the fashionable. But the rich and the fashionable had discovered other, more exciting places to go, like the Hamptons and Fire Island. There was no choice but for Tanton to open its beaches to the public. The location’s primary appeal was that it was less crowded than the other, better-known bathing spots such as Jones Beach, which was further up the shore and closer to the city. Tanton made its money from parking fees and concession stands. Unappetizing hot dogs for $1.50. Soda for 85 cents.

There were few full-time residents in Tanton. Most of the houses near the shore were owned by upper-middle-class families which used them only for summer homes. The yellow house across from Lot 15 had been bought for that purpose by its owner, Gregory Olsen, but since his retirement he’d lived in the house year round. The house had two stories and both front and back porches. It was not especially appealing to the eye from the outside, but inside was tastefully furnished with attractive and expensive pieces.

On this cool, windy day in October, Olsen—an elderly man with gray hair, a thin face, and pallid complexion—sat before the fireplace, a goblet of brandy in his hand. He stared continuously out the front window. He had been sitting in his easy chair since early morning, his eyes on the road outside, always watching— though for what he couldn’t say.

The man was living in terror.

Olsen swallowed the rest of the brandy, feeling its delicious warmth, sadly realizing that it did nothing to take away the chill. Nothing would. Not the fire. Not the blanket which he’d draped over his body. Not the brandy. He should have felt safe, but he didn’t.

He sat there and shivered, waiting for the hour of midnight. The witching hour.

How had he come to this? he wondered. Why had it happened? It was such a
strain,
but he tried hard to remember. Peterson, Jessup, all the others drafted into an unholy alliance with an inhuman master. All of them working together to make the master safe and sound, free from contamination, illness, all of them busily doing its bidding until the day that work on its great monstrous project—
submission, subservience
—could start.

As they grew old they were replaced by younger, stronger people in the firm, then—to their surprise—permitted to retire and live out the rest of their days in comparative freedom— just as they would have done had the master not appeared.

But there was a catch—the master was still
one
with them, still residing there, like a malignant cancer, in their minds. It knew always what they were doing and thinking, and
they
knew what
it
was doing too. Still, with some concentration—and while its “thoughts” were occupied elsewhere—they could act independently, do and think things that might be interpreted as dangerous and heretical.

In such a moment had Olsen typed the note to Steven Everson, mailed it to him at his New York address, and hoped and prayed it would reach him. He had known he wouldn’t have time to type out the whole horrible story, to warn him about his brother—he could only hope that if Steven showed up at the appointed hour he, Olsen, would have the strength and fortitude to tell him everything he needed to know.

Lord, it was a nightmare.

Get Out Of My Brain!
he would scream for hours at a time.

Olsen didn’t live on the island of Manhattan. He was an old man, had lived his alloted lifespan—why did he care what happened, first to those in New York City and then elsewhere all over the world? Why couldn’t he just put up with the occasional scanning in his head until it became a pleasant, comforting buzz in the background like the sound of his clock or refrigerator? Why didn’t he sit back and enjoy his old-man pleasures and solitude until death—a
natural
death—came to claim him? Why tempt fate?

He had such a horror of messy deaths, bloody deaths, people killed in car wrecks, falling out of windows—
an absolute terror of mutilation—
and falling in front of trains like Vivian J is sup . . .

Poor Vivian,
he thought.
I thought I’d be safe out here on Long Island. Away from
the center
of it all. It thought I was just a harmless old man. But am I safe, will I be safe, if it finds out?

Why couldn’t I have stayed a harmless old man?

Why couldn’t I have
not
cared?

Because I am not that way,
he thought with some sadness and pride.

He sipped his brandy and waited for the night to come.

And for his appointment with Steven Everson.

His appointment with a terrible destiny.

Valerie Horton stepped into the office of the Blue Dot Taxi Center and looked around for someone who could help her. The room was of medium size, cramped with desks, a table, several wooden chairs, and pile upon pile of old newspapers and magazines. The only living things in the room with her were several cockroaches and two or three flies.

Someone stepped through the door behind her. “Can I help you?” asked a squat, ugly man with a face like kneaded dough. He had pockmarked cheeks and a cigarette clenched between thick lips. Before she could answer, he said, “If you’re looking for work, forget it. We don’t need no drivers.”

Wonderful.
Valerie said, “I’m not looking for work. I’d simply like some information.”

“What kind of information?”

“I’d like to know if a man named George Forrance was ever in your employ. You
are
the manager of the firm?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Good. Then you
would
know if Mr. Forrance had been employed here?”

“Yeah. He was here.” He brushed past her on the way toward his cluttered, beer-stained desk. “But that was a long time ago. I don’t know whatever became of him.”

“Did you know him well?”

“He was a loner. No one really knew him. Except for Dave. They used to go out for a beer now and then. Me, I couldn’t stand the fellow.” He leered. “Was he a ‘friend’ of yours?”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Valerie smiled curtly, “but he wasn’t.”

“What’s the story then? Why are you looking for him?”

“I just need information from him.” Valerie toyed with the idea of showing him her I.D. card; often people were impressed with detectives, especially private eyes, and opened up in order to help. But she wasn’t too sure about this turkey. “What about this Dave? Is he here now?”

“He’s out on assignment.”

“Could you contact him for me? If he came here and picked me up I could talk to him while we rode. I assure you, it will be a more than decent fare.”

The manager left the office to speak to the dispatcher, who contacted Dave over his radio. Valerie sat down on a bench in the corner of the garage and waited. She resisted the urge to light a cigarette. She’d cut down if it killed her.

Valerie was an attractive thirty-five year-old with short black hair, hazel eyes, and a soft, feminine face that belied her unsentimental toughness. She’d worked with Ralph Andrews for several years, first as his secretary when it was a “hole in the wall” outfit, then as his assistant, and now as his most important operative.

Before that she’d had a brief turn as a policewoman—before it was fashionable—mostly because her late father had been one and the thought of being one herself was rather appeal-ling. Ten years ago the department had not been as tolerant of women officers as it was now— she’d quit early on as a reaction to the not-so-subtle patronization and condescension and when she realized her duties made her more of a babysitter and occasional decoy than an officer of the law. That was changing nowadays, but too late for her to take advantage of it.

Anyway, she liked working for Ralph. And lust last week he’d told her he was going to make her his partner in the agency. Andrews and Horton. She liked the sound of it. Well, she deserved it. She’d worked hard.

But for now her
legs
were taking the strain, literally as well as figuratively. Ralph had previous commitments to take care of today, so that left her with the job of tracking down George Forrance’s background, not to mention his current whereabouts. The Blue Dot Taxi Company, where a guy named “Porky” said George had once worked, was the first stop. And if this didn’t work she’d have to talk to this Lina person and find out more about her “boyfriend,” Brock.

Fifteen minutes later her reverie was interrupted when one of the firm’s ugly, unwashed taxis pulled up at the sidewalk. A door was flung open and Valerie got inside.

“Just drive around while we talk,” she told the driver, a middle-aged man with red hair and a paunch, “and I can give you a destination later.”

“Okay, lady. The boss told me you were interested in George Forrance. Friend of yours?”

“Not really. I’m a private investigator. To help out my client, I’ll need as much information as I can gather on Forrance, his friends, any other places where he worked or lived. Spots where he used to hang out.”

“When he worked for Blue Dot, he and I used to go across the street all the time to the Mayfair Cafe. It was a nice bar, until the neighborhood went rotten, if you know what I mean.”

Valerie had almost lit a cigarette before she remembered her vow and shoved it back in the box. “Can you tell me anything about George’s family or his close friends?” She watched the man ahead carefully, studying his crew cut and] hard-looking face, realizing with some surprise that she found him attractive.

“I don’t think he had any. He did mention his; parents once or twice, come to think of it. They lived in Brooklyn too. To be honest with ya, babe, I don’t remember where. George hardly ever said anything that was worth remembering.”

“What did he talk about when you two went out for beers?”

“Girls. The job. How much he hated the boss. Stuff like that.” He turned onto a sidestreet absently, one that was lined with lots of trees that were losing their leaves as the winter officially drew closer. “He and I weren’t really friends, y’understand. It was just that we were the only two
single
guys. Everybody else would go home to the wife. We just had a beer or two and then, then we’d split. We never socialized any more than that. Once we’d planned on double-dating, but I don’t think he could get a date. A loner type, y’know what I mean?”

“Yes. Did he talk with any of the other regulars at the Mayfair, or the bartender perhaps? Would it be worthwhile for me to talk to them?”

“The bartenders keep changing, babe. The whole place has a different crowd now. I wouldn’t suggest it.”

“Did you say earlier that he had
told
you where his parents lived?”

“He did mention it, but I can’t remember, it was so long ago. Never really paid much attention to what the guy said—he was just, y’know, a drinking companion.”

“I’d be appreciative if you could remember.” Valerie noticed the complexion of the neighborhood was changing as they drove into the thick of the residential district. It didn’t look quite so
hopeless
anymore. The children were less troubled, the lawns better kept, the sound of laughter less forced, hollow, and cruel than it often was elsewhere.

“Let’s see,” Dave was saying. “I remember one time . . . we were sitting in the Mayfair Bar. He had to leave early just so he could go to supper with his folks. Yeah, that was it. I asked him how far he had to go. I can see him right in front of me—”

“What did he say?”

“Hell. I just can’t remember.”

“Can you drive me back to the Mayfair? Maybe someone who works there can give me some information.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” Dave made a U-turn and they drove back in the direction from which they’d come.

They reached the bar in twenty minutes. “Care to have a beer with me?” she asked the man, telling herself she only wanted to try and get more information out of him.

He was startled. “Uh,
would
I? You’re on, babe.”

“The name’s Val.” She handed him the fare and a generous tip.

“Okay, Val. And thanks.”

Valerie didn’t know if Dave was
still
one of the only single guys at Blue Dot, and she wasn’t sure she cared. There was something about the man that she liked—or was it simply that certain animal charm of the blue-collar worker?
Grow up!
she told herself. Yet couldn’t a truly liberated woman have anything she wanted?