Shivers (33 page)

Valerie had heard the scream but had no idea where it came from. She ran from the garage into the main room and looked around frantically, pointing her own flashlight in a dozen directions. She was beside herself—there was no doubt in her mind that it had been Ralph who’d screamed. She called his name and ran back into the small offices that she’d just come through a moment ago.

She finally discovered the stairway that Ralph had used to go up to the second floor. She followed literally in his footsteps, having noticed his shoe prints in the dust. She had to find him quickly; he might have been badly injured.

As Ralph had done, as she passed each room she stopped to make sure they were unoccupied. She was halfway down the hall when she noticed the beckoning shaft. A suspicion was building in her mind. Fearing what might have happened to her associate, Valerie started running toward the hole.

She was only a few feet away when she heard noises—odd, bloodchilling
scratches
that came from the shaft. It was as if some long-clawed monstrosity was climbing up slowly from the cellar. Valerie stopped in her tracks, petrified.

Ralph’s face suddenly popped up into the open space, causing her to gasp. His head was lolling at an unnatural angle. She watched with amazement as his entire body rose out of the shaft, his arms hanging limply at his sides, seemingly suspended by invisible wires. He simply
levitated
upward without support— until Valerie looked at his legs, and saw the several stained hands that were holding him up by the thighs.

Another moment and the faces—the faces that went with those gnarled, sooty fingers— would come into view. Valerie started to run back towards the stairs.

Her instinct told her that this had something to do with the Everson case. When they had connected it with HGC they had been right on target. This was indirectly the result of their meddling into the affairs of Hawthorne Greater Chemicals. That day when they’d contacted them had been the beginning of the end. The end of Andrews and Horton. The end of Ralph Andrews. The end of Valerie Horton.

Before she could reach the stairs she was brought down by something heavy, a bulky shape that hit her from behind. Valerie went crashing to the floor. She tried to extricate herself from the bulk that held her pinned to the ground but it was too large and leaden.

Her flashlight, which had dropped from her hand and rolled down the corridor, grimly illuminated the horrible tableau. Valerie looked up and saw Ralph’s dead eyes staring into hers —those things from the shaft had thrown his
body
on top of hers! She and Ralph alike were soaking in his blood.

The things from the shaft were now walking toward her.
People.
Human beings. Maniacs and murderers.
She could not know that these were renegades—mentally defective hordes too unstable to obey the master’s commands. Instead they wandered the subterranean passageways, killing, fighting, eating garbage and each other for survival. They smelled the warm fresh blood of this woman—and
wanted
her. They were going to feast on her flesh.

Valerie’s scream was cut off as Ralph’s hairy arm flopped down across her mouth.

When Steven got home from Jackson Park he took a quick shower and ate a small brunch of eggs and coffee. The largest thing in his life now seemed to be the phone—and he would wait forever if need be until it rang and brought forth some news, any news, about his brother. There had to be some explanation for the hideous occurrences, deaths, and disappearances of the past few days.

He came across an old, weatherbeaten magazine published by the Ruftin Laboratories.
A subsidiary of Hawthorne Greater Chemicals, Inc.
it read in small print at the bottom Apparently Ruftin Labs was their research division. The magazine seemed to be a company publication distributed to their many employees in what appeared to be over a dozen different sections. He flipped quickly through the pages. It was a thin but oversized booklet, with glossy paper stock and good printing. On one page there were pictures of all the section heads.

Seeing a picture of his father—head of New Product Development—Steven knew that the person who’d stared into his bedroom that night had been the man’s virtual double.

He flipped further on and came across a picture wherein a bespectacled, gray-haired man was receiving a commendation. Mr. Herbert Peterson. Steven remembered meeting the man once, many years ago, at one of his parents’ cocktail parties. And there, in the background, was a much younger Vivian Jessup, standing beside a man whom he assumed to be her late husband.

The total picture he was receiving was frightening and suspicious. What could it mean? Why, Vivian had
known
his father, might have even met himself and Joey when they were children. Why the secrecy?

What was going on?

He had just finished putting away the newsletter when the phone rang.

It was Andrea.

“How’s it going?” she asked cheerfully, as if nothing had happened between them.

He wanted to tell her everything, to confide in her and beg for her comfort, but remembered that she was no longer what she had once been to him. Was she calling to say it had been a big joke, a mistake, the other evening? Were she and Donald through? Did he care any longer?

“Everything’s all right, Andrea. No news on Joey. But I’m feeling optimistic,” he lied. He was tired of feeling vulnerable in front of a woman who no longer loved him.

“That’s good. I was worried. Steven, believe me, I
do
care, you know that. A person’s feelings —just because—a person’s feelings can’t change that easily.”

Oh Andrea. You’re only making it worse. A clean break, that’s what we needed.
Still, he was grateful for her concern.

“I know, Andrea. Neither of us . . . asked for this to happen. I guess I . . . wish you and your friend,” he couldn’t bring himself to say his name, “the best of luck, I mean it.”

“Are we still friends?”

Damn, she was pushing it. “Andrea, I don’t— I suppose so—only I can’t
deal
with this right now. Joey’s—this business has me so I don’t know my right from my left anymore.”

“I understand, Steven. I do. I just want you to know I understand.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she repeated.

“Look, Andrea, I have to keep the line open.”

“All right. Call me if you need someone to talk to.”

“I will.”

“I’ll check back tomorrow.”

“Okay. Bye and thanks.”

“Bye.”

Was it possible? Steven wondered, as he hung up the phone. Was Andrea like one of the women in old romantic movies, doomed to marry one man while pining all her life for another, one that she
really
loved but simply couldn’t live with? Probably not. If anyone would do the pining,
he
would.

He went to bed for the rest of the afternoon but could only sleep fitfully. He got up a few hours later and started making dinner. He had to get back into a regular daily pattern again. He’d have to go back to work, get himself together. Falling apart wouldn’t do his brother any good.

While he fried a couple of hamburger patties, he thought about all the things that had happened in the past few days. Vivian’s grisly death. Lina Hobler’s story. The goo on the steps. That awful midnight visit to Tanton, Long Island. That dreadful room with the rats and the roaches.

That spooky face he had seen in the window.

And that’s when all the lights went out.

Steven stood there for a moment in the darkness, waiting to see if the lights would come back on. His eyes had trouble adjusting—he could barely make out the outlines of the kitchen appliances. He made his way slowly into the living room, where he knew he could find some candles.

Judging from the noises in the building, the doors opening, footsteps in the hallway, he figured the blackout had affected the entire apartment house. Nothing to worry about—it had happened before. The super would have it fixed in no time.

Just to make sure he stumbled over to the window, pulled up the shade and looked out.

It
wasn’t
just the building. The whole city was affected!

Suddenly he knew that he was no longer alone in his apartment.

He had not heard the door open, not heard a window being forced or a lock jimmied, yet he
knew
someone was standing there with him in the blackness. Steven could hear the intruder’s
breathing.
He looked around, trying to spot
anything
that he could use as a weapon.

Then a hand reached out and touched him, and a voice said:

“Steven. It’s your father.”

“How long have you been working as a secretary, Miss Hobler?” the personnel manager asked suspiciously.

Lina sat demurely in the cushioned chair before the oaken desk. She was wearing a bulky brown winter coat and played absently with its buttons. “Well, I’ve never actually held a secretarial position—not exactly. I—I am qualified, it’s just that I—I’ve been doing other things.”

“According to this application, you’ve never been employed anywhere as a secretary. How can you be a secretary in a Burger Bun?”

“Well, I was actually a waitress, but I did a lot of bookkeeping, and I was answering the phone all the time.”

“Then you were a bookkeeper or a receptionist. That’s not the same thing as a secretary.”

“Well, I did some secretarial duties.”

“Which were?”

“Uh, I just told you.”

The interviewer was exasperated. She shifted in her seat impatiently and touched the bony bridge of her nose. “Miss Hobler, how fast do you type?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“Do you do light typing?”

“I’d say so.”

“Under forty words a minute?”

“Yes.”

The interviewer scribbled something in a small, square box on the white application form.

“Do you have any other skills?”

“Pardon me?”

“Is there anything else you’re skilled in? Office machines? Adding machines? Anything like that?”

“I’ve used an adding machine. A little one.”

She scribbled again. “Anything else?”

“No. Nothing.”

The manager looked over the white sheet and then stared blankly into Lina’s bloodshot eyes. “Well, Miss Hobler. We don’t have any openings now, but we’ll put this on file. We don’t think you’re experienced enough for a secretarial position at this time, but we often get clerical openings. Would you be interested in one of those?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Okay. Then we’ll be in touch.” She dismissed Lina with a sudden averting of the eyes . . .

It all came back to Lina as she walked. The last time she’d gone on an interview. The last time . . . before Brock had saved her from all that.
^-
She’d always been trying to get a higher-paying job.

It was because of Brock that she was here at the Broadway Junction station. For one last look. She reached the top of the stairs and looked down. The outline was nearly invisible now unless you knew where to look. It would be completely gone some day. Now, before she started out on her new life, she wanted to see it again . . . not because she gave that loony George’s story any credence, but. . . just in case. It was a symbolic gesture.

“Oh, Brock,” she said, tears dripping into her handkerchief. “Why did you leave me? It’s gonna be so hard.”

Steeling herself, she dried her eyes, put the kerchief in her purse, and walked down to the street. She had to catch the bus back to her place.

She was so distraught and confused she had forgotten she still had to take the train back to Cypress Hills before transferring to the bus. Should she go back up to the token booth, pay another fare? No. She decided to walk. It was quite a distance, but in her mood it didn’t matter.

Every time she thought of her resolution to start a new life—without Brock, without her baby, the love of her life—she felt Reality with a capital R hitting her in the face. Memories of what the job search had been like back then—before Brock—kept coming back to her.

She walked down the hall past the young, pretty receptionist, the girl who sat chewing gum and filing her nails. Don’t look at me that way, Lina thought as she stared back at the woman. I’m Lina Hobler, do you know that? Miss Lina Hobler. Who the hell are you? You nobody! You nothing! I was somebody once. Can you say the same?

It was so discouraging. She’d been to five places that day. She was either too old or too inexperienced. One old buzzard had even implied that her appearance wasn’t attractive enough. Could she help it if she had no money for decent clothes or makeup? No money for a face-lift like the other hags got? She should have said that to her, the old biddy, yeah, she should have. She could have just seen that old buzzard’s face when she said, “I can’t afford a dozen facelifts like you can.” Yeah, she should have said that.

Cursing under her breath, determined to contain the anger and heartache she was experiencing, she looked once more at the list of places she had copied from the help-wanted section of the paper. Noting the address of number six, she strode off purposefully in that direction.

Damn if she’d let them get to her.

But they had gotten to her, all right. And they would again if she went back to pounding the pavement for a job. What was the use? Who was she kidding? Who was ever going to hire
her?

No!
she told herself.
You’ve got to stop thinking like that. Brock loved you, he did. He wouldn’t want you to fall apart. Keep yourself together for his sake. So that you can avenge him some day.

Her mind was made up. She’d do it
for Brock’s sake.
She was entering a new phase of her life, and she was determined to blot out the past so that she could meet each new challenge successfully.