Carrion Comfort (36 page)

Natalie set the camera carefully on the passenger seat and sat back, took a few calming breaths, and pulled her purse from the center console and set it on her lap. Without taking her eyes off the dark front of the house, she felt in the purse, removed the .32 Llama automatic, and set the purse back. She sat there with the barrel of the small gun resting on the lower curve of the steering wheel. The pressure of her hand automatically released the grip safety. There was still the second safety, but it would take less than a second to slide it off. On Tuesday evening, Gentry had taken her to a private firing range and shown her how to load, handle, and fire the weapon. It was loaded now with all seven shells tight as metal eggs in their spring-loaded nest. The loaded indicator showed red as blood.

Natalie’s thoughts scurried like laboratory mice searching for the maze entrance. What the hell to do? Why do anything? There had been prowlers before . . . Saul had been a prowler . . . Where the hell
was
Saul? Could it be him again? Natalie rejected that as absurd even before the thought was fully formed. Who then? Natalie had an image of Melanie Fuller and her Mr. Thorne from the slide. No, Thorne is dead. Melanie Fuller might well be dead also.
Who then?

Natalie clenched the grip of the gun, careful to keep her finger away from the trigger, and looked at the dark house. Her breathing was rapid but controlled.

Get away. Call Gentry.

Where? At his office or home? Either. Talk to a deputy if you have to. Seven o’clock on a Christmas Eve. How fast would the sheriff’s office or the city police respond? And where was the nearest phone? Natalie tried to visualize one and came up only with the darkened shops and restaurants which she had been driving past.

So drive to the City-County Building or Gentry’s home. It’s only ten minutes away.
Whoever is in the house will be gone in ten minutes.
Good.

One thing that Natalie knew she would
not
do is go into the house herself. The first time had been stupid, but she had been driven by anger, grief, and a bravado born of ignorance. Going in there to night would be criminally stupid. Gun or no gun.

When Natalie was a little girl, she had loved to stay up late on Friday or Saturday nights to watch the Creature Feature. Her father would let her roll out the hide-a-bed so she could go to sleep right after the show was over . . . or, more often, while the image was still flickering. Sometimes he would join her— he in his blue and white striped pajamas, she in her flannel Pjs— and they would recline and eat popcorn and comment on the improbable gore and action. One thing they agreed upon wholeheartedly: Never pity the heroine who acted stupidly. The young woman in the lacy nightgown would be warned repeatedly DO NOT OPEN THE LOCKED DOOR AT THE END OF THE DARK HALLWAY. And what would she do as soon as everyone was out of sight? As soon as their Friday night heroine unlocked the locked door, Natalie and her father would begin rooting for what ever monster lay in wait. Natalie’s father had a saying for that behavior— Stupidity has a price and it always gets paid.

Natalie opened the car door and stepped out into the street. The automatic pistol was a strange weight in her right hand. She stood there a second, gazing at the two dark houses and adjoining courtyard. A streetlight thirty feet away illuminated brick and tree shadow.
Just to the gate
, thought Natalie. If someone came out, she could always run. The gate would be locked anyway.

She crossed the quiet street and approached the gate. It was unlocked, slightly open. She touched the cool metal with her left hand and stared at the dark windows of the house. Adrenaline had her heart pounding at her ribs but also made her feel strong, light, quick. It was a real pistol in her hand. She clicked off the safety the way Gentry had shown her. She would shoot only if attacked . . . attacked in any way . . . but shoot she would.

She knew it was time to go back to the car, drive away, call Gentry. She pushed the gate open and stepped into the courtyard.

The large old fountain threw a deep shadow that sheltered her for a long minute. Natalie stood there and watched the windows and front door of the Fuller house. She felt like a ten-year-old who had been dared to touch the front door of the local haunted house.
There had been a light.

If someone had been in there, they could have gone out the back, the way she and Saul had come and gone. They would not come out the front door in plain sight of the sidewalk. In any case, she had come far enough. Time to get in the goddamn car and drive the hell away from there.

Natalie walked slowly to the small stoop, lifting the pistol slightly. Standing there, she could see what the shadows from the small porch roof had concealed; the front door was partially opened. Natalie was panting, almost gasping, but still could not get enough air in her lungs. She took three deep breaths and held the third one. Her breathing and pulse steadied. She reached out with the automatic and gave the door a gentle push. It swung inward noiselessly, as if on frictionless hinges, revealing the wood of the entrance hall and a glimpse of the lower steps of the staircase. Natalie imagined that she could see the stains where Kathleen Hodges and the Kramer woman had died. Someone descending the staircase now would come into view as two feet, then dark legs . . .

Fuck this
, thought Natalie and turned and ran. The heel of her shoe caught on a loose cobblestone and she almost stumbled just before reaching the gate. She caught her balance, threw a frightened glance over her shoulder at the open door, dark fountain, shadows on brick, glass, and stone, and then was out the gate and across the street, fumbling at the latch on her car door, opening it, and in.

She slammed the door latch down, had the presence of mind to set the safety on the pistol before dropping it onto the passenger seat, and reached for the key, praying that she had left it in the ignition. She had. The engine started immediately.

Natalie reached for the stick shift just as two arms came over and around from the backseat, one hand closing over her mouth as the other clamped on her throat with expert force. She screamed and then screamed again as the fierce pressure of the hand on her mouth stifled the sound and forced the burst of breath back into her constricted throat. Both of her hands were free and she clawed at a thick coat, heavy gloves against her face and throat. She pushed up high in the driver’s seat in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure, to reach her assailant with hands and nails.

The gun.
Natalie thrust out with her right hand but could not reach the passenger seat. She batted at the stick shift for a second, then clawed behind her again. Her body was rigid now, pulled half out of her seat, her knees above the bottom of the steering wheel. Someone’s face was heavy and damp against her neck and right cheek. The fingers of her left hand clawed at some sort of heavy cap. The hand on her mouth released its pressure, caught her throat. Her assailant’s long right arm shot out toward the passenger seat and Natalie heard the pistol thud to the rubber floor mat. She clawed at heavy gloves as the hand returned to her throat. She tried to rip at the face against her neck, but her attacker easily slapped her arm away. Her mouth was free now, but she had no air left with which to scream. Bright dots leaped in the corners of her vision and there was a roaring of blood in her ears.

This is what it’s like to be strangled
, she thought even as she clawed at fabric, kicked at the dash, and tried to raise her knees high enough to strike the horn ring on the steering wheel. She caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror of blood-red eyes against her neck, a red slab of cheek, and then realized that her own skin was red, the light was red, as red dots filled her vision.

Flesh scraped against her cheek, breath was hot against her face, a thick voice whispered in her ear, “You want to find the woman? Look in Germantown.”

Natalie arched high and snapped her head back and to the side as fast as she could, feeling the satisfying pain of her skull butting flesh and bone.

The pressure released for a split second, Natalie collapsed forward, forced a painful breath into her aching throat and lungs, took another, and leaned right, falling forward now, fumbling past the stick shift and seat for the automatic pistol.

The fingers closed on her throat, more painfully this time, feeling for some crucial spot. She was dragged upright again.

There was a flash of red spots, a searing pain in her neck. Then there was nothing at all.

“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed . . .”

—GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

T
ime is all a jumble to me now. I remember those final hours in Charleston so clearly and the days and weeks which followed so poorly. Other memories push to the forefront. I remember the glass eyes and missing tufts of hair on the life-size boy in the haunted nursery in Grumblethorpe. Odd that I should recall that; I spent so little time in there. I remember the children playing and the young girl’s singing in the winter twilight on that hillside above the forest on the morning the helicopter struck the bridge. I remember the white bed, of course, that strange, imprisoning landscape which held the actual prison of my body. I remember Nina awakening from her death-sleep, blue lips pulled back from yellow teeth, blue eyes floating up into their sockets on a rising crest of maggots, the blood flowing once again from the dime-size hole in her pale forehead. But that is not a true memory. I do not think it is.

When I attempt to recall those hours and days immediately following that final Reunion in Charleston, I think first of a sense of exhilaration, of buoyance, of youth restored. I thought then that the worst was over.

How foolish I was.

I was free!

Free of Willi, free of Nina, free of the Game and all of its accompanying nightmares.

I left the noise and confusion of the Mansard House and walked slowly through the silence of the night. In spite of the aches and pains suffered that day, I felt younger than I had in many, many years. Free! I stepped lightly, savoring the darkness and the cool night air. Somewhere sirens were screaming their mournful tune, but I paid no attention to them. I was free!

I paused at the crosswalk of a busy intersection. The light turned red and a long, blue car— a Chrysler, I believe— pulled to a stop. I stepped off the curb and tapped at the window on the passenger’s side. The driver, a heavyset, middle-aged man with only a fringe of hair, leaned over to peer suspiciously at me. Then he smiled and touched a button to lower the window. “Yes, ma’am, something wrong?”

I nodded and let myself in. The cushions were of some artificial velvet and very soft. “Drive,” I said.

A few minutes later we were on the Interstate and leaving town. I spoke only to give directions. As exhausted as I was, it took almost no effort to maintain control. With my buoyant sense of regained youth had come a sure strength of power I had not known in years. I settled back in the cushions and watched the lights of Charleston pass by and recede. We were miles from town when I realized that the driver was smoking a cigar. I loathed cigars. He rolled down the window and threw it out. I had him adjust the heater a bit and then we continued on in silence, driving northwest.

Sometime before midnight we passed the dark stretch of swamp where Willi’s aircraft had gone down. I closed my eyes and called back memories of those early days in Vienna: the gaiety of the
biergartens
lit with strings of yellow bulbs, the late-night walks along the Danube, the excitement the three of us shared in each other’s company, the thrill of those first conscious Feedings. In those first few summers we had met Willi in various capitals and spas, I had thought that perhaps I was falling in love with him. Only my dedication to the memory of my dear Charles had kept me from considering any feelings for our dashing young fellow traveler in the night. I opened my eyes to peer out at the dark wall of trees and undergrowth to the right of the road. I thought of Willi’s mutilated body lying out there somewhere amid the mud and insects and reptiles. I felt nothing.

We stopped to fill the gas tank in Columbia and drove on. After the driver had paid, I took his billfold and went through it. He had only thirty dollars left along with the usual clutter of cards and photographs. His name was unimportant, so I glanced over the driver’s license but did not bother remembering it.

Driving is almost a reflex action. It took very little concentration for me to keep him on task. I actually dozed briefly as we continued along I-20 past Augusta into Georgia. He was stirring when I awoke, beginning to mumble and shake his head in confusion, but I tightened my hold and he returned his gaze to the road. Filtered images of headlights and reflectors came to me as I closed my eyes once again.

We arrived in Atlanta at a little after three in the morning. I had never liked Atlanta. It lacked all of the grace and charm which typified Tidewater culture and, as if to show its continued disregard for Southern style, it sprawled now in all directions, an endless series of industrial parks and formless housing developments. We exited the Interstate near a large stadium. The downtown streets were deserted. I had my driver take me by the bank which was my destination, but its dark, glass front only intensified my frustration. It had seemed like a good idea to keep the documents of my new identity in a safe-deposit box; how could I have known that I would need them at 3:30 on a Sunday morning?

I wished that I had not lost my purse to the day’s violence. The pockets of my tan raincoat were bulging with all of the things I had transferred from my ruined coat. I looked in my billfold to make sure the safe-deposit key and my bank card were still there. They were. I had my driver circle the downtown area several times, but it seemed a useless act. Amber lights were blinking at most intersections and an occasional police car moved past slowly, exhaust curling up like steam in the cool air.

There were several decent hotels downtown, near my bank, but my disheveled appearance and lack of luggage eliminated these as possible havens for the night. I ordered my driver, without verbalizing this time, to take us out another expressway toward the suburbs. It took another forty minutes before we found a motel with a vacancy sign still lit. We exited after a green sign which said Sandy Springs, and approached one of those dreary establishments with a name like Super 8 or Motel 6 or somesuch nonsense as if people were too cretinous to remember the name without a number attached. I debated sending my driver in to register, but it would have been difficult; there might have been conversation and I was too tired to Use him that smoothly. I was sorry that I had not had the time to condition him properly, but such was the case. In the end I brushed my hair as well as I could while peering in the rearview mirror and then went in and registered us myself. The clerk was a sleepy-eyed woman in shorts and a stained Mercer U T-shirt. I invented our names, address, and license number, but the woman made no effort to even glance outside at the idling Chrysler. As was usually the case with such puerile establishments, she asked for payment in advance.

“One night?” she asked. “Two,” I said. “My husband will be out all day tomorrow. He’s a salesman for Coca-Cola and will be visiting the plant. I plan to . . .”

“Sixty-three dollars an’ eighty-five cents,” she said.

There was a time when my family could have stayed at a fine hotel in Maine for an entire week for that amount. I paid the woman.

She handed me a key attached to a plastic pine tree. “Twenty-one sixteen. Drive allaway aroun’ and park near the Dumpsters.”

We drove all of the way around and parked near the Dumpsters. The parking lot was absurdly filled; there were even several semitrailers parked near the rear fence. I unlocked the room and returned to the car.

The driver was hunched over the wheel and shaking. Sweat covered his forehead and his jowls quivered as he struggled to escape the small space in which I had left his will. I was very tired, but my control remained firm. I missed Mr. Thorne. For years I had not needed to speak my wishes aloud for them to be realized. Using this heavy little man was most frustrating, like dealing with dross when one was used to shaping the finest metals. I hesitated. There were advantages to keeping him with me until Monday, not the least of which was the automobile. But the risks outweighed the advantages. His absence might already have been noted. The police might already have been alerted to watch for his car. All this was relevant, but what finally decided me was the terrible fatigue which had taken the place of my earlier exhilaration. I had to sleep, to recover from the injuries and tensions of that nightmarish day. Without proper conditioning, the driver could not be trusted to remain passive while I slept.

I leaned close to him and touched his neck lightly with my hand. “You will return to the Interstate,” I whispered. “Circle the city. Each time you pass an exit, increase your speed by ten miles per hour. When you pass the fourth exit, close your eyes and do not open them again until I tell you to do so. Nod if you understand.”

The man nodded. His eyes were glazed and staring. It would not have been a proper Feeding with this one, even if I had wished it.

“Go,” I said.

I watched the Chrysler leave the parking lot and turn left toward the expressway. By closing my eyes I could see the long hood, the glare of on-coming lights, and the reflectors passing as the car accelerated to highway speed. I could feel the hum of the heater and the scratch of a wool sweater against his bare forearms. There was the stale taste of cigar in my mouth. I shuddered and withdrew my awareness somewhat. The driver smoothly increased his speed to 65 m.p.h. as he passed the first exit. He was several miles away now and my perceptions were growing fainter, mixing with the sounds of the parking lot and the breeze against my face. I only dimly sensed the moment when the car reached 95 m.p.h. and the driver closed his eyes.

The motel room was as drearily utilitarian as I had imagined. It did not matter. I took off my raincoat and torn print dress. The cut on my left side was the thinnest of scratches, but my dress and slip were ruined. The cut on my little finger throbbed much more painfully than my side. I held sleep off long enough to take a hot bath and to wash my hair. Afterward, I sat wrapped in two towels and sobbed. I did not have even a nightgown or change of underwear. I did not have a
toothbrush.
The bank would not open until Monday morning, more than twenty-four hours away. I sat and wept, feeling old and forgotten and forlorn. I wanted to go home and sleep in my own bed and have Mr. Thorne bring me my coffee and croissant in the morning, as always. But there was no going back. My sobs were more like those of an abandoned child than of a woman my age.

After awhile, still wrapped in towels, I lay on my side, pulled the sheet and coverlet up, and slept.

I awakened briefly around noon when a maid attempted to enter the room. I went to the bathroom to get a drink of water, carefully avoiding the reflection in the mirror, and then returned to bed. The room was dark behind thick drapes, the ventilator was purring softly, and I returned to sleep the way a wounded animal returns to the dark protection of its den. I do not remember any dreams.

That evening I arose, still groggy and aching more than the previous day, and attempted to improve my appearance. There was little I could do. The print dress was ruined, I would have to leave the raincoat on whenever possible. I was in desperate need of a hairdresser. Despite all this, there was a certain glow to my skin, a previously unnoticed firmness of flesh under my chin, and a smoothness where wrinkles had earlier carved Time’s claim. I felt younger. In spite of the horror of the previous day, the Feeding had served me well.

There was a restaurant across the endless expanse of parking lot. It was an inhuman place— lights bright enough for an operating room, red-checked plastic tablecloths still damp from their last wipe with the busboy’s filthy sponge, and huge, plastic menus with color photographs of the establishment’s “special platters.” I assumed the photographs were provided for illiterate clientele who could not decode the inflated prose touting “delectable, crispy-brown home fries” and “those all-time Southern favorites, delicious hominy and grits just like Grandma used to make!!” The menu was dense with asides and breathless exclamations. A sidebar explained what these strange Southern delicacies were and urged the Yankee tourists to be daring. I thought of how strange it was that the tiresome subsistence diet of a people too poor or too ignorant to eat well inevitably becomes the traditional “soul food” of the next generation. I ordered tea and an English muffin and waited half an hour for it to arrive, all the while suffering the bickering and feeding noises of a huge family of Northern boors at the next table. I speculated, not for the first time, that the sanity of the nation would be much improved if children and adults were required by law to eat in separate public establishments.

It was dark when I returned to the motel. For want of anything better to do, I turned on the tele vi sion. It had been over a decade since I had watched TV but little had changed. The mindless collisions of football occupied one channel. The “educational” channel offered to tell me more than I wanted to know about the aesthetics of Sumo wrestling. My third try brought me a frequently interrupted made-for-TV movie about a teenage prostitute ring and a young, male social worker who dedicated his life to saving the heroine from such a life of degradation. The idiotic program reminded me of the scandalous pulp “detective gazettes” pop u lar when I was young; in decrying the outrages of taboo behavior— then it was
free love
, now what I believe the media call “kiddie-porn”—they allow us to wallow in the titillating details.

The local news was on the last channel.

The young, colored, female newscaster was smiling the entire time she spent reading the report on what they called the Charleston Murders. Police were hunting for suspects and motives. Witnesses had described the carnage in a well-known Charleston hotel. State police and the FBI were interested in the whereabouts of a Mrs. Fuller, a longtime Charleston resident and employer of one of the victims. There were no photographs of the lady. The entire report lasted less than forty-five seconds.

I turned off the tele vi sion, switched off the lights, and lay shivering in the dark. Within forty-eight hours, I told myself, I would be safe and warm at my villa in the south of France. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the small, white flowers which grew up between the flagstones leading to the well. For a second I could almost smell the salt-sea freshness which came in with the summer storms blowing up from the south. I thought of the tiled roofs of the nearby village, red and orange trapezoids visible above the green rectangles of the orchards which filled the valley. These pleasant images were suddenly superimposed over my last view of Nina, her blue eyes wide with disbelief, her mouth slightly open, the hole in her forehead no more terrifying than a temporary smudge which she would soon brush away with a pass of her long, perfectly manicured fingers. Then, in my presleep dreaming, the blood welled up and began to flow, not only from the wound but also from Nina’s mouth and nose and wide, accusing eyes.