Carrion Comfort (38 page)

I blinked. My mind was blank. “Downtown?” he said. “Hotel?”

“Yes.” It was as if I did not speak his language. “Which one?”

A great pain blossomed behind my left eye. I felt it flow down from my skull to my neck and then fill my body like a liquid flame. For a second I could not breathe. I sat there, clutching my purse and tote bag, waiting for the pain to fade.

“. . . or what?” asked the driver. “Pardon me?” My voice was the rasp of dead corn stalks in a dry wind. “Should I get on the expressway or what?”

“Sheraton.” The word was a nonsense syllable to me. The pain began to recede, leaving an echo of nausea.

“Downtown or airport?”

“Downtown,” I said, having no idea what we were negotiating. “Got it.”

I sat back in the cold vinyl. Strips of light moved through the fetid interior of the cab with hypnotic regularity and I concentrated on slowing my breathing. The sound of tires on wet pavement slowly penetrated the buzzing which had filled my ears.
Melanie, darling. . . .

“Your name?” I whispered. “Huh?”

“Your name?” I demanded. “Steve Lenton. It’s on the card there. Why?”

“Where do you live?”

“Why?”

I had had enough of this one. I pushed. Even through the headache, even through the swirl of nausea, I pushed. The impact was strong enough to make him double over the wheel for a few seconds, and then I allowed him to straighten up and return his attention to the road.

“Where do you live?”

Pictures, images, a woman with stringy, blond hair in front of a garage.
Verbalize.
“Beulah Heights.” The driver’s voice was flat. “Is it far from here?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Do you live alone?”

Sadness. Loss. Jealousy. A pain-filled image of the blonde with a runny-nosed child in her arms, voices raised in anger, a red dress retreating down the walk. The last sight of her station wagon. Self-pity. Words from a country-western song ringing with truth.

“We will go there,” I said. I believe I said it. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of tires on wet pavement.

The driver’s house was dark. It was a duplicate of all the other shabby little homes we had passed in this development— stucco walls, a single “picture window” looking out onto a tiny rectangle of yard, a garage as big as all the rest of the house combined. No one was watching as we drove up. The driver opened the garage door and drove the cab in. There was a new-model Buick there, dark blue or black, I could not tell in the poor light. I had him back the Buick out onto the driveway and then return. We left the cab’s engine running. The driver pulled down the garage door.

“Show me the house,” I said softly. It was as predictable as it was depressing. Dishes were stacked up in the sink, socks and underwear littered the floor of the bedroom, newspapers were everywhere, and cheap paintings of doe-eyed children stared down at the mess. “Where is your gun?” I asked. I did not have to probe to find out if he owned a firearm. This was the South, after all. The driver blinked and led me downstairs to a poorly lit workshop. Old calendars with photographs of naked women hung on the cinderblock walls. The driver nodded to a cheap metal cabinet where a shotgun, a hunting rifle, and two pistols were stored. The pistols were wrapped in oily rags. One was some sort of long-barreled target pistol, single-shot, low-caliber. The other was a more familiar revolver, .38 caliber, six-inch barrel, somewhat reminiscent of Charles’s heirloom. I put three boxes of cartridges in my tote bag with the revolver and we went back upstairs to the kitchen.

He brought me the keys to the Buick and the two of us sat down at the kitchen table while I composed the note for him to write. It was not very original. Loneliness. Remorse. Inability to continue. Authorities might notice the missing firearm and would certainly search for the automobile, but the authenticity of the note and the choice of method would allay most suspicions of foul play. Or so I hoped.

The driver returned to the cab. Even in the few seconds the kitchen door was open to the garage, the fumes caused my eyes to water. The cab’s engine seemed absurdly loud to me. My last glimpse of my driver was of him sitting upright, hands firm on the steering wheel, gaze set ahead on the horizon of some unseen highway. I closed the door.

I should have left immediately, but I had to sit down. My hands were shaking and a tremor pulsed in my right leg, sending stabs of arthritic pain into my hip. I clutched the Formica tabletop and closed my eyes.
Melanie?

Darling, this in Nina . . .
There had been no mistaking that voice. Either Nina was still pursuing me or I had lost my mind.
The hole in her forehead had been dime-sized and perfectly round. There had been no blood.

I searched the cupboards for wine or brandy. There was only a half bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey. I found a clean jelly glass and drank. The whiskey burned my throat and stomach, but my hands were steadier as I carefully washed the glass and set it back in the cupboard.

For a second I considered returning to the airport but quickly rejected the idea. My luggage would be on its way to Paris by now. I could catch up to it by taking the later Pan American flight, but even the thought of boarding an aircraft made me shudder.
Willi relaxing, turning to speak to one of his companions. Then the explosion, the screams, the long, dark fall into oblivion.
No, I would not be flying for some time to come.

The sound of the taxi’s motor came through the door to the garage; a dull, per sis tent throbbing. It had been more than half an hour. It was time for me to leave.

I made sure that no one was around and closed the front door behind me. There was the sound of finality to the click of the lock. I could barely hear the taxi’s engine through the broad garage door as I slipped behind the wheel of the Buick. For a panicked few seconds I could make none of the keys fit the ignition, but then I tried again, took my time, and the engine promptly started. It took another minute to adjust the seat forward, position the rearview mirror, and to find the light switch. I had not driven a car— directly driven it— for many years. I backed out the driveway and drove slowly through the winding residential streets. It occurred to me that I had no destination, no alternative plans. I had been fixated on the villa near Toulon and the identity awaiting me there. The persona of Beatrice Straughn had been a temporary thing, a traveling name. With a lurch I realized that the twelve thousand dollars in cash was in the carry-on bag which I had left by the telephone at the airport. I still had more than nine thousand dollars in traveler’s checks in my purse and tote bag along with my passport and other identification, but the blue suit I was wearing constituted all of the clothing I now owned. My throat tightened as I thought of the lovely purchases I had made that morning. I felt the sting of tears, but I shook my head and drove on as a light changed and some cretin behind me honked impatiently.

Somehow I managed to find the Interstate loop and drove north. I hesitated when I saw the green sign for the airport exit. My carry-on bag might still be sitting near the phone. It would be easy to arrange an alternate flight. I drove on. Nothing in the world could have made me set foot in that well-lit mausoleum where Nina’s voice awaited me. I shuddered again as an image formed, unbidden, of the TWA departure lounge where I had been two hours, an eternity, ago, Nina was there, sitting primly, still in the soft pink dress in which I had last seen her, hands folded atop the purse on her lap, eyes blue, her forehead marked with the dime-size hole and a spreading bruise, her smile wide and white. Her teeth had been filed to points. She was going to board the aircraft. She was waiting for me.

Glancing frequently in my mirror, I changed lanes, altered my speed, and exited twice only to go back down the opposite ramp to return to the freeway. It was impossible to tell for certain if anyone was following me, but I thought not. Headlights burned my eyes. My hands began to shake again. I put the window down a crack and let the cold night air sting my cheek. I wished that I had brought the bottle of whiskey.

The sign read I-85 NORTH, CHARLOTTE, N.C. North. I hated the North, the Yankee terseness, the gray cities, the deep cold and sunless days. Anyone who knew me also knew that I detested the northern states, especially in winter, and that I would avoid them if at all possible.

I followed the traffic onto the curve of the exit cloverleaf. Reflecting letters on an over-hanging sign read CHARLOTTE, N.C. 240 Mi., DURHAM, N.C., 337 Mi., RICHMOND, VA 540 Mi., WASHINGTON, D.C. 650 Mi.

Gripping the steering wheel with all of my strength, trying to keep up with the insane speed of the traffic, I drove north into the night.

“Hey, lady!”

I snapped awake and stared at the apparition inches from my face. Bright sunlight illuminated long, stringy hair half covering a rodent’s features; tiny, shifty eyes, long nose, dirty skin, and thin, chapped lips. The apparition forced a smile and I saw a brief flash of sharp, yellowed teeth. The front tooth was broken. The boy could not have been more than seventeen years old. “Hey, lady, you goin’ my way?”

I sat up and shook my head. The late morning sunlight was warm in the closed car. I looked around the interior of the Buick and for a second I could not remember why I was sleeping in a car rather than my bed at home. Then I recalled the interminable night of driving and the terrible weight of fatigue which had finally forced me into an empty rest area. How far had I driven? I vaguely remembered passing an exit sign for Greensboro, North Carolina, just before I stopped.

“Lady?” The creature tapped at the window with a knuckle creased with dirt.

I pressed the button to lower the window, but nothing happened. Claustrophobia threatened me for a second before I thought to turn on the ignition. Everything in this absurd vehicle was electrically powered. I noticed that the fuel indicator read almost full. I remembered stopping in the night, leaving several stations before I found a place which was not all self-service. Come what may, I was not about to descend to the level of pumping my own gasoline. The window slid down with a hum.

“You takin’ riders, lady?” The boy’s voice, a nasal whine, was as repulsive as his appearance. He wore a soiled military jacket and carried only a small pack and bedroll as luggage. Behind him, cars moved by on the Interstate with sunlight flashing on their windshields. I had the sudden, liberating sense of playing hookey on a school day. Outside, the boy sniffled and wiped at his nose with a sleeve.

“How far are you going?” I asked. “North,” said the boy with a shrug. It constantly amazes me that we have somehow contrived to raise an entire generation which cannot answer a simple question.

“Do your parents know that you’re hitchhiking?”

Again he offered the shrug, a half shrug really, with only one shoulder rising as if the complete gesture would require too much energy. I knew immediately that this boy was almost certainly a runaway, probably a thief, and quite possibly a danger to anyone foolish enough to pick him up.

“Get in,” I said and touched a button to unlock the door on the passenger’s side.

We stopped in Durham to have breakfast. The boy frowned at the pictures on the plastic menu and then squinted at me. “Uh, I can’t. I mean I don’t have no money for this. You know, like I got enough to get my uncle’s an’ all, but . . .”

“That’s all right,” I said. “This is my treat.” We were both supposed to believe that he was traveling to his uncle’s home in Washington. When I had again asked him how far he was going, he had squinted one of his ferrety glances at me and said, “How far
you
goin’?” When I suggested Washington as my destination he had graced me with another glimpse of nicotine-stained teeth and said, “
Awright
, that’s where my uncle lives. That’s where I’m goin’, my uncle’s. In Washington.
Awright.
” Now the boy mumbled his order to the waitress and hunched over to play with his fork. As was the case with so many young people I encountered these days, I could not tell if the boy was truly retarded or just pitifully ill educated. Most of the population under thirty appears to fall into one or the other category.

I sipped my coffee and asked, “You say that your name is Vincent?”

“Yeah.” The boy lowered his face to his cup like a horse at a trough. The noises were not dissimilar.

“That’s a pleasant name. Vincent what?”

“Huh?”

“What is your last name, Vincent?”

The boy lowered his mouth to the cup once again to gain time to think. He darted his rodent glance at me. “Uh . . . Vincent Pierce.”

I nodded. The boy had almost said Vincent Price. I had met Price once in an art auction in Madrid in the late 1960s. He was a most gentle man, truly refined, with large, soft hands which were never still. We had discussed art, cooking, and Spanish culture. At that time Price was buying original art on behalf of some monstrous American company. I thought him a delightful person. It was years later that I found out about his roles in all of those dreadful horror films. Perhaps he and Willi had worked together at some time.

“And you are hitchhiking to your uncle’s home in Washington?”

“Yeah.”

“Christmas vacation, no doubt,” I said. “School must be out.”

“Yeah.”

“In what part of Washington does your uncle live?”

Vincent hunched over his cup again. His hair hung down like a tangle of greasy vines. Every few seconds he would lift a languid hand and flip a strand out of his eyes. The gesture was as constant and maddening as a tic. I had known this vagabond for less than an hour and already his mannerisms were driving me crazy.

“A suburb, perhaps?” I prompted. “Yeah.”

“Which one, Vincent? There are quite a few suburbs around Washington. Perhaps we’ll pass through it and I can drop you. Is it one of the more expensive areas?”

“Yeah. My uncle, he’s gotta lotta money. My whole family’s like rich, you know?”

I could not help but glance at his filthy army jacket, opened now to reveal a ragged black sweatshirt. His stained jeans were worn through in several places. I realized, of course, that dress signifies nothing these days. Vincent could be the grandson of J. Paul Getty and sport such a wardrobe. I remembered the crisp, silk suits which my Charles had worn. I remembered Roger Harrison’s elaborate costuming for every occasion; traveling cape and suit for the briefest excursions, riding breeches, the dark tie and tails for evening events. America has certainly reached its egalitarian summit as far as dress goes. We have reduced the sartorial options of an entire people to the tattered, filthy rags of the society’s least common denominator.