Shadows 7 (20 page)

"Must have been some kind of mistake at the florist's. They probably thought it was because of Hoopes." Carl Hurley had started to reach for the card as he said this, but Ben snatched it out of his hand.

"In Sincere Sympathy" said the silver-scrolled letters on the front of the card. Inside was a typewritten note. "In memory of Benedict Turner."

"Oh, shit," Ben whispered. It was not funny anymore, he thought. It had been eerie at first, but this was definitely not amusing.

"It's a foul-up, Ben," Carl said, doing his best to smooth over the awkward moment. "I'll call the florist when we get back to the office; they'll straighten it out for you."

Ben waved this suggestion away. "No. Don't bother."

"But . . ." He cleared his throat. "They might have sent . . . a different arrangement to Lilah. I'd better find out what happened."

This was met with a chagrined silence. Slowly, Ben nodded. "Sure. It wouldn't be right for her to get . . ." He shrugged.

Most of the Baked Alaska went uneaten.

When Ben moaned in his sleep, Heather woke. She lay still, uncertain of what had disturbed her. She had almost drifted off when Ben cried out and turned over abruptly, no longer entirely asleep.

"It's a lie," he mumbled angrily.

"Ben?" Heather said, propping herself on her elbow so that she could watch him. "What is it?"

He did not answer her. His arms thrashed, catching the sheet and pulling the bedding into disorder. The muscles of his jaw worked and sweat ran down the side of his ear.

"Ben!" Heather was growing alarmed. Against her better judgment, she reached over and gave him a timid shake. "Wake up, Ben."

"What!" It was a shout and it startled them both. He shook his head and looked about wildly, as if expecting to see something frightening. "I thought I saw an ambulance coming," he said, as much to himself as to her.

"It was a dream, Ben." She wanted him to reassure her by agreeing, but he did not do this.

"God, I hope so. It was so real . . . I could have sworn that . . . Well, it didn't happen, did it?" At last he looked at her as if he knew where they were. "Sorry, honey. I didn't mean to upset you."

"But what was it?" She was becoming distressed, her fear magnified by the darkness and the late hour. Only emergencies happened at three-forty in the morning.

He attempted to chuckle. "A dream. That's all. I guess . . . I'm spooked by the new work. Probably, I'm afraid that it will all go wrong." He knew that this was not a lie, but he did not want to explain more.

Heather touched his arm. "That isn't all of it."

He did not answer her. "It's late. Get some sleep. I'll be fine in the morning. Chalk it up to the extra brandy."

She was not placated, but she knew it was useless to insist. "All right. But if you're worried, I wish you'd talk to me about it."

"I'm not worried," he said, drawing the blankets up to his chin in spite of the warmth of the night. "I'm fine." As he tried to relax, he decided that the first thing to do when he got to the office would be to get rid of those two scraps of paper in his wallet.

"We're having trouble with the branch office," Carl Hurley said to Ben on Thursday morning. "Are you willing to fly down this afternoon and have a talk with Bryant and his people, to find out what the trouble is?"

Ben almost leaped out of his chair in his hurry to accept the offer. "I'll call Heather at work and tell her I'll be gone tonight," he said, speaking so quickly that the words were slurred. "What time do you need me to leave?"

"There's a plane at two-thirty. That'll give you time to go home and put a few things in your bag and collect your shaving gear." He regarded Ben as he leaned back. "You know, I wasn't certain you were the right choice at first, but if you're going to be this dedicated, I know you'll work out for us."

"Thanks," Ben said, not quite sarcastically. "Do you need me any more this morning?"

"There's a meeting in fifteen minutes, but I don't think you have to sit in, not with a plane to catch." He extended his hand across his enormous desk. "Good to see you so active, Ben."

It was tempting to say that he would have accepted any assignment that would get him out of town, away from Southside General Hospital, before the hour on the most recent card, which he had found that morning inserted in his Rolodex. With any luck he would be at the airport by one forty-five, which was the time announced. "Well, I want the Board to be satisfied with my performance," he said as he took Carl's hand. "I want to get off on the right foot; you know how it is."

"Yes, I do." His smile remained fixed, full of good humor and completely without warmth. "Have a good flight. The tickets will be waiting for you at the airport."

"Great. I'll call you from Bryant's office?" It had been the usual procedure, but this time he knew it was proper to ask.

"When you've had a chance to evaluate the situation, yes. But use your initiative, Ben. You go in there and have a look around; you decide what has to be done, and then you report. If you manage this as well as you have other problems, we'll back you to the hilt. It shows us how you'll do when you're in charge." Carl made friendly movements with his hands, but Ben was not deceived: he was being tested, and if he failed now, he would never rise one notch higher in Haymarket as long as he worked there. "Thanks," he said, trying to keep from sounding irritated. "My pleasure." The hands now indicated that Ben ought to leave the office. "Look forward to hearing from you."

Ben went through the departing ritual, his mind already racing, taking him away from the hazard that waited for him near Southside General Hospital. He went back to his office to pick up his briefcase and to take one last look at the card, which purported to be part of the autopsy results:

. . . massive burns over the entire body, in some cases reducing the flesh completely and blackening bone. Identification was confirmed by dental charts. Benedict Turner died within seconds of the fatal collision when the double explosion from both gas tanks occurred . . .

God
damn,
he was glad to be getting out of town.

At home he called Heather at the library and gave her the news. "So there's nothing to worry about, honey."

"I guess you're right," she said, a bit of a shake in her voice. "You have a good trip. I'll expect a call tonight."

"You'll get it," he promised her, pleased to be able to do this for her, since she had been so good this last week. "You're great, Heather. I want you to know that. I don't always say it, but it means a lot to me, the way you stick by me . . . you know."

Her chuckle was more than half a sigh. "Thanks. I love you, too. It's good this is finally over."

"It sure is," he agreed fervently. "It had me spooked there for a while. If I ever find out who did it to . . ."

When he did not elaborate, she said, "I almost forgot: Dave Wheeler from Valley called. He wants to talk to you."

"Why? Did he say?" It was rare for the competition to make personal calls.

"Only that it was fairly urgent." She hesitated. "I'll miss you. But you'd better call Wheeler and then get going. I heard on the radio there's a real traffic mess at the Fourth Street Bridge—only one lane opened westbound."

"Oh, shit. I'll leave right after I call Wheeler. See you in a day or so." He made a kissing noise at the receiver as he hung up and reached for his pocket directory.

"That you, Turner?" Dave Wheeler demanded when he came on the line.

"Yeah. What's the trouble, Dave?" He had recently tried to persuade one of Dave's clients to switch companies, but that was not so uncommon that it merited a phone call.

"Who's in charge of dirty tricks at your office, anyway?" he demanded without preamble.

"We don't do dirty tricks, Dave, and you know it," Ben answered, affronted.

"Well, someone sure as hell is trying to be funny, but I'm not amused. You find whoever it is who sent this damned clipping and you tell them that if I get any more of this crap, I'm going to talk to my lawyer." His voice had risen from an angry hush to a near shout.

"What are you talking about?" Ben asked, his voice faltering; he was afraid he knew. "What kind of clippings?"

"You
know
what kind—don't deny it!" Behind his anger there was panic.
"Obit
uary clippings. For me." He paused. "It's not funny, not at all, and you better tell the joker over there that if anything like this happens again, I'm going to sue you for every cent in your company coffers. Got that?"

"But why tell me? Why not call Carl Hurley?" It was a sensible question, one he should have asked at first.

"Because I thought you and I had a little rapport. My mistake!" He slapped the receiver down and left Ben standing, listening to the dial tone.

For a minute he pondered what he ought to do—phone Carl, or his secretary? Call Dave back? A glance at his watch told him he did not have the luxury of time. He reached for his carry-on bag.

In the airport parking lot Ben tripped and stumbled in his rush for the terminal. He swore at the pain that lanced up his leg with every step he took. "Must've sprained it," he said to the sky, determined to ignore it. He was almost inside the vast building when he collapsed.

He came to in the ambulance, the siren in his ears.

"Lie still, Mister Turner," said the young paramedic as Ben began to thrash. "We're almost to the hospital." There was a tag on his left breast pocket: K. CHMURA it said.

"What?" Ben demanded, his voice rising. His mouth felt woolly.

"You've been given a sedative and a painkiller. Your right leg is broken. It beats me how you were able to walk on it at all." He spoke soothingly.

"Where . . .?" Ben cried out, trying to deny what he saw.

"At the airport. Do you remember that?" He smiled. "Ordinarily, we'd take you to Mercy, but there's a traffic tie-up in that direction. We're being sent to Southside General."

"No!"
he screamed, straining at the belts that held him on the gurney.

"Mister Turner, relax. We're almost there," K. Chmura assured him.

"God, no. Nononono," Ben whispered. Not this way. He had assumed it was his car that had struck the ambulance; he had never thought that he would be riding in it, a patient on his way to the emergency room for a stupid broken leg.

"We'll call your office for you, and your wife," the paramedic assured him.

"Slow down. You've got to slow down." He was panting with fear but strove to be calm and steady.

"Don't worry, Mister Turner. This is one of the best ambulances built. Hell, George could take this thing on a Grand Prix course." He smiled at Ben. "We'll take good care of you, Mister Turner. Don't you worry about it."

"Please slow down," Ben begged in a whisper.

"Almost there," the driver called out.

"Oh God," Ben muttered as despair flooded through him.

From the front, the driver said, "Will you look at that?"

K. Chmura glanced over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"That crazy—"

"No!"
Ben shrieked.

"—broad must be going sixty mi—"

The good life, as depicted in commercials and in the memories of hunters, campers, and hikers, is filled with loving Nature, soft sunsets, and tranquil lakes. Sure, there are occasional moments of stormy weather and hard climbing and discomfort, but it's always worth it, just to get back in tune with our ancestor's roots. Sometimes, though, the tune isn't exactly the way we recall it.

Jere Cunningham is the author of a number of fine Dark Fantasy novels, among them
The Abyss, The Legacy,
and
The Visitor.
He doesn't often do short stories, but he does always remind us.

She peered miserably through the rough wood planks of the duck blind. Swamp mud under her cold aching knees was frozen in patches; crackling starbursts erupted at her slightest squirm, jagged sounds appallingly loud in the fading stillness. And she could feel the eyes of the two men, her husband and her brother, angrily on her from the opposite blind. Their eyeholes were slits.

The decoys sat on the glassy pond like dark spots on an old mirror. They were lure. The wooden blinds were shields, deceptions to conceal men from creatures of the sky. She felt as much
ashamed
now as anything else.

And it was so strange, all of it . . .

Dusk was destroying the afternoon with such slowness; she could not perceive the fading of the light, no matter how hard she tried to focus, no matter what individual thing she stared at—an ice-sparkling log shaped like a dead troll, a patch of shaggy black leaves alone on a naked tree. The whole day had been a stupid waste, except for this.

Because if night were a spell, it was terrifyingly wondrous to watch. One never did, not in the city; during this forced male ritual called hunting one did little else.

One lay in wait to kill, thought Helen.

Yet she tried harder to be still. Somehow it was a matter of pride. Her own idiocy had brought her out here today, after all. Some shred, some last particle of desire to see something in her man, anything worth admiring. And, God knew, this wasn't filling the bill.

It would be fully dark soon. She would have her hot shower and emerge, steamy-naked. She would demand the divorce with a sweet smile. The camouflage clothes would disappear, mud and ice, boots too; the trash compactor was forever.

And you'll be alone all over again . . .

Blocking thought, not allowing data to collate into words that would laugh at her like some spy within herself, she stared ferociously at the lifeless luster of the fading pond. The two clusters, fifteen plastic ducks each, wiggled with her own eye exertion.

Staring long enough at a rock made it creep toward you. Or maybe things did creep, except we never watched long enough to realize, she thought. Believing stupid things had always been a problem. Her husband called her a romantic. He smirked when he said it, not without contempt.

Like you talk to a bright but stubborn child . . .

Her name was Helen and she wanted to stand up and scream now. Yes, she was going to make a hell of a lot of noise and stand up, right this minute.