Wolf Moon Rising (35 page)

pose I am.”

Th

e cigar- smoking gentleman waved the stub in the air for

emphasis. “Come on, old sport, you know the Anglo- Saxon race

has given the world almost the whole of modern civilization.

Don’t you think that’s to be protected?”

“I’m sorry, but personally I think the Klan runs the gamut

of modern bigotry. I want no part of it.”

David was fascinated by the conversation. He had never

heard a discussion of politics or morality at Collinwood. He

pretended to clear up glasses quietly, so as not to miss a word.

“So,” the man in the pink waistcoat continued, “you think

the poor should produce as little as they can, beg or steal from

those who do produce, and then kill the producer for daring to

think he is better than they are.”

“I am not suggesting killing. Killing is your territory.”

Th

e man in the plaid sports coat suddenly turned to David

and shouted. “What do you think, boy?”

David froze in embarrassment. He had been eavesdropping

but he had not expected to be noticed. “Why, I— I don’t know,

sir. Th

ink about what?”

“You see,” the man said to his companions, waving his

cigar. “Th

ese non- collegiate types are ignorant of history. Th

ey

can’t be trusted with the vote, either. God forbid, the women

have fi nally got it, although at least they are sponsoring the B of P. Country should be run by men— educated white men— just

like always.”

“Surely you have an opinion about the deplorable state of

society, young man,” off ered the man in the dark suit kindly.

David thought a moment, then decided to off er a response,

mostly to avoid humiliation. “I think it may be hard for a lot of

people,” he said tentatively. “It seems like a handful of powerful

people have all the money, and all the rest are poor.”

“Aha! A Bolshevik in the making!” cried the plaid jacket.

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“Go fetch us some more champagne, boy.”

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David ran to the kitchen, now so intrigued by the conversa-

tion that he was anxious to return. He wondered whether the

two arguing with the man in the black suit were part of the Ku

Klux Klan. Clumsily he gathered glasses on his tray and, after

reaching for an unopened bottle, popped the cork. Th

e explo-

sion was like a gunshot. When he returned, the argument had

grown more heated, animosity heavy in the air.

Th

e plaid suit leaned in and said in a low voice, “Why do

you think we’re here to night, Jay? Why do you think we want

you to join us? To protect the laws of this country. We’re pro-

tecting the jobs of Christian Americans, the ones who are pure

Pioneer blood.”

“Really? What job do you have?” said the man in the dark

suit. “Have you ever worked a day in your life?” He spoke in an

exasperated tone. “Th

is is a nation of hypocrites. You are stand-

ing here drinking the liquor you claim is illegal, planning to

arrest those who serve it—”

“Undercover—”

“It doesn’t matter. Th

e same congressmen that pass the laws

buy the booze.”

Th

e man in the pink vest emptied his glass and chuckled

quietly. His pronunciation was thickened by drink, but he pos-

sessed a smug sense of conviction.

“I admit the Volstead is maybe a mistake. But the Klan is a

grand or ga ni za tion protecting Christian Americans! Our kind

are threatened!”

Th

e man in the dark suit walked over to David and set his

glass on David’s tray. Th

en he said to David under his breath,

“Paranoia and arrogance, the worst possible combination in a

man.” And he gave David a meaningful wink.

He turned back to his companions. “You know, Doug, you

always seem to be pedaling hatred. Hatred and fear. It’s so easy

to get people to hate. Aren’t Christians supposed to love one

-1—

another?”

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“Th

e . . . the Klan’s three great precepts are loyalty to the

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

white race, devotion . . . devotion to America, and . . . and be-

lief in the Christian God.”

Th

e man in the dark suit shook his head in disgust. “And

these precepts inspire you to go out in your silly costumes—”

“Hey, buddy, I— I got those robes for $3.28 apiece and sold

them for $6.50 to over three hundred men! Th

at’s a nice little

profi t.” Th

e red- faced man was teetering on his feet, and the man

in the black suit turned away, shaking his head. But the man with

the cigar blubbered on.

“Moonshiners! Th

e dev il is with the monkeys who run the

stills. God forbid you give a nigger a gun and a bottle of booze—”

“Watch your language, Doug. You’re drunk.”

“Oh, come on, old man,” said the man in the pink vest, his

voice more slurred than ever, “this is too intellectual for me.

Let’s fi nd s’more champagne, and some fast girls before the

clock strikes ten.”

Th

ey wandered off and left in their wake a rotund gentleman

sitting in the corner on an ottoman made from an elephant’s

foot. He was sobbing noisily with his face in his hands. Con-

cerned, David walked over to him.

“Excuse me sir, but could I be of some help?”

Th

e man looked up and displayed a face red from grief. “Th

e

damn broker took my fortune and ran it into a shoe string.”

Across his ample lap lay
Th e New York Times
with the headline: Market Drops Again for the Fifth Straight Day. Major Loses.

David was looking at the paper when, to his surprise, an-

other man, fi nally someone familiar, entered the drawing room

and looked up at the painting.

“Quentin!” David cried. “Th

ank God! I’ve been looking for

you. Can you explain all this to me?”

Th

e man looked over with a curious expression. It was

Quentin, but elegantly turned out in a caramel three- piece suit

and tie. He frowned. “Yes, boy, what is it?”

“What is going on? I can’t fi gure out what I’m doing here in

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the Twenties.”

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“Why . . . do I know you, young man? I presume you are

the chauff eur’s assistant.”

“No. God, Quentin, it’s me, David.”

“David . . . ?”

“Roger’s son. What’s the matter with you?”

“Roger’s? You don’t mean Liz’s brother.”

“Yes. Of course. Aunt Elizabeth.”

He nodded to the painting. “Th

ere is your ‘Aunt Elizabeth,’

as you claim, nineteen years old. Her brother, Roger, is three

years younger, far too young for a son your age. And he cer-

tainly wouldn’t be working as a servant.”

Of course, David thought, this was his aunt Elizabeth when

she had been a girl.

“Th

en this newspaper is right?” David said, as he grabbed

the
Times
off the fl oor.

“Of course.”

“It’s 1929?”

“Young man, I think you may have drunk too much cham-

pagne. Not recommended behavior for a young employee such as

yourself. Now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get back to work.”

“Quentin, how can you not know me?”

“Not from Adam and”— he turned away almost as though

he had something to hide, and said in a whisper—“what’s more,

my name is not Quentin Collins, at least not at the moment.

For my own reasons I am under disguise.”

“Okay. Tell me something. Does someone in this house

own a Duesenberg convertible? Green?”

“Yes, of course. It’s Liz’s new breezer. I noticed her man had

brought it round and we just took a spin. What’s more, we’re

leaving again in just a few minutes on an important errand.”

David grabbed the arm of his jacket. “Quentin, I’ll prove I

know you. Listen to me. Do you own a strange portrait?”

Quentin frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

-1—

“One that ages instead of you?” Quentin’s brow darkened

0—

and he pulled away. “Why haven’t you changed?” David added.

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“How do you know about my portrait?”

“Because that damn car brought me here from the future

where I live with you. When I left Collinwood this afternoon, it

was January, the middle of winter, and the year was 1973.”

Quentin stiff ened and stared into David’s eyes. But he said

nothing.

“Do you understand?” David said. “I’m telling you that I

have
come from another de cade. And what is so confusing, you look the same. You will be alive then, in 1973, but you will not

look forty years older than you do now. You will look like . . .

like this! How is that possible?”

Quentin continued to stare at David for a long moment, his

mouth twitching in a strange manner and his eyes under black

brows like coals sparked with fi re.

“And— And the gypsy told me the painting protected you.

Th

at you are under a curse. Is that true?”

Quentin laughed, a high- pitched hysterical laugh. “Yes, yes,

a curse,” he said, coughing. “Quite the thing.” Th

en, with a long

sigh he turned, stretched out on the divan, lit a cigarette with a

trembling hand, and, striving for composure, said, “All right,

young man, I don’t know who you are or why you are here. You

say your name is David?”

“Yes—”

“What is it you want?”

“God, lots of things. Most of all I want to know how to get

back. Th

is is all an awful dream. I brought a girl with me and

she is a little excitable—”

“A girl? Where is she?”

“She’s, uh . . . I think she’s dancing . . .”

“Ahhhh . . .”

Th

e man who had to have been Quentin was watching him

carefully, the sardonic smile still on his face. “Let me ask you

something. Do you love this girl?”

“Yes. Yes, actually I do. More than anything—”

—-1

“Th

en you and I are alike in life, and in love. We have both

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been diverted by fate and we look for happiness in the arms of

an impossible woman.”

“How do you know?”

“I just have a feeling, because my Liz is full of the dev il, the

quintessential fl apper.” He aimed his cigarette at the painting.

“She’s rich, but she’s willing to give in order to get. Says
damn
without a blush, is pretty, impudent, worldly wise, briefl y clad,

hard- boiled, and radiates ‘it.’ ”

As incredible as it seemed, Quentin was talking about his

aunt Elizabeth, and David was amazed to learn that she had

once been so enticing.

“Does that sound like your girl?”

“No,” David said, “not at all, except for the pretty part.”

“Just fi nished her second talkie. Th

e
Times
called her ‘ex-

quisite, and also believable.’ ” Quentin sighed again and drew on

his cigarette. He looked calmer and supremely elegant in his

caramel linen suit and blue cravat, his long legs stretched out in

front of him. “I spent the last six months in the county jail. On a bootlegging charge. Totally false, of course. I took the rap for

her father.” And once again he pointed to the painting. “Th

ere

she stands, the most charming girl in the world, nineteen, irre-

sistible and wild. I am not worthy of her and yet it seems I have

won her heart.”

David realized that Quentin had somehow changed the

subject. He sighed in frustration. “You’re . . . you’re a bootle-

gger?”

“Well, some call it bootlegging. I call it business.”

“But, if it
is
1929, isn’t it against the law?”

“Oh, David, my boy, no one obeys the law. Th

e law’s for dries

and bluenoses, and the dries are the worst sort, turn in their own

neighbors, turn good citizens into criminals.”

“It does seem like a dumb law, and of course it didn’t last.”

“What do you mean?”

-1—

“It was repealed in . . . something like 1933.”

0—

Quentin gave him a quizzical look. “Really? Interesting.

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Well, you know what Mark Twain said? ‘Nothing so needs

reforming as other people’s habits.’ ”

“But you’re in plenty of danger if you sell or buy liquor.

Right? How do you keep from getting caught?”

Quentin laughed softly. “Well, I pay everybody off , even the

cops. And . . . I do get caught once in a while.”

Th

e muffl

ed sound of a gunshot rang out from the hallway.

Quentin ran to the door and looked, then withdrew hurriedly,

his chin ducked, a hand across his mouth. He tried to prevent

David from seeing what had happened, but David pushed into a