Night Songs (22 page)

    "You're an Indian, Chief?" Lombard had asked, as casually as if he'd been wondering if it were dark outside. "No. No, I'm wrong, and I'm sorry. Part Indian, right? A grandmother, as I recall."

    So carefully phrased, so gently put, and it sounded to Garve as if he'd just been called a half-breed.

    That was when his temper went, and that was when he stormed out and roared into the Anchor Inn's parking lot and thundered into the bar and began drinking himself to death.

    Suddenly a blast of damp, cold air washed over the bar. His untouched paper napkin fluttered, the collar of his shirt jumped to cover his neck. He lowered his glass slowly, turned, and stared a long moment at Annalee before he finally nodded.

    "Hugh wants to give you a prescription," she said. She was wearing a plaid shirt open two buttons down and pulled out of her jeans, sandals on her bare feet, a cardigan cloaked over her shoulders.

    "Hugh," he said, stifling a belch, "is a noisy twerp."

    She sat and folded her arms on the bar. "You're drunk."

    "Not yet, but I'm working on it." He raised a finger to signal the bartender, and she grabbed it, held it until he turned to face her. "Lee, I'm not…" He was going to say,
I'm not in the mood,
but the look of her, and the touch of her hand, stopped him. He shrugged with a lift of an eyebrow and lowered his hand; she did not let go.

    "Where's Hugh?" he asked, trying not to let the smell of her hair penetrate the sharp odor of the bourbon.

    "On his way home, I hope," she said, her hand shifting from one finger to the whole hand. "A little wobbly, but I think he'll make it."

    "He's a good man."

    "You said he was a noisy twerp."

    He grinned lopsidedly. "I speak with forked tongue."

    "You drink another one of those and you won't be able to speak at all."

    He managed a barking laugh, picked up his glass, emptied it, and slammed it onto the counter so hard he made himself wince. There was no taste to the liquor at all; he'd burned out his tongue, and the fire in his stomach was rapidly turning to acid.

    Ten minutes passed while they stared at each other in the mirror. Garve licked his lips. Her eyes, that hair-damn, but she was making him nervous.

    "Hugh said you had a bad night."

    "Hugh talks too much."

    "You, uh, want to talk?"

    Yes, he thought, Lord, yes.

    "No," he said. Then he smiled. "I don't… I don't think I can."

    "Okay," she said. "Maybe later."

    Later? he thought. Jesus Christ, Hugh, what did you say to her?

    "C'mon," she said then, standing and taking his arm.

    "What?"

    She pulled him to his feet, and grabbed his waist when he discovered that someone had substituted rubber for his knees. It wasn't right, he thought as she lead him carefully to the door, I can walk, damn it. She doesn't have to carry me.

    The door opened, and the fresh air smacked his cheeks, dried his throat. "Oh God," he groaned, "I think I'm dying."

    "You're impossible, you know that, don't you," she said, guiding him across the parking lot toward her house.

    "Where are we going?"

    She looked at him sideways. "Are you really
that
drunk?"

    He felt stupid and helpless, and was amazed to realize that he didn't mind at all. As long as she was there to hang on and keep him from falling, as long as she was
there,
period, he decided he would survive.

    At the end of the parking lot he stumbled over a raised section of curbing, laughed self-consciously, and looked up to the small house. Fog had drifted in from the woods behind it, pooling in the yard, clinging to his face and pulling his skin tight. He stopped when they were halfway there, turned and stared at the street. The bourbon was numbing him, fuzzing his mind, but he still didn't like the way the street looked.

    He thought he heard footsteps on the grass, beside the house, in the dark.

    "Lee?"

    She was hugging his arm now. "Yes," she said. "I know. C'mon, let's hurry."

    They almost ran the last few steps to the porch, and he was grateful she had not locked the door, that the lights witch was right at hand, that she did not stop but led him straight to the bedroom.

    "Lee?"

    "Garve," she said, pulling at his shirt while he sagged onto the bed. "Garve, don't worry. I'm here. It's all right."

    He rubbed at his eyes, felt the mattress on his back, and knew that she was lying. Whoever was out there,
whatever
was out there, it wasn't all right at all. It wasn't all right.

    

    

    Eliot decided to check on the Estates, to try to rid his system of its inexplicable nervousness-they
weren't
Gran's prints, damn it-and to see if anyone needed help boarding windows, loading cars. He nearly braked when he reached the Sunrise Motel and thought he saw a light behind one of the drawn curtains. The hell with it, he thought, speeding up again; if Cart wanted to take himself some tail that was no concern of his. With luck the storm would blow the creep away.

    Just beyond Mayfair's he swung left, wincing at the tires' high-pitched protest against the tarmac, slowing as he entered Dunecrest Estates. The homes began on his left, dark for the most part, a few lighted as they swung left with the road. He parked at the curve and switched off the ignition, and with a glance to his right remember that Lilla was supposedly still in Gran's shack.

    He hesitated, then thought, why not. Save a crazy-with-grief girl and make yourself a hero. It was certainly better than scaring himself to death.

    
This print, patrolman, belongs to Gran D'Grou.

    He shuddered and slid out of her car.

    The sand was cold beneath his shoes, the sawgrass slapping harshly against his legs. The ocean grumbled, a giant turning in its sleep, and he slipped once, going down on one knee before he was able to right himself again.

    "Hell."

    He dusted off his trousers, slapped his palms together, and grunted when the sand flattened and hardened and he could see the shack, just barely, just black.

    He stopped.

    He should turn around right now and try to find Garve, to give him the information and take the temper tossed into his lap. Even while he stood here the chief was probably ringing his house, cussing a blue streak and hitching at his belt. He may not have called Flocks, but he knew El was due back, and he needed to know what they'd found on the card. A disgusted grunt, and he started forward, There was a light on in the shack. He could see it wavering in the cracks in the walls, sec it leaking from beneath the poorly-hung front door. He glanced around and scratched at the side of his neck, looked around again and lifted his hand to knock.

    The door swung open.

    He stared at his fist, at the door, at the darkened room beyond and the light in the back-a red-gold light that refused to remain still. Firelight. Candlelight. And with it a faint stench that finally registered and pursed his lips. He swallowed.

    "Lilla?" Softly, as though he would frighten her if he used his normal voice.

    "Hey, Lil, it's Eliot."

    A foot over the threshold cautiously, one hand out to grip the door's frame. "Lil? Lilla, it's El Nichols." The light.

    A board creaked sharply when he stepped inside, and he was back on the sand in a single nervous jump. He gnawed on his lower lip, pulled at the side of his neck. This was stupid. He should walk right in, calling her name, and tell her he was going to take her back to her home. Simple as that.

    But the front room was dark, and the light was red-gold.

    And the stench made him think of damp open graves.

    He listened then, shunting the sound of the ocean to one side, thinking he might have heard the sound of her weeping. A moment later he gave up; there was nothing. His imagination. The shack was empty, except for that damned light.

    And the beach was empty, except for the footsteps behind him.

    He wanted to spin around with his gun in his hand. The night, the storm, and Gran's fingerprints, had spooked him. Instead, he turned slowly, a smile waiting to spread in case it was Lilla.

    There was a shadow in the trees.

    He relaxed.

    "Lilla, for God's sake."

    The light flared behind him, rushed past him, and stretched his shadow along the sand until its tip reached the feet of the shadow in the trees. Instinctively, his hand cupped the butt of his revolver, his fingers automatically unsnapping the flap. At the same time he began to sidle toward the dunes.

    The light carved a cavern out of the dark.

    He was ready to call out, but the moment his lips parted he knew he would sound like a little boy scared of slimy creatures in the corner. He swallowed instead, looked at the shack, and continued to back away.

    The shadow beneath the trees stepped into the red-gold.

    On any other day in any other month he would have laughed and shook his head at his own foolishness. But tonight she stood there in the black mourning dress, her hair snaked across her face, her arms rigid at her sides. She said nothing, and she moved no closer, but the light flared again and Eliot bolted.

    His shoes thumped on the hard sand, hissed on the soft, and he threw himself over the first dune and slid into the trough on the seat of his pants. He looked up. She was standing there, in her black mourning dress and her eyes opened wide. He gagged and ran on, up the next dune, down the slope and onto the road, nearly tripping over the curb he'd forgotten was there. He didn't stop until his arms thrust out and he slammed hard into the front of the patrol car, gasping, his fingers trying to take hold of the paint.

    Jesus. Jesus.

    His head lowered and his lungs worked and he kicked at a tire until the pain stopped him. Jesus.

    The hood was cool, and the touch calmed him, suddenly made him ashamed that some grief-crazy woman had terrified him into cowardice. It was stupid.
He
was stupid. There was no other word for it. Yet when he looked over his shoulder, his mouth wide, nearly wheezing, he couldn't bring himself to go back. Jesus. She must think him drunk out of his mind for running like that. It was that dumb shack, that's what it was-that godawful smell and that candlelight, enough to spook even Garve. But he couldn't go back; he wanted to, but he just couldn't. Not with the shack, and the light, and her not saying a word.

    "Goddamn fool," he muttered as he pushed away from the car and hitched at his belt. "Idiot. Jackass!"

    He kicked the tire again as hard as he could, stepped toward the door, and paused when he saw the woman by the rear fender.

    Oh, Christ, he thought wearily, I don't need this now.

    "What is it?" he said, not bothering to be polite. "Somebody dig up your garden?" He shook his head and waved her away. "Why don't you call in the morning, okay? Call the office. It's late and I'm off duty, and if you don't mind, I'm going home to bed."

    He opened the door without bothering to wait for an answer, sat behind the wheel and reached for the door's handle.

    Tess Mayfair grabbed his elbow.

    Behind them, in the Estates, the lights blurred in the fog.

    "Hey!" he shouted, trying to jerk his arm free. "Jesus, Tess, that hurts!"

    Tess pulled again, dragging him half out of the cruiser, his hip catching the wheel and burning. He swung at her with his free hand, but it was too awkward-he was pinned, and she didn't seem to care. Then she pulled again, hard, and Eliot screamed as he heard his shirt tearing at the shoulder, screamed once again when his arm tore from its socket.

    

    

    "I suppose you realize that the last time something like this happened was when Claudette Colbert stretched a blanket across the room to stop Clark Gable."

    Peg nodded, but didn't turn around; she was spreading sheets and covers over the sofa.

    Colin leaned against the windowseat, arms folded across his chest. "I'll bet he didn't sleep all night."

    She grunted.

    "That's from
It Happened One Night,
you know." She nodded and slapped the pillow against the armrest. "Peg-"

    "I know," she told him kindly as she sat on the center cushion. "I know." From a one-sided smile: "You could always take a cold shower."

    "I could, but they're cold."

    Then he gave her a martyr's sigh and pushed himself back until he was sitting cross-legged, his spine against the window. The panes were cool, and without turning he could feel the fog climbing from the lawn. At his side was a snifter of brandy Peg had poured for him earlier, after she had returned with Matt and had seen him to bed. They'd talked for quite a while, of his past and hers, of the casinos and the past season that had been one of the island's most successful.

    They talked of everything except Lilla, Gran D'Grou, and Warren.

    He watched her until she looked down at her hands. He watched the lamp's light shimmer off her blouse and catch fire in her hair, watched the play of her lips and the stretch of her neck. It was a curious feeling, to see her suddenly ill-at-ease. The sly remarks and the innuendos had vanished the instant they both realized what it was they had done.

    "I love you," he said softly.

    She looked up without raising her head. "I know. I love you, too." A quick smile, and a deep breath. "What are we going to do?"

    "Get married, I guess."