Twilight Eyes (57 page)

“Tomorrow,” Rya said, “we'll go back into the hills and follow the Lightning Coal Company's fence until we find a place from which we can see the mine entrance, see what's happening there.”

“Sorry to tell you no such vantage point exists,” Horton said as he mopped up a final puddle of egg yolk with his last wedge of toast. “Not along the perimeter, anyway. I think maybe that's no accident, either. I think maybe they made sure no one could see the entrances to the mine from off their property.”

“You sound as if you've gone looking,” I said.

“I have,” he said.

“When was that?”

“Oh, I guess it was about a year and a half after the new owners—the goblins, as you call 'em—took over the company, changed its name, then went and put up that crazy damn fence. By then I'd begun to notice that a lot of good people who'd worked there all their lives were gradually being put to pasture ahead of their time, pensioned off early. Real generous pensions, though, so as not to upset the unions. And everyone being hired on, down to the lowliest worker, seemed to be the kind who have the stink about them. That was a startlement to me because, of course, it seemed to mean their kind could recognize one another, that they knew they was very different from my kind of people, and that they sometimes got together in groups to plan their devilment. Naturally, living here, I wanted to know what devilment they was planning at the Lightning Coal Company. So I went up to have a look, walked the whole length of that damn fence. In the end I couldn't see nothing, and I didn't want to risk going over the fence to poke around on the other side. Like I told you, I always been wary of them, eager to keep my distance. Never did think it was wise to associate with them, so it sure as the dickens wouldn't be wise to climb over their fence.”

Rya seemed amazed. She put down her fork and said, “So what'd you do? Just put your curiosity on hold?”

“Yep.”

“That easy?”

“Wasn't easy,” Horton said. “But we've all heard what killed the cat, haven't we?”

“Turning your back on such a mystery . . . that took willpower,” I said.

“No such a thing,” he said. “Fear is all it took. I was scared off. Just plain scared off.”

“You aren't a man who scares easily or often,” I said.

“Don't go romanticizing me, young fella. I'm no glamorous old mountain man. I told you true—all my life I been leary of
them
, scared of them. So I've tucked my head down and done my best to keep them from taking notice of me. You might say I've lived a lifetime in camouflage, trying to be invisible, so I'm not suddenly going to put on bright red pants and start waving my arms for attention. I'm cautious, which is why I've lived to be a grumpy old codger with my own teeth and all my wits about me.”

Growler had curled up on his side in the corner after licking his plate clean, and he had seemed to be settling in for a nap. However, he suddenly rose and padded to a window. He put his forepaws up on the sill and pressed his black nose to the cold glass, staring out. Maybe he was only weighing the advantages and disadvantages of going into that bitter night to relieve his bladder. Or maybe something out there had attracted his attention.

Though I had no sense of imminent danger, I decided it would be prudent to be alert for sounds other than those caused by the wind—and to be prepared to move fast.

Rya pushed her plate aside, picked up her bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, took a swallow, and said, “Horton, how on earth did the new owners of the mine explain the fence and the other security measures they installed?”

He folded his big-knuckled, work-scarred hands around his own bottle of beer. “Well, before the original owners had to put the company up for sale, there was three deaths on that land in a single year. Thousands of acres belong to the company, and some of it's been over-mined too near the surface. Which causes certain problems. Like sinkholes, which is where the upper levels of the earth slowly—or sometimes quickly—settle into the cavity the mines left far down below. And there's some old shafts, gone rotten, that can cave in under a man's feet and just swallow him up. The ground opens—
gulp
—like a trout taking a fly.”

Growler finally got down from the window and padded back to the corner, where he curled up again.

The wind sang at the windows, whistled in the eaves, and did a dance on the roof. Nothing threatening in any of that.

But I remained alert for unusual sounds.

Shifting his large, bony frame in the kitchen chair, Horton continued: “Anyway, a guy named MacFarland, deer hunting on mining-company land, was unlucky enough to fall through the roof of an old abandoned tunnel. Broke both his legs, they said later. Called for help, must've screamed his head off, but nobody heard him. By the time the search party found him, he was two or three days dead. Few months before that, two local boys, both about fourteen, went up there exploring, as boys'll do, and the same damn thing happened to them. Fell through the roof of an old tunnel. One broke an arm, the other an ankle, and though they evidently tried hard to scrabble back up to the surface, they never made it, never even come close. Searchers found them dead. So then the hunter's wife and the boys' parents sued the mining company, and there was no question they was going to win and win big. The owners decided to make out-of-court settlements, which they did, though to come up with the money, they had to sell off their holdings.”

Rya said, “And they sold out to a partnership comprised of Jensen Orkenwold, Anson Corday—who owns the newspaper—and Mayor Spectorsky.”

“Well, he wasn't mayor then, though that's what he become, sure enough,” Horton said. “And all three of those you named have the goblin stink about them.”

“Which the original owners did not,” I ventured.

“Right you are,” Horton said. “The original owners—well, they was men, nothing else, neither worse nor better than most, certainly not the stinking kind. But my point is—that's why the fence was put up. The new owners said they didn't want to risk those kind of lawsuits. And though some think they went totally overboard on that fence, most folks see it as a welcome sign of social responsibility.”

Rya looked at me, and her blue eyes were shaded by both anger and pity. “The hunter . . . the two boys . . . not accidents.”

“Not likely,” I said.

“Murdered,” she continued. “Part of a scheme to break the owners of the mine and force them to sell, so the goblins could have it for . . . for whatever they're planning.”

“Very likely,” I said.

Horton Bluett blinked at Rya, at me, at Growler, at the bottle of beer in his hands, and then he shuddered as if all that blinking had triggered a sympathetic shivering in his muscles and bones. “I never thought the boys, the hunter... Well, hell's bells, the hunter was Frank Tyner, and I knew him, and it never occurred to me that maybe he was
murdered
. Not even later, after the out-of-court settlements, when I noticed that the people who took over the mines was all of the bad sort. Now that you lay it out, it makes perfect sense. Why didn't I see it before? Am I getting dim-witted in my golden years?”

“No,” Rya assured him. “Not dim-witted in the least. You just didn't see it because you've made yourself into an extremely cautious man, yet also a
moral
man, so if you'd suspected murder, you'd have felt obligated to do something about it. Actually you probably did suspect the truth, but on a deep subconscious level, and never allowed the thought to percolate into your conscious mind because then you'd have to act on it. And acting on it would have done nothing to help the dead—while insuring your own murder.”

I said, “Or maybe you didn't suspect anything because, after all, Horton, you can't
see
the evil of these creatures, as we can. Their alienness is apparent to you but less emphatic than it is to us. And without our special sight you couldn't see how organized they are, how purposeful and relentless.”

“Still,” he said, “I think I should've suspected. Makes me jumpy-cat nervous that I didn't.”

I got fresh beers from the refrigerator, popped the caps off, and put the bottles on the table. Although snow flurries softly brushed the windows, and although the fluting wind played a chilling medley, we were all grateful for the cold Pabst.

For a while no one spoke.

Each of us communed with his own thoughts.

Growler sneezed and shook himself, jangling the tags on his collar, and put his head down again.

I thought the dog had been dozing, but though resting, he was still alert.

In time Horton Bluett said, “You're determined to have a close look at the mine.”

“Yes,” I said, and Rya said, “Yes.”

“Can't be talked out of it?” Horton said.

“No,” Rya said, and I said, “No.”

“Can't be taught caution at your age,” he said.

We agreed that we were infected with the foolishness of youth.

“Well, then,” Horton said, “I guess I can help a bit. Guess I should better, or otherwise they'll just catch you blundering around inside the fence and have sport with you.”

“Help?” I said. “How?”

He took a deep breath, and his clear, dark eyes appeared to grow even clearer with his resolution. “You don't have to bother trying to get a peek at the mine entrance or at the equipment—forget that stuff. Probably wouldn't see anything worthwhile, anyway. I figure the important things—whatever they're hiding up there—are deep inside the mines, underground.”

“I figure too,” I said, “but—”

Raising one hand to cut me off, he said, “I can show you a way to sneak into the place, through all their security, into the heart of the Lightning Company's main working shafts. You can see firsthand, up close, what they're doing. I don't advise it any more than I'd advise putting your bare hands against a buzz saw. I think you're both too damn spunky for your own good, too caught up in the romance of what you believe to be a noble cause, too quick to decide you can't live with yourselves if you back off, too crazy-eager to override those little engines of self-preservation ticking over inside you.

Rya and I started to speak at once.

Again he silenced us by raising one of his big, leathery hands. “Don't get me wrong. I
admire
you for it. Sort of the way you might admire a damn fool who goes over Niagara Falls in a barrel. You know he's going to have no effect whatsoever on the Falls, while it's real likely to have a drastic effect on him, but he does it 'cause he sees a challenge. Which is one of the things that makes us different from the lower animals: our interest in meeting challenges, beating the odds, even if the odds are so high we
can't
beat 'em, and even if beating them don't accomplish anything. It's like raising a fist and shaking it at the sky and threatening God if He doesn't soon make some changes in creation and give us a better break. Stupid maybe, and maybe pointless—but brave and somehow satisfying.”

While we finished our second beers, Horton refused to tell us how he would get us into the Lightning Coal Company. He said it was a waste of time to lay it all out for us now because in the morning he would have to show us, anyway. He would only say that we should be ready to move out at dawn, when he would return for us.

“Listen,” I said, “we don't want to get you involved so deep that you're sucked down with us.”

“Sounds like you're positive of being sucked down.”

“Well,
if
we are, I don't want to be responsible for getting you caught in the whirlpool.”

“Don't worry, Slim,” he said. “How often I got to tell you? I wear caution like a suit of clothes.”

At nine-forty he left, declining our repeated offer of a ride home. He had walked to our rented house so he would not have a car to hide when he arrived. Now he'd walk home. And he steadfastly insisted that he was looking forward to that “little stroll.”

“It's more than a stroll,” I said. “It's a fair piece to go, and at night, in this cold—”

“But Growler's looking forward to it,” Horton said, “and I just wouldn't want to disappoint him.”

Indeed the dog seemed eager to get out into the cold night. He had gotten up and hurried to the door as soon as Horton had risen from the chair. He wagged his tail and growled with pleasure. Perhaps it was not the brisk night or the walk that he anticipated with so much delight; perhaps, after sharing his beloved master with us for an evening, he was pleased by the prospect of having Horton to himself.

Standing in the open door, pulling on his gloves while Rya and I huddled together in the chilly draft that swept in past him. Horton peered out at the lazily swirling snowflakes and said, “Sky's like a boil straining to bust itself. You can feel the pressure in the air. When it lets go, there'll be a true blizzard, sure enough. Late in the year, last snow of the season—but a doozy.”

“When?” I asked.

He hesitated as if consulting his aged joints for their best meteorological opinion. “Soon but not real soon. It'll flurry off and on all night and not put down half an inch by daybreak. After that . . . it'll come, a big storm, sometime before noon tomorrow.”

He thanked us for dinner and for the beer, as if we'd had an ordinary neighborly evening together. Then he took Growler with him into the prestorm darkness. In seconds he was gone from sight.

As I closed the door, Rya said, “He's something, huh?”

“Something,” I agreed.

Later, in bed with the lights off, she said, “It's coming true, you know. The dream.”