Four Past Midnight (56 page)

“Early,” Sonny said. “Six or so. I was just about to step into the old shitatorium for my morning constitutional. Awful regular, I am.” Sonny sounded extremely proud of this. “Course Tom, he knows what time I rise and commence my doins.”

“But he didn't sound so good?”

“Nope. Not like himself at all.” Sonny paused, frowning. He looked as if he was trying very hard to remember something. Then he gave a little shrug and went on. “Wind off the lake was fierce yesterday. Probably took a cold. But Tommy's iron. Give him a day or two and he'll be fine. I worry more about him gettin preoccupated and walkin the plank.” Sonny indicated the floor of the scaffold with his brush, sending a riffle of white drops marching up the boards past his shoes. “Can I do anything for you, Mr. Rainey?”

“No,” Mort said. There was a dull ball of dread, like a piece of crumpled canvas, under his heart. “Have you seen Greg, by the way?”

“Greg Carstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Not this morning. Course,
he
deals with the carriage trade.” Sonny laughed. “Rises later'n the rest of us, he does.”

“Well, I thought he was going to come by and see Tom, too,” Mort said. “Do you mind if I wait a little? He might show up.”

“Be my guest,” Sonny said. “You mind the music?”

“Not at all.”

“You can get some wowser tapes off the TV these days.

All you gotta do is give em your Mastercard number. Don't even have to pay for the call. It's a eight-hundred number.” He bent toward the boom box, then looked earnestly down at Mort. ”This is Roger Whittaker,” he said in low and reverent tones.

“Oh.”

Sonny pushed PLAY. Roger Whittaker told them there were times (he was sure they knew) when he bit off more than he could chew. That was also something Mort had done without the horn section. He strolled to the edge of the driveway and tapped absently at his shirt pocket. He was a little surprised to find that the old pack of L & M's, now reduced to a single hardy survivor, was in there. He lit the last cigarette, wincing in anticipation of the harsh taste. But it wasn't bad. It had, in fact, almost no taste at all ... as if the years had stolen it away.

That's not the only thing the years have stolen
.

How true. Irrelevant, but true. He smoked and looked at the road. Now Roger Whittaker was telling him and Sonny that a ship lay loaded in the harbor, and that soon for England they would sail. Sonny Trotts sang the last word of each line. No more; just the last word. Cars and trucks went back and forth on Route 23. Greg's Ford Ranger did not come. Mort pitched away his cigarette, looked at his watch, and saw it was quarter to ten. He understood that Greg, who was almost religiously punctual, was not coming, either.

Shooter got them both
.

Oh
,
bullshit
!
You don't know that
!

Yes I do
.
The hat. The car
.
The keys
.

You're not just jumping to conclusions
,
you're leaping to them
.

The hat
.
The car
.
The keys
.

He turned and walked back toward the scaffold. “I guess he forgot,” he said, but Sonny didn't hear him. He was swaying back and forth, lost in the art of painting and the soul of Roger Whittaker.

Mort got back into his car and drove away. Lost in his own thoughts, he never heard Sonny call after him.

The music probably would have covered it, anyway.

He arrived back at his house at quarter past ten, got out of the car, and started for the house. Halfway there, he turned back and opened the trunk. The hat sat inside, black and final, a real toad in an imaginary garden. He picked it up, not being so choosy of how he handled it this time, slammed the trunk shut, and went into the house.

He stood in the front hallway, not sure what he wanted to do next ... and suddenly, for no reason at all, he put the hat on his head. He shuddered when he did it, the way a man will sometimes shudder after swallowing a mouthful of raw liquor. But the shudder passed.

And the hat felt like quite a good fit, actually.

He went slowly into the master bathroom, turned on the light, and positioned himself in front of the mirror. He almost burst out laughing—he looked like the man with the pitchfork in that Grant Wood painting, “American Gothic.” He looked like that even though the guy in the picture was bareheaded. The hat covered Mort's hair completely, as it had covered Shooter's (if Shooter had hair—that was yet to be determined, although Mort supposed that he would know for sure the next time he saw him, since Mort now had his chapeau), and just touched the tops of his ears. It was pretty funny. A scream, in fact.

Then the restless voice in his mind asked, Why'd you put it on?
Who'd you think you'd look like
?
Him
? and the laughter died. Why
had
he put the hat on in the first place?

He wanted you to
, the restless voice said quietly.

Yes? But why? Why would Shooter want Mort to put on his hat?

Maybe he wants you to
...

Yes? he prompted the restless voice again. Wants me to what?

He thought the voice had gone away and was reaching for the light-switch when it spoke again.

...
to get confused
, it said.

The phone rang then, making him jump. He snatched the hat off guiltily (a little like a man who fears he may be caught trying on his wife's underwear) and went to answer it, thinking it would be Greg, and it would turn out Tom was at Greg's house. Yes, of course, that was what had happened; Tom had called Greg, had told him about Shooter and Shooter's threats, and Greg had taken the old man to
his
place. To protect him. It made such perfect sense that Mort couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before.

Except it wasn't Greg. It was Herb Creekmore.

“Everything's arranged,” Herb said cheerfully. “Marianne came through for me. She's a peach.”

“Marianne?” Mort asked stupidly.

“Marianne Jaffery, at
EQMM
!” Herb said. “EQMM? ‘Sowing Season'? June, 1980? You understand dese t'ings, bwana?”

“Oh,” Mort said. “Oh,
good
! Thanks, Herb! Is it for sure?”

“Yep. You'll have it tomorrow—the actual magazine, not just a Xerox of the story. It's coming up from PA. Federal Express. Have you heard anything else from Mr. Shooter?”

“Not yet,” Mort said, looking down at the black hat in his hand. He could still smell the odd, evocative aroma it held.

“Well, no news is good news, they say. Did you talk to the local law?”

Had he promised Herb he would do that? Mort couldn't remember for sure, but he might have. Best to play safe, anyway. “Yes. Old Dave Newsome didn't exactly burst a gasket. He thought the guy was probably just playing games.” It was downright nasty to lie to Herb, especially after Herb had done him such a favor, but what sense would it make to tell him the truth? It was too crazy, too complicated.

“Well—you passed it along. I think that's important, Mort—I really do.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“No—but thanks a million for this. You saved my life.” And maybe, he thought, that wasn't just a figure of speech.

“My pleasure. Remember that in small towns, FedEx usually delivers right to the local post office. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“How's the new book coming? I've really been wanting to ask.”

“Great!” Mort cried heartily.

“Well, good. Get this guy off your back and turn to it. Work has saved many a better man than you or me, Mort.”

“I know. Best to your lady.”

“Thanks. Best to—” Herb stopped abruptly, and Mort could almost see him biting his lip. Separations were hard to get used to. Amputees kept feeling the foot which was no longer there, they said. “—to you,” he finished.

“I got it,” Mort said. “Take care, Herbert.”

He walked slowly out to the deck and looked down at the lake. There were no boats on it today.
I'm one step up
,
no matter what else happens
.
I can show the man the goddam magazine
.
It may not tame him
...
but then again
,
it may
.
He's crazy
,
after all
,
and you never know what people from the fabled tribe of the Crazy Folks will or won't do. That is their dubious charm
.
Anything is possible
.

It was even possible that Greg was at home after all, he thought—he might have forgotten their meeting at the Parish Hall, or something totally unrelated to this business might have come up. Feeling suddenly hopeful, Mort went to the telephone and dialled Greg's number. The phone was on the third ring when he remembered Greg saying the week before that his wife and kids were going to spend some time at his in-laws'. Megan starts school next year, and it'll be harder for them to get away, he'd said.

So Greg had been alone.

(
the hat
)

Like Tom Greenleaf.

The young husband and the old widower.

(
the keys
)

And how does it work? Why, as simple as ordering a Roger Whittaker tape off the TV. Shooter goes to Tom Greenleaf's house, but not in his station wagon—oh no, that would be too much like advertising. He leaves his car parked in Mort Rainey's driveway, or maybe around the side of the house. He goes to Tom's in the Buick. Forces Tom to call Greg. Probably gets Greg out of bed, but Greg has got Tom on his mind and comes in a hurry. Then Shooter forces Tom to call Sonny Trotts and tell Sonny he doesn't feel well enough to come to work. Shooter puts a screwdriver against old Tom's jugular and suggests that if Tom doesn't make it good, he'll be one sorry old coot. Tom makes it good enough ... although even Sonny, not too bright and just out of bed, realizes that Tom doesn't sound like himself at all. Shooter uses the screwdriver on Tom. And when Greg Carstairs arrives, he uses the screwdriver—or something like it—on
him
. And—

You've gone shit out of your mind
.
This is just a bad case of the screaming meemies and that's all
.
Repeat
:
that
...
is
...
ALL
.

That was reasonable, but it didn't convince him. It wasn't a Chesterfield. It didn't satisfy.

Mort walked rapidly through the downstairs part of the house, tugging and twirling at his hair.

What about the trucks
?
Tom's Scout
,
Greg's Ranger
?
Add the Buick and you're thinking about three vehicles here
-
four if you count in Shooter's Ford wagon
,
and Shooter is just one man
.

He didn't know ... but he knew that enough was enough.

When he arrived at the telephone again, he pulled the phone book out of its drawer and started looking for the town constable's number. He stopped abruptly.

One of those vehicles was the Buick
.
MY Buick
.

He put the telephone down slowly. He tried to think of a way Shooter could have handled all of the vehicles. Nothing came. It was like sitting in front of the word processor when you were tapped for ideas—you got nothing but a blank screen. But he
did
know he didn't want to call Dave Newsome. Not yet. He was walking away from the telephone, headed toward no place in particular, when it rang.

It was Shooter.

“Go to where we met the other day,” Shooter said. “Walk down the path a little way. You impress me as a man who thinks the way old folks chew their food, Mr. Rainey, but I'm willing to give you all the time you need. I'll call back late this afternoon. Anybody you call between now and then is your responsibility.”

“What did you do?” he asked again. This time his voice was robbed of all force, little more than a whisper. “What in the world did you
do
?”

But there was only a dead line.

He walked up to the place where the path and the road came together, the place where he had been talking to Shooter when Tom Greenleaf had had the misfortune to see them. For some reason he didn't like the idea of driving the Buick. The bushes on either side of the path were beaten down and skinned-looking, making a rough path. He walked jerkily down this path, knowing what he would find in the first good-sized copse of trees he came to ... and he
did
find it. It was Tom Greenleaf's Scout. Both men were inside.

Greg Carstairs was sitting behind the wheel with his head thrown back and a screwdriver—a Phillips, this time—buried up to the hilt in his forehead, above his right eye. The screwdriver had come from a cupboard in the pantry of Mort's house. The red plastic handle was badly chipped and impossible not to recognize.

Tom Greenleaf was in the back seat with a hatchet planted in the top of his head. His eyes were open. Dried brains had trickled down around his ears. Written along the hatchet's ash handle in faded but still legible red letters was one word: RAINEY. It had come from the toolshed.

Mort stood silently. A chickadee called. A woodpecker used a hollow tree to send Morse code. A freshening breeze was producing whitecaps on the lake; the water was a dark cobalt today, and the whitecaps made a pretty contrast.

There was a rustling sound behind him. Mort wheeled around so fast he almost fell—would have fallen, if he'd not had the Scout to lean against. It wasn't Shooter. It was a squirrel. It looked down at him with bright hate from where it was frozen halfway up the trunk of a maple which blazed with red fall fire. Mort waited for his galloping heart to slow. He waited for the squirrel to dash up the tree. His heart did; the squirrel did not.