The Forgotten (6 page)
11
“This is Coastal Eddie, coming to you from KNDL, Candle Bay, on the cool California coast. Well, not too cool, friends and neighbors. After all, it's a warm August night where I'm sitting, and if you're ten or twenty miles inland, it's a hot night. A dog day night. Here at the Candle Bay boardwalk, the fog is hiding from the heat, and the amusement park is going full-tilt boogie even as we approach the witching hour. The Caledonia Philharmonic is at our own ampitheater tonight playing Bach for our pleasure. I wonder if the horn section sweats more than the string. Or vice versa.”
Will reached over to turn off the bedside radio then withdrew his hand when the deejay added, “Right now, I've got a caller on the line in Caledonia who wants to tell us about some avian antics. Danny, are you there?”
Danny? Not Hatch. Please not Daniel Hatch.
“I'm here, Eddie.”
“Turn down your radio, Danny.”
“Oh, oh yes. Sorry.” Fumbling sounds. “Okay.”
“So, Danny, you were attacked by some birds?”
“I sure was.”
“Tell me about it. Was it like in Hitchcock's movie?”
“Yes. Kind of. I knew it was going to happen.”
It's him. Damn.
When no news reporters picked up on the crow attack, Will had been overjoyed at the notion of the story dying a quiet death.
When no news reporters picked up on the crow attack, Will had been overjoyed at the notion of the story dying a quiet death.
“How's that?” persisted the deejay. “Did someone tell you it would happen?”
“Yes, well, no. Yes.”
“Make up your mind.”
“I'm not sure.”
“Danny, did anything really happen or are you just trying to make up a story for me?”
“It happened!”
“Details, then Dan, or I'm going to have to hang up. For instance, who told you it would happen? Start with that.”
“My, uh . . .”
Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it.
“My penis told me.”
“You have a talking penis, do you, Danny?”
“Yes. It's pretty talkative.”
It was like listening to a train wreck. Will didn't want to hear it, but he couldn't turn it off.
“You're putting me on, man,” said the deejay in a buddy-buddy voice.
“Uh, no. It's true.”
“Well, so what does he say? I assume it's a he?”
Yes!
Will smiled to himself. You could count on human nature to be more interested in genitals than birds.
Will smiled to himself. You could count on human nature to be more interested in genitals than birds.
“Yes, uh, he's male,” Daniel stuttered.
Eddie chuckled. “They usually are. So does he talk about the ladies?”
“Um, yes.”
“What does he say about them?”
“Oh, uh, ah, things.”
“Thank you, Danny from Caledonia, but we're out of time. Next time have your penis phone inâmaybe he'll be more talkative! And now here's a word from Fur D'Grease, the easy way to clean your dog.”
As Eddie extolled the virtues of fur cleaner for dogs, Beethoven's music played softly in the background. Will realized he was rolling his eyes at the tacky advertisement even though no one was there to see him do it. Wondering if eye-rolling was a learned or inborn response, he clicked off the radio and lay in the dark on one side of his king-sized bed. The cats, who had been indulging in a mutual grooming orgy on the foot of the bed, moved around his body, going for their usual positions. One near each hand, in case, he supposed, he had a terrible yen to pet them in his sleep. Freud, always dominant, curled up next to his left shoulder and nuzzled his head up against Will's cheek and ear. None of his wives had ever been so affectionate.
He reached up and gave the cat one long stroke, which was how you turned on the purr. Before Maggie brought him the Orange Boys three years ago, he'd never been a sound sleeper, but it wasn't long before he discovered that contented purring was the best tranquilizer ever invented. Even when the Boys were kittens, the little purrs affected him. The huge deep adult purrs worked like anesthetic.
But not tonight. Will lay sleepless, staring into empty darkness above him. Curtains shivered in the breeze from the windows, casting watery gray moonlight across the foot of the bed. Freud dropped into sleep three times as Will waited for his own sleep. The first two times, he stroked the cat to start the purr. The third, he didn't bother. Instead, he tried to concentrate on the low, constant sound of the ocean, on the cries of nightbirds wheeling in the sky.
He almost turned the radio back on, but a little Coastal Eddie went a long way and nothing else came in well at night on the cheap little radio. Then he considered the television. He hadn't even checked out the new stations he was supposed to have; all he'd watched was the local news the night before.
Might as well try it
. Tentatively, he reached for the nightstand and felt around for the remote control, but when he finally found it, he managed to knock it to the floor. Briefly, he considered retrieving it, but moving that much would take him even farther from sleep. Ditto, reading. He hadn't brought anything to bed and getting up would be counterproductive. With a sigh, he withdrew his hand and used it to pet Freud into a new bout of purring.
Might as well try it
. Tentatively, he reached for the nightstand and felt around for the remote control, but when he finally found it, he managed to knock it to the floor. Briefly, he considered retrieving it, but moving that much would take him even farther from sleep. Ditto, reading. He hadn't brought anything to bed and getting up would be counterproductive. With a sigh, he withdrew his hand and used it to pet Freud into a new bout of purring.
Still, his mind refused to shut down.
It was because of the walk. Because of Maggie. Because of the anniversary of Michael's death. He and Maggie had walked all the way down to the Crescent and sat on a large flat rock, their feet hanging down. If the tide had been in, the waves would have lapped almost up to their knees, but as it was, the water never even touched their feet.
The night of Michael's funeral, they'd gone there too. That was the thing. It was a place they'd often visited over the years, but never on the anniversary. Brief anger welled at Maggie for leading him there tonight, but he could have steered her in another direction. Hell, maybe he even helped set the direction; he couldn't be sure.
You really have to get over this. Everybody else has.
Pete probably didn't even know it was the anniversary of Michael's death. Not that he had ever cared anyway. Michael had been the oldest, tall and handsome, with great grades, a golden boy. He played varsity football and baseball and girls adored him. When he died, he was about to enter his senior year, Pete his sophomore year, and Will was still just a kid. As such, he idolized Michael, but Pete lived in the older boy's shadow in every way. He had the same broad shoulders, but was short, so they just made him look wide and squat even though he wasn't overweight. His hair was dishwater blond, not golden like Michael's, his eyes were muddier, his grades lower. He couldn't make the football team, but didn't do too bad at wrestling.
Because he spent all his spare time practicing on me.
Pete probably didn't even know it was the anniversary of Michael's death. Not that he had ever cared anyway. Michael had been the oldest, tall and handsome, with great grades, a golden boy. He played varsity football and baseball and girls adored him. When he died, he was about to enter his senior year, Pete his sophomore year, and Will was still just a kid. As such, he idolized Michael, but Pete lived in the older boy's shadow in every way. He had the same broad shoulders, but was short, so they just made him look wide and squat even though he wasn't overweight. His hair was dishwater blond, not golden like Michael's, his eyes were muddier, his grades lower. He couldn't make the football team, but didn't do too bad at wrestling.
Because he spent all his spare time practicing on me.
Pete's jealousy burned hot and obvious, and he turned his rage on Will whenever he could. When he got caught in the act, especially if it was by Michael himself, he just beat Will harder the next time. Will had tried telling on him a couple times, but true to his promise, Pete exacted harsh revenge, so Will learned to keep quiet. Their parents refused to believe that Pete was as abusive as Will claimedâhe knew where to hit for maximum effect and minimum bruisingâso he gave up and tried not to attract Pete's attention.
They knew Pete was mean. They knew he was a bully. Why were they so blind?
An old question with a simple answer. They were parents: They didn't want to see. They thought it was all the usual childhood rough and tumble. Kids will be kids, the way of the world. All that crap. And to some extent it was true. Back then, Will suspected Pete was rougher than the typical older brother. Now he was sure. If he'd known then, would it have mattered? Probably not.
An old question with a simple answer. They were parents: They didn't want to see. They thought it was all the usual childhood rough and tumble. Kids will be kids, the way of the world. All that crap. And to some extent it was true. Back then, Will suspected Pete was rougher than the typical older brother. Now he was sure. If he'd known then, would it have mattered? Probably not.
But everything has a silver lining. Will understood his abused patients a little better than many therapists. He understood why battered wives took beatings over and over, and because of that, he was better able to help them see their way out of abusive relationships. At least, if they actually wanted out. Many didn't. They thought, on some level, they deserved the beatings.
Will had never felt that way. Even when he was little, he knew why Pete picked on him. He knew he was a substitute for Michael, whom Pete despised. He'd been right, too. After Michael died, Pete was marginally nicer to him, though by then fear of Pete was so ingrained that he never trusted him, and although the beatings and teasing subsided greatly, his fear grew. Will wasn't sure why; memories about that time were muddled, and his best guess was that his father's subsequent death increased his fear of Pete, who became the man of the house, at least in his own eyes. (Mom was always in charge, but she was as blind as ever.)
Will had nightmares about Pete's eyes staring at him. Glaring, enraged, accusing. His own brother was his boogeyman long after such fears should have been put away. Maybe that was why ghost stories had never scared him. The real thing was so much worse.
Will skipped a grade and he and Pete were in high school together a short time. Pete pretended he didn't exist, which was exactly what Will had hoped for. Pete entered junior college when Will was in tenth grade, and a year later, joined the Navy, which was the second-best thing that could ever happen. The best would have been his falling off a cliff, but you couldn't have everything.
Although Will made it his business not to know anything about Pete's doings after that, a few things got through, either via Mom or Pete himself on a rare holiday visit. He became an electronics tech, was eventually promoted to a first-class petty officer. (Will, always a civilian, found the term “petty officer” highly amusing and he and Mags had spent hours thinking up special jobs just for officers who were especially petty.) Finally, Pete became a chief and claimed he ran the whole shebang up at Fort Charles, where he may have spent most of his time. His stories varied. On the rare occasions he decided to visit, his importance and job assignment grew more interesting with every beer he drank. Inevitably, with a twinkle in his eye, he'd end his tales with “If I tell you more, I have to kill you.” Mom and most anybody else listening would laugh at this, but Will never detected a trace of real humor in Pete, even then, when his formerly surly brother's newly born pleasant personality had taken center stage. Evidently, the Navy taught him more than how to clean a gun.
But then, he already knew how to do that.
But then, he already knew how to do that.
Freud stretched, one paw reaching all the way up to Will's forehead, as if telling him to stop thinking. The cat's motor started up on its own, rumbling soothingly. This time, it worked. Will slid into fitful sleep, haunted by the old dreams about Pete's eyes.
Â
Â
4:17
A.M.
Will glanced at the glowing clock on the radio as he sat up, not knowing what had disturbed his sleep, but knowing something had. Only one cat was on the bed with him. Rorschach, by the position. Will could see nothing, but touch told him that the feline was sitting up, facing the door, and that his muscles were tensed.
A.M.
Will glanced at the glowing clock on the radio as he sat up, not knowing what had disturbed his sleep, but knowing something had. Only one cat was on the bed with him. Rorschach, by the position. Will could see nothing, but touch told him that the feline was sitting up, facing the door, and that his muscles were tensed.
Will heard something, but it wasn't in the room. Maybe out near the foyer.
The front door?
It was a soft sound, and the muted squawk of a bird followed. Rorschach sprung off the bed and left the room to join the investigation. There was another small shriek, followed by a noise similar to the first one.
No. It can't be.
The front door?
It was a soft sound, and the muted squawk of a bird followed. Rorschach sprung off the bed and left the room to join the investigation. There was another small shriek, followed by a noise similar to the first one.
No. It can't be.
Will reached under the bed and grabbed his old baseball bat, just in case, then rose and walked softly down the hall. He found the triplets sitting in the dimly lit foyer staring intently at the front door. Rorschach glanced his way and trilled. Freud, tail plumed straight up with avid interest, sniffed the doorjamb. These were not frightened animals. Will rested the bat against the wall and turned on the porch light before peering out the peephole. Nothing. “So what's up, guys?” he murmured as he unlocked the heavy wooden door. The cats crowded him, curiosity boundless, Rorschach trilling, the other two meowing in the tone they usually reserved for raw steak. He blocked them with his legs, muttering, “Knock it off.” Finally, he pulled the door open and peered out through the ornate semi-security screen door. The first thing he saw was at eye-level. It looked like a thorn poking through one of the heavy gauge wire holes. He pushed on it and it dropped, his gaze following. It wasn't a thorn, but a beak.
Yep, again
. On his doormat lay a small pile of birds. Not crows, smaller creatures, more gray and white than black. Mockingbirds, maybe. His mother used to call them catbirds, but he didn't know why. Some appeared dead, most of them wounded, and a couple were sitting up, looking dazed. Stunned.
Yep, again
. On his doormat lay a small pile of birds. Not crows, smaller creatures, more gray and white than black. Mockingbirds, maybe. His mother used to call them catbirds, but he didn't know why. Some appeared dead, most of them wounded, and a couple were sitting up, looking dazed. Stunned.
The cats went nuts, proving that humans weren't the only ones who possessed a version of Jung's universal unconsciousness. They knew exactly what they were looking at and they wanted them. Will wondered what these cats, who'd never hunted their own food, would do with birds. Probably not eat them. His own curiosity roused, but then he flashed on what the Orange Boys did with the little rabbit-fur mice he bought for them and instantly decided all the growling and tossing and batting wouldn't be nearly as cute with a living creature as it was with toys.
Other books
Bella's Christmas Bake Off by Sue Watson
The Liberator (A Dante Walker Novel) (Entangled Teen) by Scott, Victoria
Englishwoman in France by Wendy Robertson
Fiancee for Hire by Tawna Fenske
First Principles: Samair in Argos: Book 3 by KOTCHER, MICHAEL
Las aventuras de Pinocho by Carlo Collodi
The Road Virus Heads North by Stephen King
RESONANCE by AJAY
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) by Jonathon Burgess
Heaven's Fire by Patricia Ryan