He knew where the man lay in wait: in the living room, where he'd held Erwin prisoner in order to toy with his san ity, His fury mounting-how dare this man invade his house and his head?-he marched down the hallway to the living room door. It stood ajar. Erwin didn't hesitate. He stepped inside.
The drapes were drawn to keep out the day, the only source of light the fire that was now dying in the grate. Even so, Erwin found his tormentor at a glance. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his clothes shed. His body was broad, hirsute, and covered with scars, some of. them fully six inches long. His pupils were rolled up beneath his eyelids. In front of him was a mound of excrement.
"You filthy animal," Erwin raged. His words drew no response from Fletcher. "I don't know what kind of mindtricks you've been playing," Erwin went on, "but I want you to undo them. Right now. Hear me? Right now!" Fletcher's pupils slipped back into view, much to Erwin's satisfaction. He was tired of being ignored. "And then I want you-"
He stopped to let out a groan of disgust as Fletcher reached out and took a handful of his own shit, then mashed it into his groin. Erwin averted his eyes, but what his gaze found in the shadows was infinitely worse than Fletcher's scatological games.
There was a body there, lying with its face to the wall. A body he recognized.
There were no words to express the horror of that moment; nor its terrible clarity. He could only let out a sob, a wracking sob, that went unheard by the masturbator. He knew why now. He was dead. His wizened body was lying in the corner of the room, drained of life by Fletcher. Whatever consciousness he still possessed, it was clinging to the memory of the flesh, but it had no influence in the living world. He could not be seen or heard or felt. He was a phantom.
He sank down in front of Fletcher and studied his face. It was brutish beneath the beard, the brow louting, the mouth grotesquely wide.
"What are you?" he murmured to himself.
Fletcher's manipulations were apparently bringing him close to crisis. His breathing was fast and shallow, and punctuated with little grunts. Erwin couldn't bring himself to watch the act concluded. As the grunts grew louder he rose d made for the door, passing through it, down the hall and ut into the sunlight.
Mrs. Semevikov had gone on her way, and Ken was heading back into his house with an armful of roses, but there was a thin, high-pitched whining sound coming from nearby. Something is in pain, Erwin thought, which fact curiously comforted him, to know that he was not the only soul suffering right now. He went in search of the sufferer, and didn't have to look far. It was the rose bushes that were giving off the whine; a sound he assumed only the dead could hear.
It was a poor compensation. Tears, or rather the memory of tears, fell from his remembered eyes, and he quietly swore an oath that even if he had to do a deal with the Devil to possess the means, he would somehow revenge himself on the beast that had taken his life. Nor would it be quick. He'd make the bastard suffer so loudly the grief of a million roses could not drown out his screams.
The Friday of Festival Weekend was always a slack day at the doctor's.
Early next week there'd be a waiting room full of folks who'd put off a visit because they had too much to do, their fingers turned septic, their constipation chronic. But today only those in extreme discomfort, or so lonely a trip to see Dr. Powell was a treat, came in.
None of the patients made any mention of recent events to Phoebe, though she didn't doubt that every man, woman, and child in Everville was by now steeped in the scandal. Even Dr. Powell kept his remarks to a minimum. He was sorry to hear about Morton's death, he said, and would perfectly understand if she needed to take a few days off. She thanked him, and asked if she might perhaps leave around two, so she could drive over to Silverton and meet the funeral director. The answer, of course, was yes.
In fact, that wasn't the only meeting she had planned. She needed more urgently than ever the guidance of a legal mind; someone who could give her a clear picture of just how bad a position she was in. She would try to see Erwin this afternoon she'd decided, rather than wait until Monday. A lot could happen in seventy-two hours, as the turmoil of the last twenty-four proved. Better that she knew the bad news and planned accordingly.
iv The fish was good. Tesia took her leisurely time eating, and listened while she ate, tuning in to conversations going on at five tables in her vicinity. It was a trick she'd first learned as a screenwriter (quickly finding that ordinary conversation was littered with remarks no producer would believe) and had gone on to hone it during her travels, when it had allowed her to keep track of the way the world was going without benefit of media or social skills.
today, much to her surprise, she found that three of the five conversations were about the same thing: the life and crimes of a local woman called Phoebe, who was apparently implicated in the bizarre demise of her husband.
While she was listening to one of the tables debating the morals of adultery, a parched-looking fellow, whom she took to be the manager of the place, came through with hamburgers for the debaters, and on his way back to the counter gathered up her dishes and casually asked if she'd enjoyed the fish. She said she had. Then, hoping to squeeze a little more information from him said: "I was wondering... do you happen to know a guy called Fletcher?"
The man, his name tag read Bosley, thought for a moment. "Fletcher... Fletcher... " he said.
While he mused, Raul said, Tesla?
"In a minute," she thought to Raul.
But there's something-Raul went on.
He got no further before Bosley said, "I don't believe I know of any Fletcher. Does he live in town?"
"No. He's a visitor."
"We're swamped with visitors," Bosley replied.
Clearly this wasn't going to prove a fruitful line of inquiry. But while she had the man in front of her she decided to quiz him about something else.
"Phoebe," she said. Bosley lost his smile. "Do you know
?"
"She came in now and again," Bosley conceded.
"What's she like?" By the expression on his face, Bosley was caught between the requirements of civility and his desire to ignore Tesla's question entirely. "Everybody's talking about her."
"Then I hope her story serves as a lesson," Bosley replied, chilly now.
"The Lord sees her sin and judges her."
"Has she been accused of something?"
"In the Lord's eyes-"
"Forget the fucking Lord's eyes," Tesla said, irritated by the guy's cant. "I want to know what she's like."
Bosley set the dishes back on the table and quietly said, "I think you'd better leave."
"What for?" "You're not welcome to break bread with us," he replied.
"Why the hell not?"
"Your language."
"What about it?" Tesla said.
The F word, Raul prompted.
She repeated it aloud, to test the thesis. "Fuck?" she said, "you don't like me sayingfuck?"
Bosley flinched as though the syllables were stings. "Get out," he said.
"All I said was fuck," Tesla replied sweetly. "What's wrong withfuck?" Bosley had taken hurts enough. "I want you out of here," he said, the volume of his voice rising. "Your foul tongue isn't welcome."
"I can't stay for the peach cobbler?" Tcsia said. "Out!" Bosley yelled. The gossiping patrons had fallen silent now. All eyes were turned in the direction of Tesla's table. "Take your abominations elsewhere. They're not welcome here."
Tesia lounged in her chair. "Fuck isn't an abomination," she said.