“Various laws define this as a proper courtesy period,” Barnaby said. “However, I'm not feeling especially courteous toward these fishermen, Sheriff.”
Plunkett was clearly not satisfied with that answer.
Barnaby said, “In a case like this, Sheriff, the landlord is in the driver's seat, always has been and always will be, as long as the concept of private property exists. You see, if I evict them now, returning a proper portion of whatever rent they've paid, they'll need a full week to get a restraining order from a judge — if they can get one at all. By the time the order is enforced and they're back in the Niche, most of the courtesy period will be up anyway. Besides, the whole procedure will require legal help, and that will cost them more money than the court order would be worth.”
“I see.” Plunkett was not happy. Laws were not necessarily being broken — but they were most surely being stretched to the limit.
“Well,” Barnaby said, in a sprightly tone of voice, dusting his long hands together, “shall we be on our way, then?”
Plunkett looked surprised and sat up straighter in his chair. He said, “You're not coming with me, are you?”
“Of course.”
“That's not necessary, Mr. Barnaby.”
“I'll enjoy it.”
“But perhaps it's also unwise.”
“Why?”
“There might be trouble, sir.”
Barnaby frowned and said, “You told me, only a few moments ago, that there wouldn't be trouble. Now, what could have happened in the last minute or two to change your mind?”
Plunkett shifted uneasily in his chair, rolled the papers up in one huge hand. “Well, sir, in all truth, I didn't expect trouble if I went alone. But with you there… You know how much some of those fishermen hate — how much they dislike you, sir.”
“I know.”
“Well, then—”
“But I don't suspect they'll cause trouble with you along,” Barnaby said. “And I want them to know I'm dead serious about this. I want them cleared out of Jenkins' Niche within thirty-six hours.”
Plunkett got to his feet, realizing that it was useless to argue with a man like William Barnaby. Still, in one last hope of averting the coming trouble, he said, “Can't you at least give them a week, sir?”
“Impossible,” Barnaby said.
“But thirty-six hours is so little time to—”
“I will not tolerate these dirty, uneducated, mannerless little men being on my land any more than thirty-six hours!” Barnaby had slowly raised his voice until he was nearly screaming; his face was flushed, his hands fisted at his sides as if he were holding his anger tightly between his fingers. “I will not be associated with the likes of them, not for a single minute longer than necessary, not even as their landlord, Sheriff. And that is my last word!”
Plunkett nodded sadly.
“Shall we go?”
“About that time,” Plunkett agreed.
By 8:30 that morning, they were on their way to Jenkins' Niche with the official eviction notices…
Gwyn had dozens of dreams that night, all of them bad, a few of them nightmares:
— She was running along a dark, narrow, low-ceilinged corridor, pursued by a faceless woman in white robes; the woman cried out to her, trying to get her to turn around and run in the other direction; but she knew that behind her, the corridor opened into the void; however, before long, she found that it opened onto the void at both ends…
— She was being chased by a formless creature through dark woods, and she could not escape those trees except by moving out onto a featureless plain which encircled them; the plain, she felt, was more terrifying, in its perfectly level scope, than were the shadowed trees where her stalker waited and watched…
— She was climbing a slope whose summit was obscured by deep shadows, trying to escape from a transparent woman with blood-red eyes who was climbing the same slope behind her; she scrabbled at the rocks, tearing away her fingernails, skinning her hands, falling to her knees repeatedly — only to rise up again and plunge on; the transparent woman wanted to carry her down to the bottom of the hill and throw her into the still black lake down there, an event that must not transpire, no matter what the cost of preventing it; at the top of the slope, Gwyn knew, she would find hope and a future; instead, as she crossed the brink, she discovered that the hill was capped by another black lake, just as evil as the stagnant brew below; then, the transparent woman caught up with her and, squealing in a voice filled with echoes, shoved her forward, off the stone rim and down toward the black water…
Gwyn woke from this last nightmare with a scream caught in the back of her throat, and she sat straight up in bed, flailing at the covers with both arms.
“Gwyn?”
Gasping, she looked toward the voice, saw Elaine and, blinking, realized the slope and the black lake and the transparent woman had all been parts of a dream.
“Gwyn, are you feeling all right?” Elaine bent over her anxiously, her pretty brow furrowed with concern. She felt Gwyn's forehead for a fever, and finding none she gently pressed the girl back until her head touched the pillow once more.
“I'm okay,” Gwyn said, barely able to spit out the words. Her mouth was terribly dry and fuzzy, the corners of her lips cracked, her throat parched and sore. She managed to ask, in a voice all feathery and strange: “May I have a glass of water?”
“Of course,” Elaine said. “But you won't try to get up while I'm out of the room, will you?”
“No.”
Elaine disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, Gwyn heard the delicious sound of running water in the sink. When the older woman returned with the water, she took it and greedily drank it down, almost without pause, as if she had just spent a week in the desert.
“Better?”
She relaxed. “Yes, thank you.”
Elaine returned the glass to the bathroom, came back and sat in the chair beside the bed, picking up a hardbound book which she had been reading to pass the tune.
“What happened?” Gwyn asked. She rubbed at her eyes, as if the gesture would clear her memory. Not only her mouth was fuzzy upon wakening, but her memory as well. She felt dizzy and weak and awfully sleepy — even though she'd just gotten up from a long sleep. She could not seem to put her thoughts in order.
“Do you remember anything about what happened last evening?” Elaine asked.
Gwyn thought, hard.
It was so long ago… yesterday…
She could not recall what had happened.
“You thought that you'd seen Ginny — your sister,” Elaine said. Obviously, from her expression and the tone of her voice, she was reluctant to talk about it, put the sickness into words.
“You came to Will with a story about footprints on the beach, or some such…”
“I remember now,” she said, quietly.
“You were in bad shape, so we called Dr. Cotter.”
“I don't remember that — oh, yes. A gray-haired little man…”
“He thought you needed as much rest as you could get,” Elaine said. “He gave you a sedative.”
“What time is it now?”
“You slept all night and most of the morning, as Dr. Cotter said you would,” Elaine explained. “It's now 11:30 in the morning.”
“You didn't sit up with me all night, did you?”
“There wasn't any need,” Elaine said, “since we knew you'd not come around until sometime this morning.”
“I'm being such a bother.”
“Not at all. That's what we're for. That's what a family is for, to help one another.”
“I'm so tired,” Gwyn complained.
“That's good, because you need to rest as much as you can.”