Ghouls

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Bad subject, huh?”

“That’s right. That’s what they said. They said I was a bad subject.”

“All it means,” Kurt explained, “is that your polygraph results are inconclusive. Lots of people who take lie detector tests get labeled as bad subjects, only because certain physiological conditions prevent the operator from reading their responses right. I don’t care what Bard’s asshole right-wing surveys say; polygraphs and stress evaluators don’t work on a given percentage of those tested, and since the county’s tagged you a bad subject, that means you fall into that percentage. It’s rare, sure, but it happens. Some people can tell the truth over and over, and the poly will say they’re lying. Others can lie like rugs, but the machine will never know the difference. Goddamn things should be outlawed, just a bunch of strongarm fascist bullshit.”

Glen still didn’t seem to understand. “So do the cops think I’m lying?”

“No, they just think you’re a bad subject, which means you’ve got nothing to worry about. They can’t even legally consider you a suspect now. It was smart that you volunteered for it.”

“For all the good it did,” Glen said, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I was hoping the damn thing would clear me.”

Kurt watched the road, and swore at himself for not owning a pair of sunglasses. Glen looked like something washed up by the tide, his face thin and blanched, his hair a mess. Even his familiar straight-leg jeans and poplin jacket looked wrong on him, as though they belonged to someone else, someone larger. Higgins had brought Glen back from CID at midafternoon, and Kurt had offered to drive him home, more a maneuver than a gesture of a friend. How to begin? Kurt asked himself. There was so much he wanted to ask, but he felt a wave of doubt now that the opportunity had been made. He wanted to light a cigarette, to kill more time, though whenever he reached for his left shirt pocket, he thought of Dr. Greene’s bucket. He doubted he would ever smoke again.

“Hooligans,” Kurt muttered, and swerved just in time to miss some beer bottles in the road. “Goddamn scruds think the Route’s their own private bottle depository.” His flipped his visor down, half blind from a wall of glare. “I talked to Dr. Willard today, while you were in Forestville. What’s with all the motion detectors?”

Glen answered with little interest, his mind roaming. “About a week or so ago he started putting it all in. And not just motion, either. He’s got contacts on all the doors and windows, electric eyes on the stairs and second-floor hallways, plus the carpets are all tapeswitched. He’s also got a couple of those closed circuit jobs, with color monitors in the bedroom.”

A fortress. But against what? “Has he ever been burgled, ever been ripped off?”

“Not since I’ve been working for him.”

“How about vandalism?”

Glen slouched back and chuckled. “Couple of Halloweens ago some kids t-p’d the house and filled his mailbox with Crazy Foam.”

More bottles appeared around the bend. Kurt wobbled the wheel almost crazily. Glass popped under the left-rear. “Then what’s he so scared of, that he’s gotta drop a few G’s on security equipment?”

“More than a few,” Glen said. “Ten, at least. He’s even talking about razor-wire and microwave. Rich man’s wild hair, I guess. But you have to admit, the Annapolis B & E wave is slowly moving toward us; maybe the papers are scaring him. I see your point, though. It is kind of strange, in all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been that concerned with the house, just the land. Then in the space of a week he’s got the whole house loaded. Hell, he’s got me to watch his place. What he needs all that junk for I’ll never know.”

A mile lapsed, without a word. When the trees finally blocked out the sun, Kurt asked, “What were you going to tell me yesterday at McGuffy’s?”

Glen’s brow tensed, lips drawing tight, but he said, “Oh, hell, Kurt. I don’t know. I was shit-faced.”

“Something Mrs. Willard had told you. You seemed pretty shook up.”

Glen eased out a laugh, eased the query away. “Just some ghost story she hit me with, that’s all. You know me—when I get ripped I’ll believe anything.”

“You sounded dead serious.”

“Lotta damned nonsense. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

Kurt let it pass, but could it be that simple? Another mile lapsed; he was running out of time. “I’m not one to pry into a guy’s private life, but I know you would tip me off if the situation was reversed…” His throat felt thick, blundering the flow of words. At last he said, “So I guess I better tell you.”

Glen looked over at him, eyes hooded, solemn.

“Willard knows all about you and his wife,” Kurt said.

Glen remained absolutely motionless, as if flash-frozen.

“I’d figured out most of what was going on between you two,” Kurt picked up, “but I’d never mentioned it to you, ‘cause I don’t like to get in other people’s business.”

The words rattled from Glen’s throat. “Are you sure he knows?”

“He told me flat out himself. He said he was certain you and Nancy were having an affair.”

“He must be mad enough to kill me.”

“No, he seemed pretty level about the whole thing. In fact, he implied that he expected it to happen eventually. The guy all but came out and said he’s impotent.”

Glen covered his eyes with his hand. He shimmied down in the seat as if physically shrinking. “Shit. Oh, shit” was all he could say at first. Then he lowered his hand, glancing weakly to Kurt. “How did all this come about? You just happened to stop by, and he told you?”

The Route finally met its end. Kurt whipped into the tricky turn, braking then over the sudden exchange of gravel. Glen’s bungalow lay ahead, hedged in by drooping trees. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me out there,” Kurt said. “Willard’s ready to file a missing persons. Since he knows, you might as well have out with it.”

“A missing p— Why?”

Kurt pulled up and stopped. You bullshitting me, or what? “Willard hasn’t seen his wife since early last night. We thought—”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Glen said, his insistence snapping. “If she was going to leave, she’d at least let me know before she took off.”

Kurt gave him an abrupt, funky look. “You mean she’s not shacking up with you?”

“No. Hell no.”

“We thought the two of you were planning to go off together. Her car’s still in Willard’s garage, so I figured she was staying here.”

“She’s not here.”

“You wouldn’t be feeding me a line, would you? This is important.”

“She’s not here, Kurt, I swear. I got no idea where she is; this is the first I’ve heard of any of it. I guess I better—” but then Glen’s thoughts seemed to collide. He threw open the Ford’s door. “I—I’ve got to find her. Shit, if she…”

“If she what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll take care of it.”

Kurt was dismayed. Was Glen lying to his face?

But before Kurt could even think to offer assistance, Glen was already out and in his own car. Backing up, speeding away.

««—»»

His insides seemed to be slowly drawing in; he could hardly swallow, hardly blink, and he pushed his dull blue Pinto past the fringes of recklessness. An hour passed, his mind flashing the same dry horror.

It couldn’t be true. No.

He checked the safest places first. He checked the libraries in Crofton, in Annapolis, in Bowie, praying that he might rush in and find her seated happily in some remote corner of the reference section. She would look up, and he would tell her his fears, and she would shake her head and laugh it all away. But he found only frowning librarians and children who looked at him in quiet terror.

Exhaustion thinly paled his face, blackened his eyes like smears of soot. He blew through red lights and past stop signs, forgetting what they were for. The taverns they sometimes drank at didn’t open till six or seven, but he checked them anyway. All a waste of time.

She must have gone into the woods.

Yes, the woods.

But why?

The TT-what did she call it? TXX? TTX? Yes, TTX. That’s why she went into the woods. That was their plan, but—

“Will it work?”

“It has to. The only problem is a method of effective delivery.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bait. We need bait.”

Bait.

Preposterous. He didn’t believe it, though the things she’d said did seem too wild to be a display of humor. She’d sounded so serious. She’d sounded as though she cared about him. Perhaps that was what he found most impossible to believe.

He didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Perhaps his own impressions were more accurate. How far could the common neuroses of everyday life be from out and out mental illness? He almost hoped that was it, that this entire ordeal could be blamed on a breakdown, a simple case of a woman losing focus on the things in this world that were real and falling prey to the deceptions of illusion. Then he could find her, take her to a doctor, and eventually everything might be okay. They might even be closer in the end.

Or perhaps she had left, as Kurt seemed to suspect, long fed up with her husband, and sufficiently bored by Glen. Had she wiped her slate clean, to displace herself from here, and to start again in a new place with new people? All he could offer was his wholehearted love, and he knew that in this day and age love alone was not enough.

What other alternatives could there be? These were real alternatives, and a testament even to his own soundness of mind. Madness, or relocation. For what else could possibly—

In that instant, Glen’s mind shattered through the impact of a single thought.

Willard.

“Bait,” Nancy had said. “We need bait.”

So it was true then.

But Nancy herself was the bait.

He socked the accelerator to the floor, an ache throbbing where his heart should be. His tires shrieked, laying lines on the road and wearing down around one uncontrolled turn after another. He honked and swore aloud at a slow car in front of him, then passed without thinking, only to miss a car in the oncoming lane by inches. A carhorn blared as he squeezed by, and someone shouted “Shithead!” louder than the horn, but Glen kept on driving. As he picked up speed, his vision seemed to melt with thoughts of Nancy. Then something never seen thunked under his wheels. In his rearview he glimpsed a stray dog quivering in the road behind him.

The next miles streaked by in a torrent of delirium. He skidded into the turn, then tore up the access road, rocketing gravel and blowing dust yards high. His tires lost their purchase momentarily as he plowed into the final ascent; he heard the rear fender collapse when he buffeted against one of the phone poles which lined the road up the hill.

He locked the brakes, fishtailed in the cul-de-sac, and stopped. Dust settled, trickling, as he jumped out and raced for the security truck parked at the side of Willard’s garage. With his key he went into the truck, unlocked the rack, and took out the shotgun.

A few steps then, and he halted.

He stood stock-still in the middle of the court, feet apart, hair sifting in the breeze. He held the shotgun low port as he eyed the house.

What if you’re wrong?

Bait.

OK Nancy. OK God.

The mechanism clacked when he chambered a round. It was a satisfying sound; it made the shotgun feel more full, more comfortable in his hands. He advanced toward the house.

On the porch he paused again. Perhaps he should announce himself by blowing that eyesore knocker right through the door panel, or better still, by blasting the entire door down out of its frame. But before he could knock, a voice crackled from the intercom: “The door’s unlocked, Glen. Come on in.”

Willard’s voice.

Glen entered the foyer’s strange, unfamiliar darkness. How many times had he been kissed by Nancy here? How many times had they embraced on this very spot? He’d made love to her here once, right on the foyer floor. She’d pinned him between the cold slate and her heated body, and it had been wonderful.

His eyes shot up for signs of danger. The kitchen entrance stood as a block of light at the end of the hall. Like a dream, Willard stepped into it, his details back-lighted into blackness.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Where’s Nancy?” Glen demanded.

“Ah, yes. The lover coming to claim his love. Too bad you couldn’t rent a suit of armor and a white steed. Raphael could’ve painted it, no? Saint Glen and the Dragon. Nancy would be in the background, nude, of course, and desperately trying to find her G-spot.” Willard seemed on the verge of an outburst of laughter. “But I don’t blame you, Glen. Really, there are no hard feelings at all. She’s quite a hot little number, that much I’ll give you. That much I’d give any natural man. But believe it or not, I married her for her brains.”

Glen stared him down, stiffening to keep his hatred in check. His hands felt numb and very cold.

“Join me in a drink?” Willard invited.

“Fuck you. Where’s Nancy?”

“Let’s have a drink and talk.”

Glen lowered the shotgun. His finger touched the trigger. “Tell me where Nancy is, or I’ll kill you.”

Willard’s silhouette leaned within the doorway, a flouting posture. “Not very attentive today, are we? As I’ve said, I knew you’d come, and since I knew you’d come, I naturally replaced all the shotgun shells with reloads…neglecting, of course, to include such necessities as powder and primers.”

Glen depressed the trigger. Nothing happened. He loaded and ejected all five rounds that way, all dummies. Then he tossed the gun before him in the air, twirling it, and caught it by the barrel. He wielded it now as one would wield an ax.

“I’ll bat your head out of the park if you don’t start giving me some answers.”

“Answers,” Willard intoned, his voice suddenly echoic. He raised a finger in the light. “But first…questions.”

Glen pictured Willard’s face swelling and turning black as he choked the life out of him. He pictured Willard’s head splitting in half like fruit from the chunky thrust of a cleaver, or erupting altogether in the crosshairs of a 9x scope. It was an enjoyable fantasy.

He could hear the smile in Willard’s voice.

“So exactly how much did she tell you?”

“Everything,” Glen said.

“And did you believe her?”

“Of course not.”

Willard appeared to be looking into space now, though his features were still blacked out. He lit a cigarette and watched the tail of smoke rise toward the ceiling. Behind him, the sunlight which bled into the kitchen grew suddenly less clear, as though a cloud had just slipped in front of the sun.

Glen sensed something urgent about the silence now. He could actually hear Willard draw on the cigarette.

“And how much did you repeat to our good constable Morris?” Willard asked.

“None.”

“No?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s my friend,” Glen said, lips pulled to a cutting smirk. “And I don’t want my friends to think I’m an idiot.”

Willard’s silhouette nodded, puffed. “So the gibberish Nancy told you about the things in the woods—you’ve repeated it to no one?”

“That’s right.”

“Excellent… And I’m sure you realize that Nancy is suffering from some psychological abnormality. I doubt that it’s too serious, though.”

Glen felt the muscles in his face sharpen. “Then…she’s all right?”

“Oh, yes. She called about an hour ago.”

“From where?”

“Crownsville. Ward Romig One, one of the low-precaution wards.”

Glen felt a hot flash, but he didn’t know if it was shock or relief. Crownsville was a state mental hospital located on the outskirts of Annapolis.

“I was about to report her missing,” Willard went on. “Thank God, anyway. I knew nothing about it; she admitted herself under her own volition, which at least indicates that her delusions can’t be terribly severe. The doctors would like her to stay for seventy-two hours of observation. Then they’ll be able to decide what to do, probably medication, therapy, and rest.”

Now Glen’s heart surged with relief; he wanted to shout. Embarrassed, he propped the shotgun against the stairs and offered Willard a downcast look of apology. “I’m really sorry about all this. Guess I went off my rocker a little.”

“Yes, a little,” Willard agreed. “Never mind that now; we’ll talk about it later. The important thing is she’s all right.” He hitched up his sleeve to view his watch. “If we leave now, we should make it before visiting hours end. Do you know the way?”

“Sure, it’s on the corner of 178 and Crownsville Road. A fifteen-minute drive if we step on it.”

Willard came out of the kitchen entry. “Let me get my keys.”

“I’ll drive,” Glen said. “My car’s right out front,” and he turned and strode for the front door. Willard, a step behind him, snatched up the shotgun without faltering and then butt-stroked Glen neatly in the back of the skull. The sound of the blow was frightfully insignificant. But then Glen toppled face-first onto the foyer slate, unconscious.

Willard stepped over Glen’s legs to peek out the window, and he frowned. He leaned the shotgun against the wall, and with a labored breath began to drag Glen into the study, toward the basement.

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