Yarrow, Page 9

  Peter smiled. "Cat's cats."

  She had her key out now. "They can be a couple of monsters, let me tell you, but…" Her voice trailed off. The front door swung open as she touched her key to the lock.

  "Cat?"

  The watcher reared in her mind with all the menace of the dark-winged searcher on top of Redcap Hill.

  "I locked it before I left," she said. "I know I did."

  Peter stepped past her into the house. Pinprickles marched up his spine. There was suddenly a very real sense of danger in the air that was neither imagination nor dream. As he started forward, Cat put a hand on his arm. Every horror movie that she'd ever seen came rushing into her head. Ghouls. Maniacs with meat cleavers or long wicked knives…

  The back door slammed, and they both jumped.

  "There's somebody in here!" Peter cried and ran ahead to the kitchen.

  "Peter! Don't!"

  They stopped in the kitchen to stare at the back door. It swung wide. Heart thumping, Peter moved forward to look out. On the lawn he could make out footprints in the dew— widely spaced, like a running man would make.

  "Oh, God," Cat said as she saw them. "It's real."

  Peter swallowed hard. "What's real?"

  His own imagination had started to take quantum leaps. He was ready to believe almost anything when she started to tell him about her watcher. When she was done, he almost sighed with relief. A weirdo he could handle. That fit into his world-view, no matter how unpleasant that kind of a person could be. He just couldn't have faced the possibility of more dreams becoming real.

  "You'd better call the police," he said.

  "I… I can't."

  "What do you mean, you can't?"

  "They'll just laugh at me."

  "For Christ's sake, Cat. It's their job to check out this kind of thing. Would you rather be dead?"

  She sat mournfully at the kitchen table, feeling as though her world was tumbling into a freefall from which there was no escape. Reality, even her ghost-laden brand of it, had turned topsy-turvy. Order had fled and no one had been thoughtful enough to provide her with a new set of rules.

  "Why'd he have to pick on me?"

  "I don't know." Peter massaged his temples. "We don't even know what he wanted."

  But with all you read in the papers or saw on TV these days, you had to be prepared for the worst. Especially if you were any sort of a public figure— even as low-profiled as Cat. Hinckley came to mind— attempting to assassinate Reagan just to impress Jodie Foster. Lennon's murderer. Fans. Hero worship that went a giant twisted step too far.

  He said as much to Cat. She looked shocked.

  "I get letters from my fans all the time, Peter. They're not weirdos."

  "You don't know that." Looking up, he saw the fear in her eyes. He tried to put on a reassuring smile. "Maybe you're right. Still, you'd better not stay here."

  Cat shook her head. "I'm not going to let him chase me out of my own house."

  "Okay. I can see that. But if you won't call the police, how about if I hang around for a bit— just until it gets light out."

  Cat nodded, grateful for his offer. Her bravery only went so far, and after tonight…

  Peter pushed himself up from his chair. "Maybe we'd better go over the house," he said. "Just to be sure. Do you want—"

  "I'm coming with you."

  There was no way she was going to sit in the kitchen by herself. Peter nodded, understanding how she felt.

  At the front door he had to step aside as her cats edged their way in. They watched him warily as they sidled through the door, then bolted for the kitchen. Peter stared out at the hedge. He felt as if he were in a net that was just starting to draw tight, a net from which there was no escape.

  He looked beyond the hedge to what he could see of the street. Was the prowler still out there, watching? Nothing had been taken, or even disturbed inside. And while this wasn't even his house, Peter still felt the same sense of outrage that Cat did. Outrage and fear. Hard to say which was stronger right now.

  "Shit," he muttered under his breath. Slowly he closed the door.

  Lysistratus saw the door close. Dawn was less than an hour away. Would she sleep before it grew too light for the shadows to hide him? He watched as, room by room, lights came on in the house to stab the shadows outside their windows with their bright illumination. They probably thought he was still inside.

  He smiled. That much of a fool he wasn't. Nor would he linger here any longer. There would be other nights.

  As he turned away, he searched the night one last time for that strange presence he'd sensed earlier— that stray bit of dream, cast loose on the world to fend for itself. An absurd notion, he realized, but it stayed with him. He reached out with his mind, casting the net wide, but it came up empty.

  He frowned. Hunger gnawed inside him.

  Lisa Henderson slept poorly that night. She'd had another argument with her mother— about her birthday, naturally enough, which certainly put a sense of gloom over the coming festivities. It was at times like this that Lisa wished she lived in another city, even another country, just to get away from the family obligations her mother insisted she maintain. Everything from Christmas to that most holy of holies, Mother's Day.

  But her birthday was supposed to be her day, wasn't it? To do whatever it was that she wanted, even if it meant spending the whole day in bed, or going out and getting pleasantly sloshed with a bunch of friends. When she'd made some reference to that, the shit had really hit the fan.

  Why can't you keep your mouth shut? she'd asked herself as she was forced to listen to another tirade of what a thankless daughter she was, and how did she think her father would feel, and how hurt she was herself that her own daughter would…

  Lisa got off the phone with a headache that aspirin would not get rid of. It just lay there between her temples, centering mostly behind her left eye, where it felt like there was a little man with a long needle giving her brain a sharp jab every few moments. She got those headaches a lot.

  Stress, her doctor had diagnosed when Lisa went to her with that problem a few months ago. "This is a case of prevention, rather than treatment," she'd added as she prescribed a relaxant. Diazepam, 5 mg. One tablet every six hours, when needed. Valium. Lisa never got the prescription filled. It seemed too… too Middle America somehow.

  When she got off the phone tonight, she wished she'd taken about a half dozen of them before answering.

  She laid down for a while. When the headache subsided into a bearable dullness, she tried reading the paper, but it was too depressing and the print seemed too pinched tonight. Trying to reread Dylan Thomas's Quite Early One Morning, she couldn't get into the mood to appreciate it properly either, and ended up settling for the TV. She watched the late movie on Channel 13, the late-late movie on CFCF 12 out of Montreal, and finally got into bed around four A.M., only to sit up a couple of hours later, dead tired yet wide awake.

  She got out of bed and went to sit by the window in her living room, which overlooked the street. Movement caught her eye and then, before she could draw back from the screen, she was looking into the piercing blue eyes of her next-door neighbor where he stood on the walk below, his gaze fixed on her window.

  She tried to look away, but her limbs went all weak and a buzzing started up in her head. She couldn't have turned her head if her life depended on it, which in some bizarre way seemed all too real at that moment. She felt as though a part of her was being drawn into him. A great darkness welled up before her eyes. There was something waiting for her in that darkness— something too frightening to have to face.

  As though in a dream, she felt a hand touch her on the shoulder, lift her from her chair, and lead her to the bed. Her nightie left her body. She was caressed, teased, brought up to the brink of climax, only to fall again. When she finally came, her eyes opened wide and she saw her neighbor's face inches from her own. Then he was inside her, filling her with his need, but stealing something
from her at the same time— a part of herself more precious than any moment's pleasure.

  Lysistratus looked down at the woman's limp body, holding a pillow in his hand. She knew. In that moment that he'd taken a piece of her, she had opened her eyes wide, recognized him, and understood what he did. He toyed with the pillow, then tossed it aside. Now was not a good time. It was too close to home. He left the room as silently as he'd entered.

  When Lisa woke the next morning at ten, she was already a half hour late for work. It wasn't until her lunch hour that she remembered last night's erotic dream. She smiled. The man next door had been in it. The smile faltered as the memory grew a little sharper. Tied up with the eroticism was something ugly that she couldn't quite place. But it left her with a vague unease and edgy nerves, and the disturbing sensation that it hadn't been a dream.

  By her afternoon break she was feeling so high-strung that she dug out her prescription from the bottom of her purse and had it filled at the pharmacy across the street.

  8

  Wednesday

  Peter left Cat's house with a certain amount of misgiving. She was much calmer now and had promised to meet him at the store later in the morning. She'd promised as well to keep the doors locked while she was home, and that when she did leave, she'd make certain there was more than one person on the street. In the light of morning it all seemed a little foolish, but while the stranger aspects of last night still needed some suitable explanation as far as Peter was concerned, the very real threat of an intruder— of Cat's watcher— couldn't be denied.

  Peter still felt they should have called the police. They were equipped to handle this sort of thing. Ordinary people might be able to deal with a psycho in a Brian De Palma film or in the pages of a Stephen King thriller, but this was the real world, and out here on the streets it just didn't work that way.

  He meant to stay at her house tonight and if they saw anyone lurking about, if they saw anything out of the ordinary, he'd call the cops himself. But before that, before he even opened the store, he had another part of Cat's problems to deal with. He liked her a lot, but she needed more than just a friend right now. Maybe she and Ben would hit it off or maybe they wouldn't. But it sure as hell wouldn't hurt to give them the opportunity to have a go at it.

  "Mick?"

  He turned back to the bed. Becki sat up, the sheets falling back from her breasts. She grinned.

  "Where ya going?"

  "To work."

  "Capitalist."

  "Slug-a-bed."

  She stretched, ruffling her spiked hair. "Do you have to go right this minute?"

  "Well…"

  Mick let his jeans fall to the floor and climbed back into bed. Becki pushed him down and sat on his stomach, running her hands down his chest.

  "You know your friend Ben?" she murmured. Her mouth was right beside his ear, her voice breathy.

  "Mmm?"

  "He's not such an old fart after all— told him so myself."

  Mick laughed and pulled her back as she started to sit up again. "I kinda thought you'd changed your mind about him," he said. "Now are we going to talk or—"

  "We're going to 'or'," Becki told him seriously, and then they both laughed.

  Mick only just made it in to work before Jim. They no sooner got the station open than an old Ford ran over the signal cord. Ping-ping-ping. Mick glanced at Jim.

  "Hey," Jim said. "I've got the bank deposit to do."

  It'd be nice, Mick thought as he headed out for the pumps, if they could have just one more full-timer working here.

  Ben caught the phone on its third ring and muttered a sleepy hello into it. He sat down at the kitchen table, dressed only in shorts and a T-shirt, and stared blearily at Central Park through the window.

  "Did I wake you up?" Peter asked on the other end of the line.

  "I'm not sure that awake is the word I'd use to describe the way I'm feeling right now. What's up, Peter?"

  "Just thought I'd let you know that the new Ellison showed up late yesterday afternoon. You still want a copy?"

  "You called me at eight-thirty to ask me that?"

  "Hot item, pal. They'll probably all be gone by noon."

  "So save me one already."

  "You're sounding grouchy, Ben. Have a late night?"

  "I checked out Mick's new band last night at Barrymore's— a group called Too Bad that he's doing the sound for. How about you?"

  "Well, the woman of your dreams stopped by and stayed for the evening."

  "Who?"

  "Cat Midhir. Weird thing. I walked her home and we found that some guy'd busted into her place."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Uh-huh. He left empty-handed and the place wasn't busted up or anything, but I got the feeling he was waiting for her. She spotted someone casing the place the night before. Being who she is, I hope it wasn't some crazed fan— you know what I mean?"

  "Christ, Peter. If you think/had anything to do with—"

  "Give me a break, Ben. I know you better than that. Infatuated, yes. But crazed? Not likely."

  Ben looked across the kitchen at the poster of Cat that Peter had given him— it was the same as the one hanging in the window of Arkum Books advertising The Borderlord.

  "I tell you, Peter," he said quietly into the phone. "Sometimes I worry about it— the way I go on about her, collect everything she writes, everything that's written about her. I've even got all the columns that she did for her community newspaper— The OSCAR. Remember those?"

  "You don't have to explain, Ben. Besides, you're mad-keen on other writers too."

  "Yeah, but it's not the same."

  "So it's not the same. That doesn't mean you're going to start going weird on us."

  "I suppose not." What Peter had said earlier about Cat coming over for the evening sunk in then. "Are you… starting to see her?" he asked with a twinge of jealousy.

  "I was with her last night, Ben, but it's not like you might mink. She came into the store just before closing last night and she was really depressed. I mean, bottoming out."

  "What's she got to be depressed about?"

  "Well…" Peter didn't want to compromise Cat's trust. But having inadvertently let part of it slip out, he realized that he had to say something. He wouldn't tell about the dreams. That was too private. But… "Just between us, she's having trouble with her writing lately."

  "She's— jeez. What a bummer. Are you giving her a hand?"

  Peter laughed. "Who are you kidding? I'm just giving her a sympathetic ear. She hasn't got a whole lot of friends, Ben."

  "Yeah. You've told me." He glanced at the poster again. "Sometimes I wish—"

  "All you've got to do is do it. She's shyer than you are."

  "I think it's kind of late for that, Peter. Any sort of friendship'd be tainted by this whole hero-worship trip that I fell into."

  Peter disagreed. "Writers love ego-boo, Ben. I've never seen such an insecure profession. I think it comes from the fact that they don't get any immediate feedback on their stuff. You know. Like when a musician plays a gig, people either like it or they don't, and she knows right away. But a writer just sits away in a garret somewhere, pecking the stuff out and having to wait for the reviews, which won't even necessarily be representative of what the general public thought of her book anyway."

  "It still wouldn't work."

  "Yeah. Well, if you're convinced, you're convinced. I think you're making a mistake, but what can I say? I've got to run, Ben. You'll be down this afternoon to pick up the Ellison?"

  "Fifty-five Canadian, boxed and signed— you think it's worth it?"

  "You bet. Course, I've got my rent to pay."

  Ben laughed. "Right. Okay, Peter. See you this afternoon."

  Lysistratus sat facing his painting of the Kikladhes, his thoughts turned inward. The sounds of Klaus Schulze's synthesizer washed from the speakers of his stereo at a low volume. Lysistratus imagined that sound as the blue-green waters of the Aegean Sea lappin
g Myconos's shore. He concentrated on it, hearing more than the waves on that strand. There was a gull's cry, the rattle of a fisherman's oars as he brought his boat to beach, the bleating of goats on the headland, a man's voice lifted in song as he trimmed his vines….

  He thought it curious how such a contemporary music could evoke such pastoral memories. But he supposed it was no more different than the dichotomy that he himself represented. He appreciated the glitter and flash of the contemporary world as much as he did the simple pleasures of the past. That was his principal complaint with modern society— they didn't seem capable of maintaining a happy marriage between the two. It was either all empty sparkle, or a dead serious return "back to the earth." Although there were exceptions.

  He thought of Cat Midhir and her true dreaming. Tonight they would explore a deeper union than they had thus far. But first he would have to deal with the woman next door. She had recognized him for what he was, and though he doubted she could represent any danger on her own, he had not survived this long by being careless and letting such loose ends lie unravelled.

  There was something very satisfying about a victim's final dream. As the life left their body, as their last psychic essences fled to fill him…

  Much as Cat appreciated all Peter had done for her last night, she was glad to see him go. She needed time to be alone with her grief, time to try and understand what was happening to her. Accepting that Kothlen was dead was the most difficult. How could he be dead? He was one of her ghosts. Ghosts don't die.

  The day was already threatening to become a scorcher. Taking her coffee with her, she went up to her study, flicked on a fan and sat in her thinking chair by the window. It was strange how everything was happening all at once. First she lost her dreams and with them her ability to put them on paper. Now the source of her inspiration was dead— just when she'd finally dreamed again. On top of that was Peter's theory that whoever'd been here last night, whoever'd been watching her, might be doing so because of the very writing she couldn't do anymore.

  At least she didn't have her usual morning headache. Small comfort, all things considered. No comfort at all, really. Kothlen was dead. When she dreamed, she dreamed nightmares now. The other ghosts were all hiding, all except for Tiddy Mun, and where was he? Where was she without Kothlen?