Bag of Bones Part 37

There was a long pause. Until it was over I allowed myself the luxury of thinking I might actually be getting through to him.

'I've only got one more thing to say to you, Mike - stand back. For the sake of your immortal soul, stand back and let things run their course. They will whether you do or don't. This river has almost come to the sea; it won't be dammed by the likes of you. Stand back. For the love of Christ.'

Do you care about your soul, Mr. Noonan? G.o.d's b.u.t.terfly caught in a coc.o.o.n of flesh that will soon stink like mine? Do you care about your soul, Mr. Noonan? G.o.d's b.u.t.terfly caught in a coc.o.o.n of flesh that will soon stink like mine?

Bill turned and walked to his door, the heels of his workboots clodding on the painted boards.

'Stay away from Mattie and Ki,' I said. 'If you so much as go near that trailer - '

He turned back, and the hazy suns.h.i.+ne glinted on the tracks below his eyes. He took a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his cheeks. 'I ain't stirrin from this house. I wish to G.o.d I'd never come back from my vacation in the first place, but I did - mostly on your account, Mike. Those two down on Wasp Hill have nothing to fear from me. No, not from me me.'

He went inside and closed the door. I stood there looking at it, feeling unreal - surely I could not have had such a deadly conversation with Bill Dean, could I? Bill who had reproached me for not letting folks down here share - and perhaps ease - my grief for Jo, Bill who had welcomed me back so warmly?

Then I heard a clack clack sound. He might not have locked his door while he was at home in his entire life, but he had locked it now. The clack was very clear in the breathless July air. It told me everything I had to know about my long friends.h.i.+p with Bill Dean. I turned and walked back to my car, my head down. Nor did I turn when I heard a window run up behind me. sound. He might not have locked his door while he was at home in his entire life, but he had locked it now. The clack was very clear in the breathless July air. It told me everything I had to know about my long friends.h.i.+p with Bill Dean. I turned and walked back to my car, my head down. Nor did I turn when I heard a window run up behind me.

'Don't you ever come back here, you town b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' Yvette Dean cried across the sweltering dooryard. 'You've broken his heart! Don't you ever come back! Don't you ever! Don't you ever! ever!'

'Please,' Mrs. M. said. 'Don't ask me any more questions, Mike. I can't afford to get in Bill Dean's bad books, any more'n my ma could afford to get into Normal Auster's or Fred Dean's.'

I s.h.i.+fted the phone to my other ear. 'All I want to know is - '

'In this part of the world caretakers pretty well run the whole show. If they say to a summer fella that he should hire this carpenter or that 'lectrician, why, that's who the summer fella hires. Or if a caretaker says this one should be fired because he ain't proving reliable, he is fired. Or she. Because what goes once for plumbers and landscapers and 'lectricians has always gone twice for housekeepers. If you want to be recommended - and stay stay recommended - you have to keep on the sunny side of people like Fred and Bill Dean, or Normal and Kenny Auster. Don't you see?' She was almost pleading. 'When Bill found out I told you about what Normal Auster did to Kerry, oooo he was so mad at me.' recommended - you have to keep on the sunny side of people like Fred and Bill Dean, or Normal and Kenny Auster. Don't you see?' She was almost pleading. 'When Bill found out I told you about what Normal Auster did to Kerry, oooo he was so mad at me.'

'Kenny Auster's brother - the one Normal drowned under the pump - his name was Kerry?'

'Ahuh. I've known a lot of folks name their kids alike, think it's cute. Why, I went to school with a brother and sister named Roland and Rolanda Therriault, I think Roland's in Manchester now, and Rolanda married that boy from - '

'Brenda, just answer one question. I'll never tell. Please?'

I waited, my breath held, for the click that would come when she put her telephone back in its cradle. Instead, she spoke three words in a soft, almost regretful voice. 'What is it?'

'Who was Carla Dean?'

I waited through another long pause, my hand playing with the ribbon that had come off Ki's turn-of-the-century straw hat.

'You da.s.sn't tell anyone I told you anything,' she said at last.

'I won't.'

'Carla was Bill's twin sister. She died sixty-five years ago, during the time of the fires.' The fires Bill claimed had been set by Ki's grandfather - his going-away present to the TR. 'I don't know just how it happened. Bill never talks about it. If you tell him I told you, I'll never make another bed in the TR. He'll see to it.' Then, in a hopeless voice, she said: 'He may know anyway.'

Based on my own experiences and surmises, I guessed she might be right about that. But even if she was, she'd have a check from me every month for the rest of her working life. I had no intention of telling her that over the telephone, though - it would scald her Yankee soul. Instead I thanked her, a.s.sured her again of my discretion, and hung up.

I sat at the table for a moment, staring blankly at Bunter, then said: 'Who's here?'

No answer.

'Come on,' I said. 'Don't be shy. Let's go nineteen or ninety-two down. Barring that, let's talk.'

Still no answer. Not so much as a s.h.i.+ver of the bell around the stuffed moose's neck. I spied the scribble of notes I'd made while talking to Jo's brother and drew them toward me. I had put Kia Kia, Kyra Kyra, Kito Kito, and Carla Carla in a box. Now I scribbled out the bottom line of that box and added the name in a box. Now I scribbled out the bottom line of that box and added the name Kerry Kerry to the list. to the list. I've known a lot of folks name their kids alike I've known a lot of folks name their kids alike, Mrs. M. had said. They think it's cute They think it's cute.

I didn't think it was cute; I thought it was creepy.

It occurred to me that at least two of these soundalikes had drowned - Kerry Auster under a pump, Kia Noonan in her mother's dying body when she wasn't much bigger than a sunflower seed. And I had seen the ghost of a third drowned child in the lake. Kito? Was that one Kito? Or was Kito the one who had died of blood-poisoning?

They name their kids alike, they think it's cute. They name their kids alike, they think it's cute.

How many soundalike kids had there been to start with? How many were left? I thought the answer to the first question didn't matter, and that I knew the answer to the second one already. How many soundalike kids had there been to start with? How many were left? I thought the answer to the first question didn't matter, and that I knew the answer to the second one already. This river has almost come to the sea This river has almost come to the sea, Bill had said.

Carla, Kerry, Kito, Kia . . . all gone. Only Kyra Devore was left.

I got up so fast and hard that I knocked over my chair. The clatter in the silence made me cry out. I was leaving, and right now. No more telephone calls, no more playing Andy Drake, Private Detective, no more depositions or half-a.s.sed wooings of the lady fair. I should have followed my instincts and gotten the f.u.c.k out of Dodge that first night. Well, I'd go now, just get in the Chevy and haul a.s.s for Der - Bunter's bell jangled furiously. I turned and saw it bouncing around his neck as if batted to and fro by a hand I couldn't see. The sliding door giving on the deck began to fly open and clap shut like something hooked to a pulley. The book of Tough Stuff Tough Stuff crossword puzzles on the end-table and the DSS program guide blew open, their pages riffling. There was a series of rattling thuds across the floor, as if something enormous were crawling rapidly toward me, pounding its fists as it came. crossword puzzles on the end-table and the DSS program guide blew open, their pages riffling. There was a series of rattling thuds across the floor, as if something enormous were crawling rapidly toward me, pounding its fists as it came.

A draft - not cold but warm, like the rush of air produced by a subway train on a summer night - buffeted past me. In it I heard a strange voice which seemed to be saying Bye-BY Bye-BY, bye-BY bye-BY, bye-BY bye-BY, as if wis.h.i.+ng me a good trip home. Then, as it dawned on me that the voice was actually saying Ki-Ki Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki Ki-Ki, something struck me and knocked me violently forward. It felt like a large soft fist. I buckled over the table, clawing at it to stay up, overturning the lazy susan with the salt and pepper shakers on it, the napkin holder, the little vase Mrs. M. had filled with daisies. The vase rolled off the table and shattered. The kitchen TV blared on, some politician talking about how inflation was on the march again. The CD player started up, drowning out the politician; it was the Rolling Stones doing a cover of Sara Tidwell's 'I Regret You, Baby.' Upstairs, one smoke alarm went off, then another, then a third. They were joined a moment later by the warble-whoop of the Chevy's car alarm. The whole world was cacophony.

Something hot and pillowy seized my wrist. My hand shot forward like a piston and slammed down on the steno pad. I watched as it pawed clumsily to a blank page, then seized the pencil which lay nearby. I gripped it like a dagger and then something wrote with it, not guiding my hand but raping raping it. The hand moved slowly at first, almost blindly, then picked up speed until it was flying, almost tearing through the sheet: it. The hand moved slowly at first, almost blindly, then picked up speed until it was flying, almost tearing through the sheet:

I had almost reached the bottom of the page when the cold descended again, that outer cold that was like sleet in January, chilling my skin and crackling the snot in my nose and sending two shuddery puffs of white air from my mouth. My hand clenched and the pencil snapped in two. Behind me, Bunter's bell rang out one final furious convulsion before falling silent. Also from behind me came a peculiar double pop, like the sound of champagne corks being drawn. Then it was over. Whatever it had been or however many they they had been, it was finished. I was alone again. had been, it was finished. I was alone again.

I turned off the CD player just as Mick and Keith moved on to a white-boy version of Howling Wolf, then ran upstairs and pushed the reset b.u.t.tons on the smoke-detectors. I leaned out the window of the big guest bedroom while I was up there, aimed the fob of my keyring down at the Chevrolet, and pushed the b.u.t.ton on it. The alarm quit.

With the worst of the noise gone I could hear the TV cackling away in the kitchen. I went down, killed it, then froze with my hand still on the OFF b.u.t.ton, looking at Jo's annoying waggy-cat clock. Its tail had finally stopped switching, and its big plastic eyes lay on the floor. They had popped right out of its head.

I went down to the Village Cafe for supper, snagging the last Sunday Telegram Telegram from the rack (COMPUTER MOGUL DEVORE DIES IN WESTERN MAINE TOWN WHERE HE GREW UP, the headline read) before sitting down at the counter. The accompanying photo was a studio shot of Devore that looked about thirty years old. He was smiling. Most people do that quite naturally. On Devore's face it looked like a learned skill. from the rack (COMPUTER MOGUL DEVORE DIES IN WESTERN MAINE TOWN WHERE HE GREW UP, the headline read) before sitting down at the counter. The accompanying photo was a studio shot of Devore that looked about thirty years old. He was smiling. Most people do that quite naturally. On Devore's face it looked like a learned skill.

I ordered the beans that were left over from Buddy Jellison's Sat.u.r.day-night beanhole supper. My father wasn't much for aphorisms - in my family dispensing nuggets of wisdom was Mom's job - but as Daddy warmed up the Sat.u.r.day-night yelloweyes in the oven on Sunday afternoon, he would invariably say that beans and beef stew were better the second day. I guess it stuck. The only other piece of fatherly wisdom I can remember receiving was that you should always wash your hands after you took a s.h.i.+t in a bus station.

While I was reading the story on Devore, Audrey came over and told me that Royce Merrill had pa.s.sed without recovering consciousness. The funeral would be Tuesday afternoon at Grace Baptist, she said. Most of the town would be there, many folks just to see Ila Meserve awarded the Boston Post Boston Post cane. Did I think I'd get over? No, I said, probably not. I thought it prudent not to add that I'd likely be attending a victory party at Mattie Devore's while Royce's funeral was going on down the road. cane. Did I think I'd get over? No, I said, probably not. I thought it prudent not to add that I'd likely be attending a victory party at Mattie Devore's while Royce's funeral was going on down the road.

The usual late-Sunday-afternoon flow of customers came and went while I ate, people ordering burgers, people ordering beans, people ordering chicken salad sandwiches, people buying sixpacks. Some were from the TR, some from away. I didn't notice many of them, and no one spoke to me. I have no idea who left the napkin on my newspaper, but when I put down the A section and turned to find the sports, there it was. I picked it up, meaning only to put it aside, and saw what was written on the back in big dark letters: GET OFF THE TR.

I never found out who left it there. I guess it could have been any of them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The murk came back and transformed that Sunday night's dusk into a thing of decadent beauty. The sun turned red as it slid down toward the hills and the haze picked up the glow, turning the western sky into a nosebleed. I sat out on the deck and watched it, trying to do a crossword puzzle and not getting very far. When the phone rang, I dropped Tough Stuff Tough Stuff on top of my ma.n.u.script as I went to answer it. I was tired of looking at the t.i.tle of my book every time I pa.s.sed. on top of my ma.n.u.script as I went to answer it. I was tired of looking at the t.i.tle of my book every time I pa.s.sed.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'What's going on up there?' John Storrow demanded. He didn't even bother to say hi. He didn't sound angry, though; he sounded totally pumped. 'I'm missing the whole G.o.ddam soap opera!'

'I invited myself to lunch on Tuesday,' I said. 'Hope you don't mind.'

'No, that's good, the more the merrier.' He sounded as if he absolutely meant it. 'What a summer, huh? What a summer! Anything happen just lately? Earthquakes? Volcanoes? Ma.s.s suicides?'

'No ma.s.s suicides, but the old guy died,' I said.

's.h.i.+t, the whole world world knows Max Devore kicked it,' he said. 'Surprise me, Mike! Stun me! Make me holler boy-howdy!' knows Max Devore kicked it,' he said. 'Surprise me, Mike! Stun me! Make me holler boy-howdy!'

'No, the other other old guy. Royce Merrill.' old guy. Royce Merrill.'

'I don't know who you - oh, wait. The one with the gold cane who looked like an exhibit from Jura.s.sic Park Jura.s.sic Park?'

'That's him.'

'b.u.mmer. Otherwise . . . ?'

'Otherwise everything's under control,' I said, then thought of the popped-out eyes of the cat-clock and almost laughed. What stopped me was a kind of surety that Mr. Good Humor Man was just an act - John had really called to ask what, if anything, was going on between me and Mattie. And what was I going to say? Nothing yet? One kiss, one instant blue-steel hard-on, the fundamental things apply as time goes by?

But John had other things on his mind. 'Listen, Michael, I called because I've got something to tell you. I think you'll be both amused and amazed.'

'A state we all crave,' I said. 'Lay it on me.'

'Rogette Whitmore called, and . . . you didn't happen to give her my parents' number, did you? I'm back in New York now, but she called me in Philly.'

'I didn't have have your parents' number. You didn't leave it on either of your machines.' your parents' number. You didn't leave it on either of your machines.'

'Oh, right.' No apology; he seemed too excited to think of such mundanities. I began to feel excited myself, and I didn't even know what the h.e.l.l was going on. 'I gave it to Mattie. Do you think the Whitmore woman called Mattie to get it? Would Mattie give it to her?'

'I'm not sure that if Mattie came upon Rogette flaming in a thoroughfare, she'd p.i.s.s on her to put her out.'

'Vulgar, Michael, tres vulgarino tres vulgarino.' But he was laughing. 'Maybe Whitmore got it the same way Devore got yours.'

'Probably so,' I said. 'I don't know what'll happen in the months ahead, but right now I'm sure she's still got access to Max Devore's personal control panel. And if anyone knows how to push the b.u.t.tons on it, it's probably her. Did she call from Palm Springs?'

'Uh-huh. She said she'd just finished a preliminary meeting with Devore's attorneys concerning the old man's will. According to her, Grampa left Mattie Devore eighty million dollars.'

I was struck silent. I wasn't amused yet, but I was certainly amazed.

'Gets ya, don't it?' John said gleefully.

'You mean he left it to Kyra,' I said at last. 'Left it in trust to Kyra Kyra.'

'No, that's just what he did not do. I asked Whitmore three times, but by the third I was starting to understand. There was method in his madness. Not much, but a little. You see, there's a condition. If he left the money to the minor child instead of to the mother, the condition would have no weight. It's funny when you consider that Mattie isn't long past minor status herself.'

'Funny,' I agreed, and thought of her dress sliding between my hands and her smooth bare waist. I also thought of Bill Dean saying that men who went with girls that age always looked the same, had their tongues run out even if their mouths were shut.

'What string did he put on the money?'

'That Mattie remain on the TR for one year following Devore's death - until July 17, 1999. She can leave on day-trips, but she has to be tucked up in her TR-90 bed every night by nine o'clock, or else the legacy is forfeit. Did you ever hear such a bulls.h.i.+t thing in your life? Outside of some old George Sanders movie, that is?'

'No,' I said, and recalled my visit to the Fryeburg Fair with Kyra. Even in death he's seeking custody Even in death he's seeking custody, I had thought, and of course this was the same thing. He wanted them here. Even in death he wanted them on the TR.

'It won't fly?' I asked.

'Of course course it won't fly. f.u.c.king crackpot might as well have written he'd give her eighty million dollars if she used blue tampons for a year. But she'll get the eighty mil, all right. My heart is set on it. I've already talked to three of our estate guys, and . . . you don't think I should bring one of them up with me on Tuesday, do you? Will Stevenson'll be the point man in the estate phase, if Mattie agrees.' He was all but babbling. He hadn't had a thing to drink, I'd've bet the farm on it, but he was sky-high on all the possibilities. We'd gotten to the happily-ever-after part of the fairy tale, as far as he was concerned; Cinderella comes home from the ball through a cash cloudburst. it won't fly. f.u.c.king crackpot might as well have written he'd give her eighty million dollars if she used blue tampons for a year. But she'll get the eighty mil, all right. My heart is set on it. I've already talked to three of our estate guys, and . . . you don't think I should bring one of them up with me on Tuesday, do you? Will Stevenson'll be the point man in the estate phase, if Mattie agrees.' He was all but babbling. He hadn't had a thing to drink, I'd've bet the farm on it, but he was sky-high on all the possibilities. We'd gotten to the happily-ever-after part of the fairy tale, as far as he was concerned; Cinderella comes home from the ball through a cash cloudburst.

' . . . course Will's a little bit old,' John was saying, 'about three hundred or so, which means he's not exactly a fun guy at a party, but . . . '

'Leave him home, why don't you?' I said. 'There'll be plenty of time to carve up Devore's will later on. And in the immediate future, I don't think Mattie's going to have any problem observing the bulls.h.i.+t condition. She just got her job back, remember?'

'Yeah, the white buffalo drops dead and the whole herd scatters!' John exulted. 'Look at em go! And the new multimillionaire goes back to filing books and mailing out overdue notices! Okay, Tuesday we'll just party.'

'Good.'

'Party 'til we puke.'

'Well . . . maybe us older folks will just party until we're mildly nauseated, would that be all right?'

'Sure. I've already called Romeo Bissonette, and he's going to bring George Kennedy, the private detective who got all that hilarious s.h.i.+t on Durgin. Bissonette says Kennedy's a scream when he gets a drink or two in him. I thought I'd bring some steaks from Peter Luger's, did I tell you that?'

'I don't believe you did.'

'Best steaks in the world. Michael, do you realize what's happened to that young woman? Eighty million dollars! Eighty million dollars!'

'She'll be able to replace Scoutie.'

'Huh?'

'Nothing. Will you come in tomorrow night or on Tuesday?'

'Tuesday morning around ten, into Castle County Airport. New England Air. Mike, are you all right? You sound odd.'

'I'm all right. I'm where I'm supposed to be. I think.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' I had wandered out onto the deck. In the distance thunder rumbled. It was hotter than h.e.l.l, not a breath of breeze stirring. The sunset was fading to a baleful afterglow. The sky in the west looked like the white of a bloodshot eye.

'I don't know,' I said, 'but I have an idea the situation will clarify itself. I'll meet you at the airport.'

'Okay,' he said, and then, in a hushed, almost reverential voice: 'Eighty million motherf.u.c.king American dollars.'