The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks - lanyon Josh - Страница 19

It wasn’t just the embarrassment of all the things he had revealed to Marcel -- all those confidences made in the belief that they shared an intimacy unique to them. He had told Marcel things he hadn’t shared with anyone before. Nor was it the realization that he had been a fool -- though that hurt plenty.

He was grieving -- truly grieving -- for the death of that dream. Sometimes holding fast to that dream had been all that kept him afloat. And now it was gone: that foolish little fantasy of cozy domesticity, himself and Marcel living together. It was almost too painful to contemplate now, those snapshots that had previously brought such comfort and joy: grocery shopping together at Whole Foods, brushing against each other in their too-small kitchen as they prepared their wonderful gourmet meals, waking up together…smiling into each other’s eyes as they turned to make love…

He had known from the photos that Marcel would be good-looking, and he was. Tall and boyish, maybe a little plump -- but in a cute way -- unruly brown hair. True, his hair was thinner in real life, and Marcel had been a little bit older than his photo. He had bright blue eyes -- a very different blue from the somber blue of Nick Reno’s. Perry had known he was going to love Marcel from the minute he saw him waiting at the gate looking apologetic and sheepish, in his own good-looking rumpled way.

Perry stared at the Armando Drechsler posters of Mayan princesses and tribal dancers on Watson’s bedroom wall. In the moonlight they looked like giant tarot cards, or travel posters to a mysterious unknown.

It was over now. And though he knew it was silly and melodramatic, Perry felt like his life was over too. He was never going to find anyone. He would live out his days at the Alston Estate just like little Miss Dembecki, until he became one of its ghosts too.

* * * * *

Click. Click. The alarm clock turned over the glowing green numerals of 12:01 a.m. Perry opened his eyes.

Where was he? And then he remembered. He was staying in Mr. Watson’s apartment.

He was drowsily taking stock, deciding if he needed to pee badly enough to make that trip across the unheated room, when he heard it: a low moan.

What the…?

He had to have misheard. Or imagined it entirely. His ears strained the silence.

Nothing but the beat of blood rushing in his ears.

He continued to listen alertly.

He wished he hadn’t awakened. Now he was alive to the sounds of the house: the strange squeaks like floorboards under uncertain feet, the sigh of the wind down the chimney like a whispering voice.

He could imagine what Nick would say of such imaginings. The thought of Nick bolstered his sagging courage. Nick did not believe in ghosts and neither did Perry.

Of course, if some human agent was standing outside his room making spooky noises, it wasn’t so reassuring. Was someone trying to scare him into leaving the Alston Estate?

All they had to do was ask.

Well, not really. He didn’t have any place else to go, and few places were as cheap to rent as his rooms in the isolated old house. And he wasn’t actually that chicken, although he knew no one was ever going to mix him up for a tough guy.

Something moved inside the closet.

Perry went rigid. He told himself it was his imagination.

But then the closet door banged as though someone kicked it. Perry sat bolt upright. He fumbled for the lamp, knocking the clock off the stand.

Scrambling out of bed, his foot tangled in the sheet, and he nearly fell. His eyes never left the white, motionless closet door.

On his feet he reached the closet. His chest rose and fell, his hand shook, and yet something made him reach out, fingers brushing the glass knob.

He yanked open the door.

Chapter Seven

Nick tossed back the rest of his Seven and Seven and handed the plastic cup to the flight attendant as she bumped down the aisle, trash bag in hand. She smiled at him, and Nick gave her a wide, meaningless grin in return.

I must be nuts, he thought, staring out at the black slate of night sky out the little square window.

Roscoe had wanted him to stay and celebrate -- and finally he had something to celebrate. After Marie, after his discharge, after the monotony of civilian life with no job, no prospects, finally there was something to celebrate.

And what did Nick do? He grabbed the first available plane back for Vermont -- which he hated anyway and couldn’t wait to put behind him once and for all. What the hell was the matter with him?

But he kept thinking of the Foster kid. Perry. There was something not kosher at the estate, and that fragile boy was not equipped to deal with it. Not that it was Nick’s problem -- although he was now officially in the P.I. business. Well, soon. After he finished his training.

All around him on the crowded aircraft, other passengers were settling down for sleeping or reading. Nick stretched his long legs out as far as he could beneath the seat in front of him -- which wasn’t far. He’d have liked to get up and move around, but there was a woman with a baby in the aisle seat, and he’d have preferred public flogging to the risk of waking that shrieking mouth again. It was amazing the lung power in something that small.

He resettled in his seat, trying to get more comfortable, and glanced at his watch. Another two hours before they landed. He’d have to waste another hour going through baggage claim and finding his truck, and then another hour back to the Kingdom. He sighed and closed his eyes. Might as well get some rest. It would be after midnight before he made it back to Creepsville.

* * * * *

There was a fire truck parked outside the Alston mansion when Nick pulled up. Sheriff’s department cars were angled along the drive and grass. Blue and red lights cut through the misty night like lasers. An ambulance was parked a few feet from the front door.

Nick got out of his pickup, shrugging into his leather jacket. The unease that had dogged him since he’d left the estate bloomed into full consternation.

He strode across the rain-slicked grass. A deputy sheriff tried to stop him. Nick brushed past with a curt word of explanation. His heart was thumping unpleasantly; chill premonition slithered down his spine.

In the drafty front hall, the residents had all gathered in their nightclothes -- that motley collection of pajamas and dressing gowns in which people always dressed for disaster.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

A gray-faced Mrs. MacQueen, looking more like James Cagney than ever in a thick plaid wool robe and men’s style slippers, shook her head.

He looked at the others. Stein was nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. Teagle sat in a chair next to the unlit fireplace, his head shaking, his big, hands white beneath the freckles. That walking cadaver, David Center, stood next to the Bridger woman, his bony hand fastened on the emerald sleeve of her kimono-clad arm. Bridger looked stoic, but Nick knew her type. The sky could be falling; she wouldn’t panic easily.

Paramedics appeared on the second level, wheeling a gurney. The figure on the gurney was covered.

Miss Dembecki whispered, “Perry.”

The world seemed to stop.

Nick had to clear his throat to speak. His voice came out funny and raspy. “Perry’s dead?”

So his hunch had been right. Trouble. Bad trouble.