Charles Grant - Night Songs
And that was all wrong.
By now there should have been a dozen people at the bar, and a scattering of families and couples down at the tables. There should have been visitors from the mainland, groups from the island, and Cameron watching it all from the maitre d's station. A sudden thought and he turned around, there was no one in the cloakroom. And when he turned back, Cameron was standing in his doorway.
"I kind of thought you'd show up sooner or later," the man said, not moving. A bright light from the office darkened his face.
"It was a lousy trick, Bob, sending those men to Peg like you did."
Cameron shook his head nervously. "It wasn't my idea, Colin." He moved into the room and pulled a cigarette from his jacket, lit it and threw the pack on the bar. "These men are big investors. They have to be sure everything's clear or they won't give Haven's End a good recommendation to their people."
"That's not what you told Peg." He walked forward slowly, unsure now what he was going to do. "She-"
"I know," Cameron said. "And what I said was true. They just happen to have other interests, that's all."
He nodded. "I see."
"No, I don't think-" He clamped his mouth shut and stared at the cigarette. There was a man in the doorway behind him. Colin squinted through the gloom and from Garve's and Peg's descriptions knew this must be the one called Theodore Vincent. But he looked bigger, and his teeth behind the pulled-back lips looked blacker than he'd imagined. Cameron started when Vincent mumbled something to him, stepped to intercept the man when he began moving around the bar. Vincent didn't look down; he moved Cameron aside with a casual brush of his hand.
"Now listen here," Cameron protested.
"He was," Mike Lombard said from the doorway.
Colin looked at the new man, at the extraordinary thinness, at the pointed jaw. Lombard nodded to him in greeting; Colin felt himself nodding back.
"Listen, Michael," Cameron began.
"Hush, Robert," the lawyer said.
Cameron hushed and looked away.
Vincent stood in front of Colin, looking down, not smiling now. "You're running against Mr. Cameron in the election," he said.
Colin backed up a step, the better to meet his gaze. He wasn't sure what was going on, what he'd said, but he could hear Cameron whispering harshly to Lombard. He glanced over, and saw the mainlander ignoring Cameron completely. Then a stiff finger jolted Colin's shoulder.
"I said, you're the man that's running against Mr. Cameron."
"Yes," he answered, frowning and clearing his throat.
"I heard of you, you know. You probably didn't think so, but I heard of you."
"That's… nice," he said.
"Cameron here told me you're famous or something. I said I knew that. I've seen your pictures. They're okay."
"I'm glad you like them," he said, wondering what in hell this was all about.
"I meet lots of famous people."
"Theodore," Lombard said, "Mr. Ross isn't interested in the celebrities you've known."
Vincent nodded without shifting his gaze from Colin's face. "You ever gamble, Ross?"
He shifted to one side. "Bob, what the hell is this?"
"I said, you ever gamble?"
"Bob!"
The finger again, and a sharp pain that made him grab for his shoulder. His frown deepened. It would have been nice, perhaps even poetic, if he could suddenly slam an iron fist into this huge man's jaw and watch him sail back against the wall, his eyes glazed and his teeth rattling. He would land on his feet, stagger drunkenly around a bit, then slink dejectedly into the office where he would collapse unconscious on the carpet, never once knowing the power that hit him.
It would have been nice; but Vincent was easily one hundred pounds heavier and live inches taller than he. Nice, but suicidal. And he hated the feeling of cowardice that chilled him.
"Theodore," said Lombard softly, "the man has a right to his own opinion, isn't that correct, Mr. Ross?"
"I would think so, but your friend obviously doesn't."
"I think," said Vincent, "I don't like the trouble you're causing."
"All right, Bob," he said, "I've had enough." He turned to leave, and a hand clamped on his upper arm and spun him around. His mouth opened, and his right hand listed, but he only had time to blink once before he felt a fist slam sharply into his stomach.
Instantly, he folded his arms over his belt and dropped to his knees. The air in his lungs was gone; when he inhaled, nothing happened. There were tears in his eyes, and a spreading ache in his chest. When he inhaled, nothing happened, and the noise he made trying to breathe frightened him to gasping. He swayed, he heard voices, and when he inhaled a third time, nothing happened.
A hand gestured feebly for help; his mouth opened wider; motes of black winked in and out of his blurring vision. He tried to focus on the pattern of the carpeting, and he couldn't. He tried to keep himself from toppling, but he fell slowly, heavily, onto his side, legs curled up, one arm beneath his head.
Then his breath returned abruptly, and he rolled to his knees again and tried not to retch.
A hand patted his back, another took hold of his shoulder. Someone was asking if he were all right, if he wanted water, but all he could do was move his lips and make gagging noises like a man near drowning.
He sagged.
One moment every muscle in his body had been drawn tight and was quivering, the next he had to snap out a hand to keep himself from falling. His head lowered, weighted and aching, and he swallowed bile convulsively.
"Col, for God's sake, say something!"
He opened his mouth, and choked.
"Goddamn, I'll get a doctor."
Colin lifted a hand to stop him. When his vision cleared, he rocked back onto his heels and tilted his head to stare at the ceiling while his hands gripped his waist. He drew in a breath, and another, and allowed Cameron to help him to his feet. When he could see without tears, Cameron's face was gray beneath the tan. They were alone; Lombard and Vincent had left them alone.
"Colin?"
The light from the office turned the air sickly yellow. "Colin, please."
"You're stupid," was all he could say before he shoved the man away and staggered to the door. He closed his eyes, one hand on the brass knob, breathed again, and was outside without Cameron responding.
It was almost sunset. The storm clouds were dark, and they left little room between them for twilight to prepare. The blue that remained was indigo and cobalt, yet there was nothing on the breeze that heralded rain.
The cooling air revived him. He moved stiffly to the sidewalk and winced when his belt buckle dug into his stomach. Instead of heading for Tabor, he walked straight to his home. He stumbled up to the door and almost sat on the threshold. Then he flung the door open, letting it slam against the wall.
"Stupid," he muttered, his mouth tasting like iron.
He closed the door behind him, didn't turn on a light.
In the bathroom he pulled his shirt from his trousers and stared at the bruise spreading over his abdomen. A fingertip brushed over it gingerly, and he drew in a hissing breath. He shook his head, chiding himself for not going to Garve and pressing charges against the man; then he chided himself for thinking the man would be arrested. Oh, Garve would bring him in, of course, and both Lombard and Cameron would deny that anything had happened. Then later, much later, shadows would move and he had no doubt at all the next message sent wouldn't stop at a single punch.
He changed his shirt, put on his boots and jeans, found his denim jacket and stood in the living room, hesitant, wondering.
The Screaming Woman on the table watched him, unmoving.
This is stupid, he thought then; this is really and truly and unquestionably stupid. He was stupid. He and his white horse had run into the real world without knowing what had happened. Haven's End, for all its insulation, wasn't a paradise found in some romantic's dream; it was a large plot of land that attracted interests more powerful than any fishing industry. He was only a teacher, and a part-time one at that, and someone who dared commit dreams to a canvas. What chance did he have then against men like Michael Lombard?
He crossed the room and dusted the carving absently.
In a way, he was very much like Gran, he thought. He didn't care for the comparison, though much of it rang true.
A shudder began in his shoulders and traveled to his neck, made his head palsied for several too-long seconds. Then he spun around and strode quickly outside, slid into his car and drove to Atlantic Terrace. He knocked on the door; twice more, and it opened.
* * *When he was inside, both he and Peg began talking at once, laughing by the time he'd crossed the threshold, holding hands without thinking when they walked into the front room. Matt was sprawled on the window seat, and he was giggling when he saw them. Colin instantly tried to pull away, but Peg wouldn't let him.
Then he suggested the drive a third time, telling her he was worried about Lilla; after all, her real home was only two doors down and there was no reason at all why she should stay out at the shack, especially since Gran's place would probably flatten in the Screamer. Peg had agreed without hesitation, and Matt was already charging for his coat and telling them the Foxs' invitation to dinner was still good. He had the door open long before they got there, giving them a mock bow from the waist and winking at his mother.
"You okay?" Colin asked, bending over at the threshold to examine the boy's eyes.
"Sure." Matt shrugged.
"She scared you, huh?"
"She's weird!"
"No, she's just… unsettled, Matt. It isn't easy for someone like her to lose what's left of her family." He crouched, his hands draped over his knees. "Eighteen may seem awfully old to you, pal, but believe me, it isn't."
"Eighteen isn't old," Matt said. "Thirty is."
"Thank you," he said, frowning and throwing a mock punch at his arm. "And your mother thanks you, too."
"Colin!"
He exaggerated a wince, winked once, and stood. Five minutes later they dropped him off at the marina, Alex Fox waiting by the door with a reassuring wave.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he said as he steered the car onto Neptune and headed slowly south toward the cliffs. The road was narrow and slightly humped in its center, the broken yellow lines fading nearly to gray. Though it wasn't really cold, he had his jacket zipped up to his chin.
"I was spooked, that's all," Peg said. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, exposing her ears and the side of her pale neck. Her coat was red, her shirt a vivid plaid, and she was slumped in her seat so her knees rested against the dash. She turned her head toward him and smiled. "Really. Seeing Matt like that just scared me to death."
"Well, if you're sure."
She looked at him, almost laughing. "Yes, Mother Ross, I'm sure. I've been on edge all day. For that matter, it hasn't been a very pleasant week, either."
They rode past the drug store, a pair of clothing stores, the luncheonette, all on the right. The bench where Gran did many of his carvings was deserted, and Colin shook his head.
